Bad Timing: Her Response

Dear Rowan,

I'm almost sorry to hear about you and Lisa. And then again, I'm not surprised. However, I can't gloat because my own marriage has come to the same dwindling conclusion. Being content, and being happy are two different things. I was content for a very long time, but I haven't been happy for years.

When I met James, he seemed to have it all together. Upon closer inspection, I realized I have a type. He served in Iraq, two tours. Another wounded man behind a tough facade. But unlike you, he holds it all in, he never shows me what's inside. A safe distance maintained from his emotions that keeps us apart. He never shared with me what he endured; I only knew stories from his friends, half-truths that I'm afraid to question.

We got a therapy dog and it helped a little, another lonely soul to wander around the house and hope that it eases his pain. James doesn't wallow in it, he doesn't sit still long enough to let the pain sink in. He keeps himself so busy and so active so as to never stop to face himself. Or me. Five years into our marriage we decided it was time to have kids. Not a compelling urge, just the idea that it was time to try since we were surrounded by friends who were becoming parents. Our bodies were equally to blame for our inability to conceive. We were both disappointed but ultimately relieved; we knew we were not steady enough to bring another life into this world.

James focused on his career, and I focused on mine. He's got his triathlons and decathlons, he has his shooting club and his hunting buddies. He has enough hobbies for three people, with no room in there for me. I have my own hobbies- my writing and my cosplay (yes, I still do that on occasion). We kept ourselves so busy that we didn't have time to realize how disconnected we were until there was an emergency. I was in a minor car accident and slightly injured, and I couldn't reach James. Neither of us could keep track of where the other one is. I wasn't even mad at him as I waited in the ambulance; I just laughed deliriously.

We didn't try counseling. There was no point. I knew what had happened, and so did he. We've always been so reasonable with each other, and I tell him everything (hoping that he would return my lack of subterfuge). Ever since our fateful night in the farmhouse, I committed to be truthful in all ways to the next man I met. So, early on, I told James about us. I told him of my cheating ways, and my broken heart. I think he wanted to rescue me in his own way. There was a story that a family was killed in Iraq, everyone except this little girl, and supposedly James carried her for miles until they could get her reunited with other relatives. He thought he could carry me to safety. And I loved him for his valiant effort. But the love is much like your love with Lisa. We cared about each other, we valued the other person and respected them, devoid of a vital passion.

I don't think James ever truly understood me. I told him everything, hoping it would reveal the inner workings of my heart. You can inform someone, you can lay yourself bare with words, but they must comprehend the truth you are speaking. That has been the hardest part in our separation, to think of how much we gave to each other and yet it never gave us what we truly needed.

I moved out of our house last fall, and moved into an apartment near campus. I focus on my job and my students, I make myself go to the gym when I feel apathetic. What down-time I have, I spend it writing. You've probably read my other stories here, if you've been brave enough to read them.

In conclusion to admitting the failure of my marriage, I want you, Rowan, to hear me when I tell you something absolutely integral to understanding me. I want you to quit thinking that you ruined me. You didn't break me. Yes, you wounded me, you hurt me deeply, but you didn't break me. I'm touched by the flattery of how you imagined me as the creature of your fantasies. But I'm made of sturdier stuff than the gossamer of fairy wings.

I wanted you. I wanted your love and affection, and yes it made me question whether anyone else would love me or want me. But I knew you had made your choice because you were wounded. You were suffering the ailment that affects most young people- fear.

I have never blamed you for how my life turned out. In fact, it could have been very much the same. Maybe I would have rushed you to the altar, maybe I would have tried to make you a father sooner than you wanted to be, and maybe I would have ultimately pushed you to rehab and watched you get clean. And when the dust settled maybe we would have endured it but exhausted each other; our love worn paper-thin from the obstacles of life. Maybe it's better to imagine our adolescent love and its moment of pleasurable fruition. That our love was only kept alive by a fantasy of what could have been instead of what we had.

But I don't want to end this letter on such a bitter note. I'm going to leave you with another memory. If I will get any satisfaction out of this correspondence, it's to remind you of what you turned your back on. Maybe it's punishment, maybe it's a gift. You decide.

