Karina

Something isn’t right about this. I should be feeling different, should be acting different. Aren’t I supposed to be sad? Depressed? Hysterical? Aren’t I supposed to be crying my eyes out, thinking there’s nothing worth living for, that my life is over?

Instead, I’m standing in front of the mirror making sure my shoes match my dress. I’m listening to Jeff in the shower. Listening for the water to stop running. I mean, it’s been fifteen minutes already. Jeff never showers for longer than ten.

I walk into the living room looking for something to do. I need to keep busy. But what I want to do, and what I should do, are two different things. I want to take out the marketing projections for next year and finalize my expected sales. I know I can’t do that. That isn’t right on a day like this.

Then again, I know I should be crying or needing to be held, or something. But I can’t seem to make myself do that either. Because I don’t feel anything. I can’t even say I feel numb, which would be a relief if I could say, because people could accept that one. The shower water shuts off. I turn toward the bedroom, preparing to walk in and make sure Jeff wears the right suit. Make sure his hair is groomed right. But it catches my eye instead. I can’t help but be drawn to it, needing to pick it up and stare at it close.

It’s the picture of me and her taken on Christmas Eve two years ago. Before everything seemed to change. Before I realized that we had nothing. Nothing but a long history which seemed to be the only thing we did have.

We’re laughing in it. Our arms are around each other’s shoulders and we’re laughing. I can’t remember what we were laughing about. To tell the truth, I barely remember that day at all.

It must’ve been something stupid, this secret joke between us. We were always laughing over the really dumb things. If we were ever to laugh about something truly funny, then that would lead to seriousness and we couldn’t allow ourselves to see the real us. The people we were down deep.

Jeff touches my shoulder, making me jump. I didn’t hear him come in the room. I stand up quickly and put the picture back on the shelf. I don’t want to feel his touch on my shoulders, nor do I want him to see that I was looking at the picture. It’s not that I don’t like his touch- I do- it’s just that people touching me seems to hit that nerve in the back of my neck. Like that feeling you get when you’re in a crowded room and worry that you can’t get enough air.

I turn to face him. I can’t smile, nor frown. I just watch him.

“How’s this?” He asks, gesturing his arm down his body, showing the suit he chose.

He’s wearing a navy blue suit with a white shirt and red tie. He had put on his black Oxfords, the ones that lace funny. His hair is still wet, but it’s been combed into place, neatly. He looks perfect.

I squint at him. “You’re going to wear a red tie?”

He just stares at me with that blank expression he’s become so good at forming. The look that says he doesn’t understand what I’m talking about.

I force myself not to roll my eyes, but I can’t seem to stop my voice from sounding exasperated. “You can’t wear red to a funeral.”

“I can’t?” The confused look doesn’t go away.

“No. You can’t.”

Jeff shrugs in a defeated manner. “I guess I could wear my navy one. Or my black one. But then, I do have one that’s sort of a brown color.”

I sigh at him. He’ll never understand. “Just forget it. Let’s just get out of here and go.”

He cocks his head to the side. “You were looking at her picture.”

I feel my insides tighten. “Yes, I was. I was waiting for you to get out of the shower, and then when you did, I turned to go to the bedroom and there it was. I had just picked it up when you walked in and frightened me to death.”

My eyes widen in shock. I can’t believe I said that! I’m on my way to a funeral, her funeral, and I make a joke about death.

Jeff takes a step toward me. He puts his arms around me and for a second, it’s the most relieving, secure feeling, to feel his arms around me tight. I want to sag into those arms, lay my head on his shoulder, and stay like that forever. But I know, if I did that, I would be allowing my emotions to control my actions.

I push him away and turn around to get my purse. “Come on, let’s go.”

I walk past him, heading to the front door, knowing he’s watching me not knowing what to do. How can I make him realize I don’t need anything? That I’m fine, this means nothing more to me than an interruption in my work schedule.

The drive to the church is silent. Jeff must’ve thought that even putting on the radio would be rude to the dead or something. I know he’s dying to listen to some music, he never could handle silences.

I should tell him it’s okay, that he can turn on the radio and play that tape he just bought, but I say nothing. I don’t have the energy, nor do I care if he’s happy or not. I just want to be left alone, in this silence.

It’s sunny out, with huge, fluffy white clouds. The temperature is in the low eighty’s. One of those days where the sun glimmers in the trees, making the leaves look like they’re sparkling. It’s hard to believe that we’re going to a funeral.

I’ve always thought that there were things you did on dark days and things you did on light ones. Weddings, picnics, laughable hours with the ones you love were things you did on the light days. Funerals, heartbreaks, getting fired were things you did on the dark days.

