Walking Away

Walking Away.

And you sit there, explaining to me how you and your delightful little
woman met. But I'm too busy watching the way your hand is on her knee?
slowly inching up. And can I still remember how that felt - your hand
on my knee. She sits, demure, smiling, and ever so sweet. And I hate
her. And her sweet smile. She is dressed elegantly in her little black
cocktail dress that reveals just enough to make her look sexy. Without
making her look like a slut. But I still think she's a slut. Only
because she has what I couldn't keep. You. She has perfect fingernails.
Rounded. Prettily painted caf?-au-lait. And her fingers? long, thin.
The fingers of an artists. Her hands are beautiful. And I hear your
voice in my head? a voice four years younger? telling me that you love
my hands. The timbre of your voice has changed. Now it resonates with
contentment. With married life. It resonates perfection. And I am still
anything but perfect. You finish your story that I have not heard a
word of? and I smile just as demurely as she does. Display pleasure at
the romance that you are now living. And tell you how lovely you look
together.

And we sit there in that hotel lobby with our drinks, making small
talk. She with her ice tea spruced with lemon and mint? she says it's
refreshing and revitalizing and I think she sounds like a tasteless ad
on TV. You with your fruit cocktail because she has made a healthy man
out of you. And me with my black coffee and Marlboros, which she glares
at each time I bring a cigarette to my lips and light it. And you're
going on and on about all the wonderful things she can do. She sculpts.
She paints. She loves to cook? and can cook just about any dish you ask
her to. And I think of us at 2 a.m. in the morning, trying to make
spaghetti bolognaise and ending up making love on the kitchen floor
instead.

And then you ask me about Mark. Is he working late? Will he be joining
us? And I smile, or at least try to. And I'm sure my face is twisted
into a contortion of pain as I think of yet another one of my failed
relationships. And I'm sure I look so ugly to this sweet little angel
sitting by your side. How do I explain to you that Mark got tired of
competing with your ghost? competing with a man who had cast me aside?
And so he left. How do I tell you about the time George Harrison was
playing on the radio, and I was in the car with Mark, thinking how a
song could pull you, draw you into a time past. It would grab hold and
not let go until the last note had been played. And the song seemed to
go on forever, taunting, "I got my mind set on you," and I could hear
you singing along. And that day, in the car, when the song finally
ended, and I realised that I was stuck in traffic, not in your arms,
where I wanted to be - I looked over at Mark in the passenger seat. He
smiled - and I had imagined that he didn't realise I was thinking about
you. But he did. He realised. He knew that I wished he would stop using
that after-shave - because it's the same kind you used to use. And
sitting there, in that car, listening to a song that I wished you had
written from me, I could smell you. And it hurt. Do I tell you that?
And how my husband sensed at that moment that I was still in love with
you.

That was the day the cracks started to appear. We got home. And Mark
couldn't take it anymore. He started shouting. And didn't stop. Until
the day he walked out of our house, and never came home. So I just
reply, "We're separated". And Kimberly, your sweet little housewife
moves slightly closer to you, and places her hand on your knee, while
keeping a look of pure compassion on her face. You start to say you're
sorry to hear that, and I just smile, push your sympathy away from me,
cause I know it will burn my skin, and say "It's ok, he wasn't that
good in bed anyway," to try and lighten the mood. Kimberly's look of
compassion is suddenly replaced with utter shock and I realize that I
just made a huge mistake. She excuses herself, to go to the "powder
room", and I am surprised that she is willing to leave her precious
husband with his ex-girlfriend, now almost divorced who, she thinks,
probably spends her lonely nights scheming to find a way to steal him
away from her.

And while she is gone, you get up and sit next to me, take the
cigarette I am smoking from between my fingers, and take a long drag.
"I really miss these," you say, and I wonder what else you miss, but
stop myself from saying it. But you know me so well, and you hear the
question without my saying it out loud. You give me back the cigarette
and go back to your place, and look over at me. "I miss you," you say.
And a part of me imagines that you went back to where you were sitting
to tell me that because you couldn't trust yourself sitting so close to
me. That maybe if I was within your reach you would have touched me,
kissed me. And another part of me wishes that you would. But it's
probably safer said with the coffee table between us. I place the
filter of the cigarette between my lips, thinking, this is as close as
I'll get to your mouth, as close as I'll get to a kiss? and I imagine I
can taste you on my tongue? lingering. "I've missed you too." And you
begin to talk about Mark again, trying to figure out why he left, and
to end this interrogation, I finally give in. "He left because he was
tired of being up against a man who wasn't even in my life anymore."
You kept quiet. I think you stopped breathing for a second. I think the
people in the lobby stopped moving for a second. It felt like everyone
was turned towards us, with bated breath, not a sound could be heard,
as we all waited for your reply. And you lowered your eyes, slowly
rubbing your thumb down the crease of your trousers, and the movement
was mesmerizing. And the lobby started to move again, the cogs of time
slowly rediscovered the rhythm they had forgotten for a split second.
And Kimberly returned.

"Honey, I'm starting to get a headache, can we go back to our room
now?" She looks down at you sweetly, but I know that behind that smile
that drips with sugar and spice, and all things nice, she's thinking
about how she wants to get you away from me. You look at me
apologetically, and I smile. Trying to emulate her honeyed smile, all
the while thinking mine is probably more like a saccharine-smile. And
instantly the cheque has arrived, and you pay for the drinks. "We do
have to get an early start," you say, "long day ahead of us." I tell
you that I understand, that you both need your rest, and Kimberly
decides then to impart the fact that she used to be a lot more
energetic, but ever since the pregnancy? And it is my turn to stop
breathing for a second. But this time the lobby doesn't seem to slow
down to a halt, everyone is going about their business. While I'm dying
inside. But I quickly regain my composure, smile my saccharine-smile,
tired of making an effort, and offer my congratulations as best I can.
I catch you looking over at her, with almost a hint of disapproval, as
though you didn't want her to tell me. I know you would have found a
way to sugarcoat it. And I want to reassure you that there is no way
easy way to tell a woman who can't have children that you're wife is
pregnant. But I can't. Not with her standing there.

And so we say our goodbyes, Kimberly kissing me coldly on the cheek,
and it is obvious that she can't stand me. And I don't care, because
I'm not particularly fond of her either. You give me a hug, as she
stands behind you, so close, that I can feel the static from her dress
on my arm. And I whisper in your ear, "I'm fine." And you know that I'm
just trying to convince myself of that. And suddenly you're walking
away, before I have a chance to say all the things that I wanted to say
to you. Suddenly you're walking away, your hand resting protectively on
the small of Kimberly's back. And I think? I have watched you walk away
so many times before? I should be able to handle it one more time. I
pick up the cigarette I had been smoking. I wonder if I'll be able to
catch the lingering taste that you left on it this time. It is almost
out. I take one last pull. Then I leave it in the ashtray, to burn
itself into the air. And walk away.