Let us go back to one of those 'couples' dinners at your apartment. Lisa has made spaghetti and I've helped in my remedial way by simply stirring the large pot of marinara sauce. You and Tim are playing with the PlayStation console you recently purchased. There's a lot of jostling and jeering each other. Tim's already had two beers and working on his third; he's nursing a bruised ego after a fight with his father who's threatened to stop paying for his car payments. Dinner is done and Lisa insists we sit at that garish white table with gold trim, the pride and joy of her kitchen. You boys come clamoring in and sit down, taking your respective seats beside your respective girlfriends. Typically this places me across the table from Lisa, and you across the table from Tim. Tonight you place yourself across from me.

We serve ourselves from the assortment of food on the table, we pretend to be these dignified adults eating dinner together. Except Tim is talking about comic books and you are arguing over which edition he is misremembering. Lisa is trying to engage me in cross talk about something more ladylike, when suddenly she gestures at me, and makes a little apologetic face, smothering a chuckle. This catches your attention and you look over at me, and you also look amused. I know this can't be good as I see your eyes drift down to my chest. Dreading this, I look down at myself. There is a splotch of red on my shirt. On my breast. Almost on my nipple, to be exact. It's soaked through the fabric of my linen blouse, clinging to my bra.

Lisa says it probably happened while I was stirring the sauce, and stands up to get me a rag. I can see the barely contained grin on your face when I quickly get up from the table, and go into the kitchen. I've just about reached the sink when I hear Tim make a comment about me. Something about my breasts. Lisa is standing near me, handing me a rag, but I can feel her whirl around at this comment. She tuts at Tim in a motherly way as if to say shame on you. He just chuckles, but you don't. I remember that lone goofy laugh of his, while I turn on the water to drown him out. Lisa keeps apologizing, she offers to let me borrow a shirt, and finally I take her up on it so that we can leave the room and get away from the awkward tension.

When we come back to the kitchen, you are putting away the food and Tim has retired to his typical place of rest on the futon. You tell Lisa and I to go sit down and finish our dinners, you'll clean up. We are headed to the table when the phone rings; it's Lisa's mom, calling to ask some wedding related question that apparently is urgent enough to warrant a call at 9pm on a Saturday. Lisa starts chattering away, wrapping the phone cord down the hallway as she discusses this wedding matter with the gravity of a UN council meeting.

I'm not hungry anymore, so I come over and assist with the divvying up of leftovers. You make a crack about how much pasta was cooked, and how you'll be sick of it after a day of eating it. I can tell you're trying to smooth over the awkwardness, and I tell you it's fine. You say it isn't. You mumble how Tim is wasted, but still a dick. I ask you what he said about me, and you tell me to forget it. If it bothers you that much, I know it's bad.

We clean in silence, you washing and me drying. For once, I enjoy the banal task. I enjoy just being with you, to feel this ordinary moment become something more when I think of how you make me smile because you don't like it when my boyfriend is an asshole to me. And in that moment of contentment, you glance over at me and smile. A subtle smile. You're silently trying to say something we don't want to share with our partners.

Lisa ends her important phone call and returns to the kitchen. We all sit down to watch a movie, and only get halfway in when Lisa must go to bed. I see just the flicker in your eyes that is already anticipating her departure, but tonight I feel too weak to deal with our tempestuousness. I'm tired from working earlier that day, and I'm tired at the thought of going home with Tim.

I stand to leave and before I can wake Tim up, Lisa remembers that she was soaking my shirt in the bathroom sink, trying to get out the stain. She scurries off to go retrieve it, and you say that you're gonna go smoke "real quick". I marvel at your ability to squeeze that in there, not a shred of guilt on your face.

You see me trying to get away, to go follow Lisa down the hall, but you snag the back of the oversized t-shirt I'm now wearing. You nod towards the back door that leads to that little deck, and in case I don't follow, you take my hand and pull me out there. I don't want to, but I want to.

It's warm and balmy, but sprinkling. The kind of misty rain that coats your hair like dewdrops, and sprinkles a haze across my glasses. You grab that little crumpled up umbrella that sits by your makeshift ashtray- a rusty Folgers coffee can, and pop it open to cover me. Then you hand it off to me, trying to show you won't try to stand right by me. I'm slightly disappointed.