This was definitely a light day and yet, we were going to a funeral. Her funeral of all things. Why didn’t the weather know we needed a dark day? What an oxy-moron that is.

Jeff turned the corner to the parking lot and drove around for a few minutes looking for that ultimate parking spot. I hate this trait of his: finding a place to park that will be close to the door to where he’s heading, so he won’t have as far to walk. I don’t mind walking, why should he?

At last the parking space is discovered. I barely wait for the car to stop before opening my door and stepping outside. The sun is much brighter than it was in the car. I search through my purse and take out my sunglasses. I feel like I should be Audrey Hepburn, dressed in a tight, black cocktail dress with pearl earrings and these stupid dark glasses.

The parking lot of the church is quite full. People have already started to park on the side street. I’m a bit surprised by this. I knew she was a social butterfly, but the only friends I had met of hers were the drug addicts of the town. The rowdies, as we used to call them. The ones who were fun and exciting to date in college, but lost their appeal when I realized they were headed on a long, drawn out journey to nowhere.

It’s too hot to wear such dark colors. I can feel the sun beating on my scalp, burning blisters through my hair. A light film of sweat begins to form between my breasts.

Jeff comes around from his side of the car and holds out his hand to me. I hadn’t realized I was just standing there. I take his hand and feel him squeeze mine. I try to smile at him, to let him know that I appreciate his support. We begin walking to the front of the church.

People are bustling everywhere, heading in the same direction. My insides cringe. My heart starts beating a thousand miles a minute..... Beating.

Near You Always

Please don’t say, “I love you."
Those words touch me much too deeply.
And they make my core tremble.
Don’t think you realize the power you have over me.
And please don’t come so close,
It just makes me want to make you near me always.

Please don’t kiss me so sweet,
It makes me crave a thousand kisses to follow.
And please don’t touch me like that,
Makes every other embrace seem pale and shallow.
Please don’t look at me like that,
It just makes me want to make you near me always.

Please don’t send me flowers,
They only whisper the sweet things you’d say.
Don’t try to understand me,
Your hands already know too much anyway.
It just makes me want to make you near me always.

And when you look into my eyes,
Please know my heart is in your hands.
It’s nothing that I understand, but when in your arms,
You have complete power over me.

So be gentle if you please,
Because your hands are in my hair,
But my heart is in your teeth.
And it makes me want to make you near me always.

Him...

You’re lying face down on the bed, pressing your cheek against the pillow. The sheets are itchy and stiff because you bought them the day before, just for this occasion. The little pink flowers in the print are too feminine for your taste, but they match the new painting on the walls of the room and that was what was important at the time.

You hear his footsteps enter the room. You close your eyes and pretend that you’re dozing, hoping he doesn’t realize how much his being here means to you. You begin a steady rhythm of breathing and silently willing your heart to slow.

He crawls into the bed and the mattress slumps under his weight. The combined scent of him and new sheets fills your nostrils as he settles himself next to you. His leg wraps around yours while his arm drapes over your back, fingertips lightly rubbing your skin through your shirt.

You feel his whiskers scratch against your upper arm. You turn your face towards him and absorb his features, hoping to memorize every detail, so you can remember them on those nights when you’re alone and needing that space filled. You know his eyes are gray-brown and that his face is round. But you had forgotten about his slight overbite and his cleft chin. You’re surprised that you forgot about this, the one thing that had attracted you to him in the first place.

You reach your hand out and with your index finger, push against the tender skin of his chin. You smile at his reaction of sighing and closing his eyes. Your heart swells and you feel the lump of tears that always seem to come when you’re with him, threaten. You stop yourself from telling him the truth that would scare him away if he knew. You chant over and over to yourself that this moment is only what it is: a moment.

He opens his eyes and turns to face you. He smiles sheepishly and hugs you tighter. He rubs his nose against yours and his smile grows wider.

“Have I told you how glad I am to be here?” He asks.

You feel your stomach grow warm and the back of your neck tightens. You smile back and stroke his face with your fingers.

“I’m glad you’re here too,” You whisper. “You don’t even know how much.”

You feel him squeeze you harder in reaction. You grow very still and stare at his mouth, remembering how his lips feel when they touch yours.

As if he hears your prayers, he brings his head forward.

In The Park

I wonder what you’re doing,
In the night out there.
Is a sad summer breath,
Tangled in your hair?
Can you hear the lonely engines,
Screaming through the town?
There’s nowhere to run,
When the darkness comes down.

Is there a song inside of you,
That you tried to forget?
Like your fake I.D.,
Or your mom’s cigarettes.
Does it take you back?
Is the vision intense?
You and me in the park at night,
Trying to make some sense.

