Before sitting she had removed her blazer; it was a fine wool, more expensive than she could normally afford, but she had gotten it on clearance at the end of last season, before the separation. She wore it tonight because it was her favorite, she loved the way it held her, loved the aura she felt as she wore it over the plain white blouse, loved the rich autumnal brown, just a hint of green, and the way it made her skin glow, set off her blonde hair. And she wanted him to see her in it; she had not had the opportunity to wear it last fall for it was already too cold, and by springtime, as the heavier coats were put aside, she was already alone.
No, not alone precisely. Apart from him.
And now she sat across from him in the restaurant, in a quiet back corner where the crowd noise and background music didn't reach, but neither did the heat, at least not any longer. It had felt warmer when they had been seated, but maybe, she thought, it had been her that had been warmer. At any rate she regretted removing the blazer, knowing full well that if she wore it sitting for the entire evening it would crease, and shatter the casual elegance of the garment. Perhaps she could just drape it over her shoulders, and she waited for the proper moment, a break in his long-winded list of his feelings and observations of their time together since their separation.
As soon as that unkind opinion of his monologue formed she admonished herself. It wasn't his fault he suddenly discovered emotions and feeling. It seemed in retrospect to have been almost inevitable that he would, in response to their parting, develop something in reaction, or uncover the latent ones that had eluded him so well. During their marriage emotions and feeling had been her responsibility; she had expressed for both of them; felt love for two, passion for two, empathy for two, anger for two. At the start she had expressed for them both in an effort to extrude his; later as retribution. The more he withheld, the more she showed, and vice versa, in a downward spiral.
He droned on, and she smiled lightly, proud but melancholic to see the progress in him, to see the growth he had accomplished, the hint of what could have been. But under it all, she heard the unspoken words, saw the perspective of leanings he had encountered; it remained about him, not them. In an academic way it was interesting to see him get in touch with himself, but the change did not touch her. Maybe one day there would be hope for him, that he would complete the half person he was, and long to be whole with another, to allow another to person to complete him. But he gave no hint that he felt a yearning for such growth, or even the acknowledgement that such development might exist.
She smiled wanly, wondering how he saw her expression, and knew as soon as she thought that he was far too immersed in presenting his position to recognize an honest emotional response from a living human being. And hadn't that been the issue all along? Or was she imposing that judgment of him from before, on this him, now? Was she being fair and objective? Could she be?
Sure, she bore resentment over the separation. No, that wasn't true either. For her, the separation had been better than easy, it had been a step toward fulfillment, to becoming whole. No, it had been the months before the separation that had been hardest, as she struggled vainly to elicit any emotional response from him. Finally tired of carrying the weight for both of them, tired of the unresponsive nature, the absence of emotion, she could, after the agreement to separate, put down his portion of the relationship, and begin to carry only her own, in the direction she wanted, unencumbered to her own fulfillment. It had been a breath of fresh air when they finally agreed to separate.
Agreed. She blew out a thin breath with her smile. That would have required participation from both of them. Decision would be more accurate. She had decided; it was time. He took the news, emotionless and unresponsive, as he had taken all her attempts and challenges to extract some reaction from him. She wanted the love that had seemed so close, so possible when they dated and married, she wanted the understanding and connection that had once accompanied their conversations. She wanted the closeness that their intimacy had brushed against, but seemingly never embraced. But they did not come, no matter how she tried to expose them.
That potential had been there, when they met and dated. She saw them, or rather, the promise of them, and committed to him for the possibility of what they might one day be, sure of her ability to draw them out. Even at the beginning of the marriage she saw them, an image of something just below the surface of a pond, obscured but visible through her own reflection on the surface. So close to coming out, to breaking through. But any attempt to reach for it disturbed the surface, and the image disappeared from view.
And when the love, the companionship and closeness did not come, she worked towards other emotions, any emotions. Anger. Resentment. Hostility. Disdain. Where once she struggled to unsuccessfully provoke a loving reaction from him, needing the return and feeling for them both, she now turned to instigation and insolence. In her frustrated efforts, instead of trying to please him she tried to anger him. She ignored him, disregarded him. Defied him. Shamed him. Betrayed him. She went out, stayed out. She looked at other men, in front of him, spoke of them, but got no reaction. She pursued them.
The more he did not get angry, the more anger she felt towards him. But still she failed, and every attempt resulted only in her increasing hostility towards him; like love, she felt it for them both. Each attempt pushed harder, each time she failed, her anger increased, then her disdain, and finally her hatred. Not just against him, but against herself; she found herself feeling for herself what she wanted him to feel for her.
Each step determined to make him react, each failed, each one exceeded by the next. She dated men. She did not hide it. She flaunted it, brought them home, took them to their bed, in front of him. She brought home more men, then several men. She brought home women. Then men and women. Groups. Debased herself in front of him. Allowed herself to be abused, then demanded abuse. When even that fell short, she pulled the plug. She told him they were separating. She packed, and she left. And still she got no reaction.
She did not miss him, had not missed him. In the nine months apart she had pursued her own needs, lived for herself. She was making up for lost time, years that she had devoted to him, years wasted trying to find the good, then desperate to incite the bad. She did not hate him for it any more; she felt nothing, it was who he was. She had resigned herself to the fact that she had tried to do the impossible, and failed, and forged ahead to something new. She was whimsical now, seeing him, at life's cruel irony; the door she had beaten herself against for six years had opened as soon as she stepped away. In separation, even she had gained understanding and perspective.
And now here he was, feeling and emoting, as if human, almost the person she had thought she had once wanted. She thought she could see the man she had fallen for. On closer inspection she realized it was an illusion; what she saw was the man she had thought the man she had fallen for would one day become. She grimaced at the concept; the idea was more complex than her life had become. But for all her failed efforts and her wasted, soiled and ruined emotions, there was something of that man she had once imagined now sitting across from her. Not the one who she thought he would be. But maybe close enough that he could play that man in a movie. And as much as his revelations were all about him, the emotions looked good on him, as she had always hoped they would.
He had issues, clearly. He was seeking help, and she silently wished him the best. She did not know what the conclusion would be at the end of his story; he seemed bent on detailing every revelation, as though he had invented emotions, and not just discovered his own. What she did know was that his conclusion mattered little, if at all. There would be no reconciliation, no trying again. She had tried. Hard. She had failed. She had moved on, she would not go back. And since moving on she had found not what she thought she wanted, not what she was looking for, but what she had needed, and it had come from an unexpected direction.
She had arranged this date on the night she left, thinking then, still somewhat innocently, that the time apart would make him realize what he had not done, and would allow her to forget all she had done. Imagine. Getting back together. So sorry, dear, for being an unfeeling automaton, for holding you away and freezing you out. My Mommy didn't hug me enough, or something. Oh yes, me too, dear, sorry for the cuckolding, and the orgies in our house, and fucking all those cocks in front of you like that. A bit immature, but I was desperate, you see. Forgiven?
Yeah right. He seemed to be winding down, which was good. She was still chilly, and interruption be damned, she lifted her blazer and slipped it over her shoulders. He never even broke his stride, just barreled merrily along, as absorbed in having some emotions as he'd been in having none. There was no inquiry as to whether she was cold or getting ready to leave; he assumed she was there to hear him, as he had always assumed she would love him and stay with him, regardless of his actions, or lack thereof. At some point he would wrap up. She owed it to him to let him finish. And while the end result of their discussion tonight was preordained, there were two things she hoped for.