You ask if Tim has been that rude to me before. I give you a look, letting you interpret the obvious answer. You exhale a low cuss, staring back out at the parking lot cemetery. I tell you I don't care anymore, I say that I doubt we'll last after the semester ends and I mean it. You seem shocked by this, another long drag of your cigarette. I want Lisa to come back with my shirt, I want her to intervene before I say anything else or do anything else.

I ask again about what Tim said, and you reply that it's nothing a man hasn't said before. I can guess that it's something about my small breasts, or at least they feel small when I compare myself with Lisa's more voluptuous frame. You tell me to stop believing in old misogyny, and I tease you that I didn't think you knew what that word meant.

We go back to staring out in silence at our cemetery, the only witness to our secret meetings and stolen kisses. The dewdrops have coated your shoulders to a point of saturation, the cotton fabric darkening as it takes on water. I step forward to cover you with the umbrella and you glance over to give me another smile. You flick your ashes away, and hold the cigarette down by your hip. Then you tug at the hem of the oversized t-shirt I'm wearing, keeping it between your fingers. This is your shirt. Lisa gave me one of your old t-shirts, allowing me to possibly stain your shirt instead of one of hers. It's a rare moment of selfishness on her part. Except it's so good to know that this is your shirt. Something of yours is touching me.

We are staring at each other and feeling the pull. I can see the longing in your eyes that is torn. I can feel my breath coming faster. You dip your head under my umbrella, you're leaning in. God, I want to, you're mere inches from my lips when we hear Lisa's voice calling out. Foiled, you simply tip your head into mine, letting your forehead rest against mine. The moist strands of your hair slip across my skin, and I think of how I could lower the umbrella and kiss you in the rain. Your hand keeps holding onto the hem of my/your shirt, until you whisper that we should go back in. I can hear the want in your voice, and the regret. And I think that I am slowly going insane with this charade that we keep portraying.

Tim is awake when we go back in, a groggy smile of obliviousness on his face. Lisa hands me my shirt that she's wrung out dry, and I say I will return your shirt next Saturday but you insist that I keep it. It has some anime characters on it from a movie you really like. I think you'll miss it, remembering how you'll wax poetic about the plot of this intergalactic cartoon, but you again insist I keep it. Everyone is surprised at your generosity. Especially Lisa. Of all the things we ever did, I think this is the only moment she sees an inkling of what you feel for me.

I leave with Tim and thank you for the shirt, and your smile is a dull knife cutting through my heart. A tender look of sympathy in your blue eyes, an unspoken apology for the stalemate we are in. I'm touched, and then I'm sad, and then I'm angry.

The car ride back to my apartment is devoid of conversation, until I ask Tim what he said about my breasts. He chuckles, muttering under his breath about my "itty bitty spaghetti titties''. He thinks this is hilarious. The anger I had at you is further inflamed by his juvenile joke. I tell him to pull over. He ignores me, so I repeat my demand. When he keeps driving, I shriek at the top of my lungs. PULL THE FUCK OVER OR I'M GOING TO JUMP OUT. Tim's dull-headed brain realizes I'm serious, and he swerves over to the ditch.

We've taken the I-90 home, and just gotten to the part where we are off the elevated section and back over dry land. There's not alot of traffic at that hour, mostly truckers and delivery vehicles. I get out of the passenger seat of the leased Corolla, slam the door closed, and start walking. It's a miserable drizzle of rain, but I'd rather walk home than be trapped in the car with Tim.

I can barely hear him calling my name. I keep walking along the ditch of the highway, ignoring him. He's forced to start driving along the emergency lane, yelling out the passenger side window. My/your t-shirt is slowly getting saturated, the cotton material clinging to my frame. I can feel it sticking to my shoulders, clinging to my bra, slowly melting against my skin. It's cold, but I like it. The cool moisture calms my temper, it runs down my back like a soothing hand, droplets of water dripping down my face.

Tim is slowly following me, pleading from the ambling car for me to stop it. He keeps saying my name, irritated at first, gradually becoming frightened when I ignore him. I'm pleased to hear the frantic apology he finally blurts out. But it's not good enough. Not when I know the apology is because he's scared and embarrassed. I want the apology to hurt.