You were just seventeen,
But your laughter was mild.
You liked my dreams,
You thought I was wild.
Is there a rhythm in your step now,
That reminds you of a dance?
Do you push it all away?
Because you never took the chance.

You’d sneak out your window,
When I’d come for you.
I’d be waiting in the streetlight,
On chandler avenue.
You’d slip into my car,
We’d drive down past the fence.
You and me in the park,
Trying to make some sense.

Did you feel like you were crazy,
When they sent you far away?
Did no one have the answers,
When you hung your head to pray?
You could not let yourself dream,
Never dare believe,
You could ever be more,
Than you were born to be.

Do you lock up your house,
Like you locked up your past?
If I were to call----
Could you free me at last?
Could you slip into my car?
Could we drive down past the fence?
You and me in the park,
Trying to make some sense.

.....To Ask

“Ask that man you’re sleeping next to about Tori Olson,” The woman’s voice on the other end of the line accuses.

I sit up straight in the bed. My heart skips several beats in fear. “What? What did you say?”
The phone goes click and the line is dead. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and grab the other part of the phone closer to me.

“Hello? Hello?” I yell at the dial tone. Finally, I give up. I rest the receiver back and set the phone on the bedside table.

I can’t move. I sit on the edge of the mattress and stare out the window. My mind is so jumbled; I can’t make a coherent thought. A wave of dizziness overtakes me, reminding me to breathe.

On the other side of the bed, he sighs in his half-awakened state. I force myself to be perfectly still and begin praying he’ll fall back asleep.

To my disappointment, he rolls over and rests his fingertips against the small of my back.

“Hmmm, who was that?” He asks, in a groggy voice.

I stand up and walk closer to the window, needing to get away from his touch. I know I should ask. Find out what that woman was talking about. Who’s Tori Olson?

Instead, the fear of knowing the truth forces me to shrug and nonchalantly answer, “No one. Wrong number.”

I keep my back to him. If he sees my face, he’ll know that I’m lying. So, I stare out at the darkness damning myself for not trusting him and damning him for not trusting me.

From the bed I hear deep, even breathing. I turn around and watch the curled up, sleeping lump buried beneath the sheets. Only his closed eyes and a tuft of dark hair can be seen.

What kind of man are you?! I scream inside my head. After only five months, you need someone else. And just who the Hell is Tori Olson? What does she have that I can’t seem to give you?

I cross my arms over my chest, staring at his slumbering body, but really I’m looking through it. I think about this other woman and what she must be like. I picture blonde hair that flows down a thin back with protruding shoulder blades. A pert nose placed upon a heart-shaped face, with innocent eyes of blue. Innocence like that pond we visited that first weekend after our first date. How the blue color of the water was pure, but screamed to know the curiosity of what it was like to be disturbed.

And that’s just what we had done. Without telling me what he was going to do, he had stripped out of his jeans and jumped in the pond wearing those plaid boxers. I had laughed in embarrassment when he begged me to join him. Suddenly, throwing caution to the wind, I had taken off my clothes, leaving only my undergarments on. We had spent the afternoon in our underwear playing in that freezing water, disrupting its peace with ripples of inquisitive waves.

Now there was "Tori Olson" to break our tranquility by bringing out my insecurity and fear. I hate this woman. She’s a symbol of proof that the people I care about could leave in an instant for something better. She has the power to break not only my relationship with him, but also my will to love.

Suddenly, he raises his head jerking me out of my thoughts. In the moonlight, his skin looks pale. His eyes are shadowed making him look as if he were wearing sunglasses. He smiles and holds his arm out to me. The shock of the cold night air hits my skin. I realize I’m standing totally naked before him. I know he wants me to come to him, but I can’t. I feel disgust flow through my veins causing my stomach to lurch. The thought of him touching me, tasting me, knowing me makes me feel violated and used. As if I’m a second choice. A woman who’s conveniently here, but not the one he wants.

I search the room for my robe. I find it in the corner where I threw it earlier when passion was something I couldn’t live without. I pick it up and shrug into it, keeping my eyes on the floor like a child who’s being punished.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I say in a guilty voice. I saunter out of the bedroom, feeling his eyes burning through the material of my robe. I see his confused expression following me into the bathroom. I know my over dramatic behavior is ridiculous and something he’s never seen before, but I’m too angry to explain. I just want to be alone and wallow in my self-pity that Tori Olson is able to bring out.

In the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face. My cheeks are burning with emotions I swore I’d never show him. I raise my head up and look into the mirror of the medicine cabinet above the sink. My reflection doesn’t look like me. I look small and child-like.

