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beardedblog · 9 years ago

Text

This.. I like this.

Thought Marker

Is it true that most relationships tend to be one sided to some degree? It felt that way. She was only asking for a little thought, that’s all. If he would simply give her a tiny bit of what she gave him. She thought of him so often, it was like he was renting space in her brain. Sometimes, it was like he owned the space and she was lucky to be able to use it.

The conversation started with her mentioning it and his defensiveness took over. All she wanted was a call or a message, a marker that said “I thought of you here”. He reiterated, when asked, that he was fine, though he looked like he was fuming: arms folded, an offended look on his face, low and rigid eyebrows. “I think of you”, he said “I think of you a lot. Just because it doesn’t make me call you every single time, doesn’t mean I don’t think of you”. She went about the business of cleaning up after the emotional mess she’d made, reassuring him that he was not on trial while he muttered sentiments like, “ridiculous to say I don’t think of you”. She continued to set the record straight, or as straight as she could, while letting it still be known that she wanted a thought marker. He conceded and she relented.

The following day, he was home, she had to work. She was excited. A little anticipatory shiver followed her in the early morning. By mid morning, she was checking her phone, every ten minutes. At lunch, she had a serious conversation with herself about the nature of demonstrative affection, ending by asking herself if the proof she sought was still meaningful if she had to ask for it. Did it mean anything if he didn’t think of it on his own? She resisted the temptation to call him, only barely, her thumb over the button, before cancelling the attempt. Twice. An hour after lunch, she answered her question. Yes, it still meant something. And he had better call. Or text. Or send a fucking email. She checked her email.

Anticipation degraded into irritation. When she checked through the afternoon, she was more aggravated each time, but had enough hope to continue to check. She envisioned him as her day progressed and the images became less flattering. He started off by reading a book and thinking of her, perhaps with plans of doing enriching things. By the end of her work day, he was watching porn and had made a mess and it was as though she didn’t exist. He’d be watching other women doing sexual things and wouldn’t think of her until she walked in and then he’d be all over her, as sometimes happened. Her eyes rolled. If he thought he was going to be aroused by some nasty skanks on a screen and take it out on her when she walked in, he was grossly mistaken. Grossly. Mistaken. On the ride home, she checked her phone at stoplights, fueling that mixture of angry hopefulness. As she parked the car, a benefit of doubt crept in and she waited nearly ten minutes, shaking her head at her phone with a sharp frown for most of that. He had better be bleeding when she walked in. Bleeding and unconscious. From the accident he had while trying desperately to reach the phone and call her.

As the door opened, she had no idea what revelation she expected to find. He was on the couch as she came around the corner, reading. The place looked clean, at least. “Hi!”, she said, walking past and looking at him. That one word said everything, a lone syllable that demanded explanation. “Hi”, he said, quietly, after a pause, not looking up. His focus was intently on the book. She continued into the kitchen, tight lipped, and hung up her jacket and purse. She resolved that he would not melt her, he would not dissuade her from her anger. Even if his handsome face gave her those deep and smiling eyes, she, at the least, would maintain that he had hurt her feelings. He needed to understand that, if nothing else. Perhaps it would be a day or two, or three, or even more, before she felt like having sex. That thought made her raise her chin in a posture of defiance. She couldn’t make things less lopsided or more fair, but she wasn’t entirely without recourse.

“What’s this?”, she asked, noting the irritation in her voice as she took the to-do list down from the refrigerator door. The next room offered only silence. She read:

9 am (ish): The first thing I thought when I rolled over and noticed that I was awake, was that I couldn’t roll over to you, because you weren’t there. I rolled over onto your side of the bed, face down for a few minutes.

A little after 9 (ish): I thought about your butt while I made coffee. I remembered waking up for a minute as you were getting ready to get into the shower this morning. Watching your butt disappear through the door. My coffee was wondering why I was smirking at it like that. I let it wonder.

9:47: Found a notebook and wrote down those first two things.

9:50: I have a free day, all to myself. I can do whatever I want. Woohoo! I don’t know what I’ll do, but I feel lazy and wish you were here.