My/your t-shirt is now soaked in what would pass for a wet t-shirt contest. Tim has also noticed this, yelling out how I'm getting all wet. The words trigger me. Something he's usually clueless about. I slow my pace and come to a stop. My purse is tossed to my feet, so I can free my hands. It takes some doing to wriggle the wet cloth of the t-shirt up and over my head, but I manage it. I emerge from the drenched material, feeling the wind go through my soaked bra, hardening my nipples. I fold the t-shirt over my arm, pick up my purse, and start walking again.

The headlights of the car also start moving again, following me. My wet hair slaps across my bare shoulders as I walk. It feels good. I hold my head up defiantly, garnering a few honks from passing cars that have spotted this topless woman walking along the highway, my pale pink bra resembling near nudity. Tim's voice is practically hysterical now. He sounds genuinely upset as I glance over, his neck craning forward so he can see out the passenger window, begging me to stop. He doesn't like it when everyone else can see my so-called itty bitty titties.

Feeling triumphant in my exhibitionism, and just a smidge of guilt, I finally stop. Tim pulls completely off the highway, leans over and opens the passenger door for me. I stalk up to it, and stand there, debating. His eyes look so bewildered, so childlike. He has no idea who I am. So maybe I will show him.

I slam the door closed, and he cries out. Instead, I walk around the hood, through the glaring headlights on my pale skin, and go over to the driver's side. I open the door and give Tim the briefest consideration before I bend down and scramble in. I'm small enough to tuck myself on his lap, my legs straddling his hips.

I slam the door closed and then face him. I glare at him, seething with anger, watching his baffled expression trying to fathom what has come over me. I ask him if he doesn't like my little titties, then why does he still want to fuck me. I grind into his lap, questioning him- he does want to fuck me, doesn't he? He chokes on his own shock as I push up my modest breasts in my modest bra in pale pink, and I ask again: does he not want to fuck me?

He sputters an apology, he says how pretty and hot I am, he says how he always wants to fuck me. I undulate on his lap, rubbing myself across the bulge in his jeans. I watch his eyes drink me in as I squeeze my own breasts, biting my lip like some coy coed. It's all an act, a manipulation of his basest urges so that I can take revenge.

My act is working, his eyes glazing over when his head darts down. His lips suckle my nipple, his hands scrambling to undo his belt buckle. I take over so I can get to him first, finding him only semi-hard because he has yet to understand that alcohol is the bane of boners. Regardless, I stroke his wriggly shaft, hearing him groan into my breasts. I make him switch breasts, enjoying the rush of cool air on my wet nipple, while his mewing moans vibrate through my other breast.

I'm loosely stroking him, as my other hand goes into my own jeans. I find my clit and I start rubbing, already feeling it throb with the frustration and aggression. Tim tries to help, but the angle for his wrist is awkward, so I shove his hand back up to my tits. Those tits he mocked, now being pawed at with desperate groveling.

I keep grinding into his not quite hard/not quite limp dick, watching the beams of light from passing cars go over his face. I feel my pussy tensing and I know it is not because of Tim. The moisture seeping out of me, readying to be penetrated is not due to his flaccid expression. All of my fervor is a performance, because in my mind I am not doing this to him. No, he's not in that car with me. It's not his lap I'm sitting on. It's yours.

You've been with me this whole time. You've been eyeing me as we've driven along, glancing over at me with that little smirk. I've been putting a hand in your lap, teasing you, while I kiss your ear with tiny pecks. You ask me if I want us to crash, and I tell you yes, I do if that's what it takes for you to fuck me.

I giggle deviously when you swerve over suddenly, and I feign ignorance when you unbuckle my seatbelt. I lean in for a kiss, I feel the grin on your lips as you tug me over the parking break you haven't set, manipulating me onto your lap.

It's a tighter fit to sit on your larger frame, to have your broad shoulders in place of Tim's narrow build, but we make it work. You run a hand up through my hair, keeping me on your lips, while your other hand is tugging on a belt loop of my jeans. You're tugging my body forward so that I'll rub over you, showing me what I've done to you. I sigh with satisfaction. It's so hard it must hurt, I say. And you reply it just needs some attention. From me.