The phone rings again. I fly out of the bathroom, hoping to answer it before he does. But I’m too late. He picks up the receiver before it has a chance to ring again. I come to a dead stop in the middle of the bedroom.

“Hey,” He says, in a voice full of sleep.

I can hear the edges of a female voice, the barbs.

He hangs up while the voice is still going on. Then he gets out of bed and undoes the jack.

I squint at him, waiting. He walks over to me, grabs my hand and pulls me toward the bed. With a sense of masculinity, but not force, he pushes me to lie down. He crawls into bed and curls up next to me, facing me. He brings his head down so our foreheads touch.

“I guess,” He says in a slow voice, as if he’s trying to think of the right words to say. “that I’d better tell you about Tori Olson. You deserve to know.” She was crazy, he says, underage, a runaway. There was, as he puts it, “just no getting by her.”

My body is stiff, tight with fear. “You mean you slept with her?”

I feel him nodding, yes.

“When?” I ask him. I’m amazed to find my voice.

“I don’t know,” He shrugs. “A year or two ago.”

“Oh,” I start laughing with relief, even looking straight at him. “I thought you meant now. These past few months.”

But he isn’t laughing with me. He’s shaking his head. “No, now there’s just you. But I still think you’d better hear what I have to say.”

“I don’t want to be in bed with you and hear about someone else,” I push away from him and roll off the bed. “I’m getting a beer.”

I head to the kitchen and hear him say, “Okay, then.”

He follows me, naked, into the kitchen. I open the refrigerator, grab two bottles of beer, and hand him one.

He walks over to the counter and leans his back against the tile. I walk to the table and sit down in the chair
facing him. The cap of his beer goes hiss when he turns it off the bottle. He sets the bottle on the counter and fiddles with the cap in his fingers.

I watch him turn the sharp edged cap around and around in his fingers. He isn’t looking at me; he’s staring at the floor deep in thought. I know he’s trying to think of the best way to tell me about her, so I wait patiently for him to begin. He takes a deep breath before he talks. A cleansing breath, I think.

“I couldn’t get away from her,” He says. “I couldn’t get free. And I had to, I knew that I did... and so I packed up everything I owned and I rented a trailer and I…..” He shrugs and stops to look at me.
I’m horrified. I supposed I look it.

“That seems so excessive,” I say.

“It was. It was excessive in every way. It was….” He looks pained, remembering.

And I feel like an ancient, a crone, thinking of him with this girl who was underage. She was fucking his brains out, probably.

“I don’t think I want to hear the rest,” I say.

“But you need to,” He says and takes another breath.

He was married then, and his wife had rented Tori Olson a room.

“And then she left me, went to Florida. Left me in the house with this girl.”

“Whose idea was it?” I ask.

He shrugs again. “I don’t know. Everybody’s probably. We were pretty nearly always high.”

I am never high. I don’t do anything, no drugs, hardly any alcohol. I think of how tame I must seem.

“It was a weird time. A very weird time.” He says. Then he goes silent.

I am freezing cold, partly because of the air and partly because of the past dread. I think I might cry and I wonder why. This Tori Olson was way before we met. But it isn’t Tori Olson, it isn’t. It is the life he led.

We are like that, still and apart for awhile, and then I feel him edging near.

I watch him approach me. Naked and vulnerable like a newborn baby. At my feet, he drops to his knees and lays his head on my lap. I stroke his hair, bending forward as far as I can. My robe has opened up, exposing my legs and I can feel the hair on his chest tickle my thighs. I smell the familiar scent of him and my love for him right then is excruciating.

He never says he loves me when I do. He says it when I’m wholly unaware. Like he’ll be driving off to the liquor store, say, and he’ll have the pickup running, even turned around.

I’ll be standing there, maybe weeding or something, maybe bringing in the laundry.

I’ll wonder why the truck is sitting there, idling, and I’ll look up to see him staring at me.

“I love you,” He’ll say, and he’ll floor the thing so that the wheels churn and gravel spits everywhere.

And me, I just sit there and churn too, churn with wanting my arms around him right then. Wanting to close him off inside.

He lifts his head off my lap and looks up at me. His eyes are tired. He kisses my knee.

“I love you,” I whisper. “I wish you would tell me the same.”

He stands up and holds out his hands to help me out of my chair, but he doesn’t let go of my hands right away. He looks at me deep in my eyes and says, “Maybe someday soon, I’ll be able to.”

He turns and walks out of the kitchen, back into the bedroom. I hear him get into bed, sighing before he lays his head on the pillow. I stand in the darkness of the kitchen, listening, feeling very small, very his, but willingly so.

“Whatever you want,” I whisper in the still, lonely air.

And then I wait.....