10:46: I got up from the three movies I’m watching (I couldn’t decide, but I have a remote control, so I don’t have to) and went to the bathroom. When I came back, it was like I expected you to be sitting there. I am aware that that is ridiculous. Then I realized that I had already looked over to you while watching movies, though I knew you weren’t there. I like seeing your reactions to things.

10:48 You are weird and quirky and I love you.

IIIII

11:32: One of the movies ended. I wanted your opinion of the end of the movie and turned to ask you, even after reminding myself (in print!) that you’re not watching movies with me. it’s like there’s an image of you here that’s waiting for you to come fill it.

11:42: I like your laugh. It escapes from you like it’s been waiting, taking you by surprise. I love that.

11:45: I have decided that your laugh is burgundy in color. With bright streaks of lemon peel yellow.

IIIIII

12:03: Your hair. Just saying.

12:03: I like your ears, your earlobes.

12;03: I guess I’m suggesting that you have a good head. I don’t know why I get the feeling I’m missing a joke in there somewhere.

IIII

12:34: You know what the problem is with watching porn to cure boredom? It makes me want you and think of things I’d like to do with you. At some point, I’ll see something that reminds me of you, like a facial expression or a turning of the hip. Before I know it, I have graphic sex scenes in front of me, but I’m staring into space, rubbing the front of my pants and whispering something to you. I considered masturbating, but I want to be as ready as I can be for whenever you’re ready.

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

12:37: Too many sexual thoughts about you. Not going to list them all.

12:38: But can I just take a moment to say that I like the way you smell? Even when you’re sweaty and feel like you need a shower, I like the way you smell, everywhere. It drives me a little crazy.

IIII

12:40: It occurs to me that the bright side of getting aroused and having to wait is that it’s like I’m saving something for you. Something you’ll want. I like that feeling.

IIIIII

12:42: I wish you were home.

12:43: I want to whisper something to you.

12:44: Why, for the love of all that is good and sacred, did you have to work today?!

12:44: You really should be here.

12:45: Really.

The letter continued on the back side of the paper. She turned it over.

12:46: Really.

IIIIII

1:41: Reading was not entirely successful. I read three pages, very slowly, before realizing I had no idea what I was reading. Another attempt had the same results.

1:55: I love you.

2:02: You’re going to be home at about 4:10. I am going to just try to relax and read until you get home.

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

4:04: This is the part of the day where I can sometimes feel antsy if I’m home and you’re not. I know that after a long day, you might not want me to attack you when you come in the door. I usually find things to distract myself. Today has been different, so you can see how it goes. (I’m still not going to jump on you when you walk in the door). The simple truth is that I’m embarrassed. I know that in relationships, one person is usually in it more than the other, one person feels more, maybe more intensely. I know that’s me. Those little slash marks between entries are times I thought of you but didn’t have anything original to say. I’m giving you what you asked for, but in all seriousness, you can’t use it against me. I mean it. I’m embarrassed enough. There’s a reason I don’t tell you about how I spent my lunch hour fantasizing about the way I run my fingers through your hair and how it sometimes riles you and sometimes makes you sleepy. Or how pissed off I can get at work when someone asks me a question that has nothing to do with your lips. How I hide my erections under my desk like a school boy. Or how I smile every time you laugh (every single time), how fast my blood runs when you do something goofy. When you’re done reading this I’m going to confiscate it and we don’t ever need to talk about it again. Agreed?

4:15 You’re late. Why are you late? You should be home by now. I’m going to try very hard to keep reading (the same pages). Get. Home.

She turned to face the living room, but he was already standing there, right behind her, fidgeting, looking down. She threw herself against his chest, wrapping him tight. She was crying. He reached down and grabbed at the letter in her hand. She pulled it away from him, stepping back from him and fiercely said, “oh, no you fucking don’t! I’m keeping this!” and returned to his chest. He stroked her hair. She whispered, “it’s okay if you attack me when I come home”. He shook with quiet laughter. “You are going to get such a blowjob!”, she sobbed into the front of his shoulder. He said, “I have a lot more than that in mind”, kissing the spot where her forehead met her hair, “I can’t wait to show you”. She couldn’t have been squeezing him any harder, her fist tightly wrapped around the letter. She slapped him hard on the back, her face pressed against his shirt and said, “you could have just called!”.

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