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Friday, March 19, 2004 A rather rough sketch. And yes, it's fiction. Why do people always ask that? This Changes Everything This changes everything. At least it feels like it should. And does. They were driving back from the theatre, a white blur on dark roads through suburbia, on expanses of highways unlit. Mentally she'd been preparing herself for the last year, little by little, to marry him, teaching herself to love unconditionally, a love that did not come naturally for her, self-centered and concerned with fairness as she was. All the effort spent on learning to appreciate the little things, seeing but accepting his flaws, weaknesses, difference from the Ideal--what did it matter in the end? The oncoming headlights were too harsh, blinding, the redness of taillights maddening. Frustrating. How could he say that he loved her--yet she knew unequivocally he did--when separation was for him a real possibility? A concrete one, based on willingness, or lack thereof, to have children? It wouldn't be love if it was conditional. So he'd said, so she'd believed. And still did. But how could he invest so much time, energy, emotion into something that might not last? But she thought it would. They talked as though it would, as though the future was already written with a happy ending. One filled with trials, yes, but one happy in the end, written with much care. Why allow herself to be vulnerable, to be that vulnerable to someone who might not be there? Or would they become closer, advance to the point of marriage but drift in the agony of limbo while he waited for her to say that she'd changed, she wanted children after all? This changes everything. She didn't feel as secure as she had an hour ago. The silhouettes of houses were foreboding, and the charm of picket fences couldn't save the overwhelming generality of design. Yet for all that, he still said he wouldn't love her any more or less for her opinions on the subject, for her desire or lack of. Sometimes it seemed he had an inexhaustible capacity to love. But she did not. The future isn't written. But they were hedging their bets. She cried. She refused to allow anyone to see her tears. She was invincible. Hated seeming a stereotypical girl, despised the weakness of women who sobbed during Hallmark commercials. So she hid the tears in the cover of night as they sped from freeway to freeway, barely daring to speak. When she needed to, she forced herself to make her voice steady. It must not crack. It must sound normal. She was an actress after all. But she couldn't remove herself enough to sound cheerful; she was too involved. Stare at the window. Generic office buildings are so interesting. She supposed she'd succeeded--he didn't seem to notice anything unusual except that she seemed withdrawn. Meanwhile the rest of her strength was summoned into battle against the salt tickling the corners of her eyes. Drip. Another. Stop. Stop! Rub the eyes as though tired. The mask is upheld. Later in her living room he held her and the easy familiarity of the embrace threatened a return of the downpour. She felt as though a giant were squeezing her heart, stronger, stronger, and like the fairy tale water began to flow. Two stains on his sweater. But he didn't notice? He said nothing, seemed to drift into sleep. She turned her head away and fought the giant. She couldn't win, but won enough space to prevent more water from leaving the stone. Rub the eyes again. Just tired. Time to go to sleep. You should probably go home. He nodded. Just a couple of minutes. Rigid control. He sees nothing. But she'd been hinting, allowing cracks in the mask the entire night. Did he see? She felt so obvious. Yet obvious to her was blindness to others. And he? Was he just like everyone else? Grace. Perhaps he was just tired. Or didn't want to say anything. Why not? He's getting up. Can I have a hug? She returns his embrace. Sleep. Sleep. Let it all fall away. But could it? This changes everything. ^ Top | 1:11 AM | | | 
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