Ruptured
by
Lynn Stearns
You come home
from work and toss your keys onto the kitchen table, the
day going like any other, actually better than most. He
said he’d be over tonight, he wanted to talk to you about
something important, and you think this is it – he’s
finally ready to commit.
You’d fallen in
love with everything about this man the first time you met,
showing him condos outside of town and talking over coffee
after – his leathery scent, and his voice, low and steady
as he told you he was about to give up on ever finding his
soul mate, until he met you. Then you
remember the day you learned he was married, how you’d
spotted his car parked in front of the dry cleaners, the
yellow smiley face with a top hat on the antenna. You
rarely went to that part of town, but had volunteered to
pick up the summer rental brochures at the print shop next
door. Everyone else was anxious to get home to hungry
husbands and children or pets that needed attention.
You entered the dry cleaners with a big grin, imagining the
surprise registering in his eyes when he saw you. A tall
redhead, the only other person in the shop except a Chinese
woman behind the counter, shot an annoyed glance in your
direction and shivered at the blast of cold air that came
in with you. As she pulled the collar of an emerald green
coat closer around her throat, the wide gold band on her
finger caught the light. She straightened her posture as
she handed the woman a suede jacket the color of honey,
saying to cover the buttons before exposing them to
chemicals. You stepped aside as she clicked out in leather
heels the exact shade of her coat, and watched as she got
into his car and drove away.
He arrived the next evening, a bag from Won Ton Louie’s in
one hand, a yellow rose in the other. As soon as you put
the rose in water, you told him about seeing his car the
day before, at the dry cleaners, and then you waited. Your
mother had driven your father away with her constant
nagging and accusations, making your life as well as his
miserable, and you’d promised yourself you’d never be one
of those women.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ve been a coward,” he
said. Dry hacking sounds came from his throat as he went on
about how he dreaded leaving you each week and going back
to the house they shared, that he only did it because a
lawyer-friend had advised him he’d be sorry later if he
didn’t. He said he lived for Thursdays, when she thought he
stayed after work for a staff meeting and poker game with
the guys, that he slept in the guest room, and grabbed a
muffin and cup of bad coffee from the office deli for
breakfast every morning to avoid running into her in the
kitchen. He told you they’d never had much in common, never
should have gotten married. “I wanted to be honest with
you, I swear, but I couldn’t bear the thought of hurting
you.”
When he finally looked at you, the regret was obvious in
his sigh and the slump of his shoulders. “And I was so
afraid of losing you.” He held you close and whispered, “as
soon as I can, you and me, I promise,” and you believed
him.
You check the clock and smile, thinking you have time for a
quick shower before slipping into the silk pajamas he gave
you for your birthday, and then the phone is ringing. The
next thing you know, you’re leaning against the wall,
feeling as though you just slit your wrists and your whole
life is draining out.
You wish you could turn back time, not answer, not hear the
voice of the woman he claimed he hadn’t slept with since
his first night with you. She sounded cool, in control, the
way she was at the dry cleaners.
“His secretary told me he already left the office,” she
said, “but I couldn’t get through to his cell phone. He was
probably going through the dead zone by the Navy Yard. I’m
at Memorial Hospital. I was in an accident and may have a
ruptured spleen. Tell him to come right away. He can have
his little talk with you later.”
You visualize her in a hospital gown, but with make-up
perfectly applied and gold jewelry sparkling. Then you
wonder how she knew about you, and exactly what a ruptured
spleen meant – how serious it was – and almost miss the
rest. It comes to you after you dial his cell phone and he
says he’s glad you caught him before he got on the beltway.
“I’ll cut across South Capitol – it’s shorter. If she calls
again, tell her I’m on my way.”
You don’t remember hanging up, only regretting that you
dialed his number, but then, you never thought he’d go to
her. You never thought a lot of things, until now, and
suddenly realize that it has been hard work, trying not to
think, to only focus on the way you feel when he’s with
you.
You look down at your wrists, expecting open gashes to be
spilling your blood out on the floor. Instead you see that
your hands are clenched into tight fists, the veins
traveling just under the pale skin like highways on a road
map.
Copyright
2009 by Lynn Stearns