She walked into the living room. It's 2am and I'm up, and when I'm not in bed next to her, she gets kind of antsy...
I'm not really doing anything, puttering around, drank my last two beers, watched a bit of Ed Norton's rant in 25th hour, put some dishes in the dishwasher, paced around for about an hour, contemplating the joys of eating bacon and eggs in the middle of the night versus ruining this resolution thang. She comes in, sits on the couch, looks forlorn. She doesn't say anything. Neither do I. She doesn't look at me or give me the usual "What the fuck are you doing up at this hour" look. She's just there, a presence, not altogether unwanted, but not really desired at this point. I turn the stereo up, I break the silence and ask her in an offhand way if she likes Dylan. She does. She's a country girl, so I didn't know. She loves Tom Petty and Mellencamp, but like most of the people I know, anything older than they are just doesn't register.
I peek in at Rain and Amy, they're 'snug as bug as a rug' as they would say. Subconsciously agitated, I am forced from my study of nothingness by her invasion into my solitude. I flit about, then I look over at her, really look, and I see that all that she wants is comfort. I stop my nervous meandering and set down next to her, close. She lays her head on my shoulder and her gentle hand moves to rest on the inside of my elbow. Buddy Holly comes on, "I'm a gonna tell you how it's gonna be, You're gonna give your love to me... I'm gonna love you night and day" The song twists in my head and the words turn to "I'm a gonna throw your love away...."
I take a deep breath and suppress the thousands of the same old thoughts. Is it really Fear? Fear of commitment? I don't think so. That's what they tell me it is. "They" being all the women I know, the exes and the too close friends. "It's going to end up bad". Well, no shit, I reply. It always ends up bad, why should I even dream that this will be any different. I feel sorry for my fiancee'. I feel her heart stir, next to mine, as we sit there in the muted chaos of the moment. She doesn't want to talk and neither do I. She knows how I feel deep inside and exposing those feelings right now won't help anything. I want to talk, but I know at this moment, any conversation will be doomed to, inevitably, a fight. She thinks she can change me. Sometimes I do, too. She believes it. She believes it because she loves me and she knows I love her and she has always been told that this is enough.
It isn't.
But, I don't really feel like her martyring herself on the cross of my emotional indifference right this second. A sudden urge to write hits me and again, I feel the nervous energy surge through me. Rocket man by Elton is playing now, and I want to be on that rocket. It occurs to me that she is awake and not in the bedroom. The computer is in the bedroom. I avoid it when she's here because I understand that she regards it as competition. It is the other woman that I submit myself to the way she would like me to submit to her. I ask if she can't sleep. She says no. I know she just wants me to lay down with her and go back to bed.
I stand, I tell her I feel like writing as I move towards the bedroom.
"Writing about what?" Everything is specific with her. Every thought must have a label, every action a reason. She follows.
"On my blog." I reply, avoiding the question. I sit down at the computer and log on to blogger.
"I thought you deleted all those blogs."
"everything but the political one. You know me and politics" The word politics affects most women the way the word shopping affects men. She dismisses me, then. It isn't about her. She realizes I am not coming back to bed, and now, what's worse, is that I have stolen the bedroom. She grabs a comforter, whines a little. When I don't respond, she disappears.
And here I am, once again wondering what the fuck I am doing and trying to reconcile the desire for a relationship and pleasing this woman, who I do love- with the conflicting desires that want to rip me away. It's an old argument. One that I am tired of having with myself...
So, the desire to write is spent. My urge has come, came, and went. The bed is empty now.
