The Truth, The Whole Truth

He unloaded in her lap. Dumped his secret life all over her. She no longer has the option of ignorance. Ignorance is power. Ignorance allows her to maintain their friendship as is:  uncomplicated, purely platonic. With his hidden self unmasked, she knows too much. It's burdensome. Unfair. She didn't ask for this. It was a cup of coffee, a catch up with a married friend and colleague. Safe. He is committed to someone else. Ring on finger, vows unbroken, kids in strollers, blah, blah, blah. Holden was not going to hit on her. Ever. It had never even crossed her mind. No matter how drunk they got or how heated the conversation. She kept it above board and he followed suit. Hooray for the adult opposite sex friendship. The bomb drops. A series of them. A drone airstrike, completely unforeseen, annihilating the entirety of their experience together. Words transform the air between them. The sky darkens, the barometer rises. Trish is dizzy. Nauseated and off balance, a gravity drop amusement park ride she didn't line up for.  Holden loses control. Once he starts he can't stop- the stories of other women, S and M and beatings and master/slave  encounters, an entire alternate identity shielded from his friends and family. And Trish. Until now. Her coffee tastes salty. The structure of his face alters as she tries to physically absorb the impact of his words. He beats women. They willingly submit. He shares his obsession and shame, his private heart. Trish breathes. Images explode in her brain- his casual touch, the innuendos, his ease and attention. He looked for an offer, an opening, a signal from her in the beginning then realized she likely wouldn't play. Many, many women, girls, colleagues, students. Never his wife. He can't do to her what he does to them. A rather cliche madonna/whore aspect he readily acknowledges. His wife  found evidence. He bluffed and bargained, back pedalled and spun wild tales of crazy students pranking his email. Holden married a smart woman. Intuitive. Pragmatic. She's taken the kids to Denver, he's meeting with his lawyer Wednesday. All of this to tell Trish that if she'll have him, the real him, he's ready. Her hand grips her bowl of coffee, knuckles white, tinnitus fills her ears. She never asked for this. She doesn't want this. Too much information can destroy a perfectly fine friendship.





Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Moving in Stasis

Go. Get on that plane, that train, that bus. Walk if you have to. Swim, we've got great lakes and oceans and rivers. So many bodies of water and tracts of land to get across. Find a way, they said, just get here, soon. And so Tally packed a bag with just the essentials: a blueberry corn muffin with a shmear of cream cheese, her well worn pocket stone she rubs in her left hand, a packet of mints from the drive in theatre, and two pineapple juice boxes. A clean pair of socks, some dental floss, mom's old cigarette lighter she stole off her bureau, and twenty three dollars and eighty five cents in change. That was the heaviest part of her backpack. She wondered if she was forgetting something but her mind raced with all the things at once. Will her shoes be comfortable on the long journey? Did she feed the cockatiel before she left the house? How can she get across the ocean if the boats aren't docking in the harbour anymore? What if she runs out of money? Will Joseph be
Read more

Kindness Is A Boomerang

If he can make it off the couch to the kitchen, then he'll be up and at 'em. Movement is motion and motion is energy and like a battery, he'll recharge. Feel better. Or different. Good enough. Long nights of hourly wake ups, followed by the struggle to quiet his mind. Loop, loop, looping through endless thoughts of what if and who will and I should and maybe they'll but just go to sleep. Sleep. No tech in his room, just sleep and sex. Although physical touch has been lacking. Wanting. Week seven, but who's counting.  And that's just sheltering in place. Before that, well...seasons. The sky is bright. City living with no light pollution is like life at the cottage on Lac St Joseph. There are meteors tonight, a shower or falling or maybe it's his brain playing tricks on his eyes. Looking for things  he can't possibly see. Four missed calls. Thirteen notifications. No one he's pining for so it's a wash. Is it too late to get up... too early
Read more

Good, Not Great

She hits the down button. Two hospital admin types, young women in almost stylish outfits, the ones afforded on entry level salaries, wait on a car going up. The elevator arrives, doors open, she steps on then realizes she's going up. Force of habit, she says aloud to no one in particular, pavlovian response. The two women sort of smile as they study the floor, suddenly intensely awkward and private. She gets louder as she backs out of the car. Doors close and she hovers her finger over the already illuminated down button. Right, just did that. It's quiet here, far from the madding crowd. Emerg was busy, mainly the geriatric crew. A few indigent and drunk and disorderlies draped over chairs, hanging out of gurneys, buried under sheets and gowns, moaning, rambling incoherently. It's the large-and-in-charge paramedic night: 4 teams of doughy young men stand sentinel with their wards, buried in paperwork, bored with the hurry and up wait logjam of daily deliveries.
Read more