(There is no sex in this conclusion.)
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John Watson sat quietly, an untouched cup of coffee before him, gazing out the kitchen window at the gently swaying limbs and leaves of the aspen. He again glanced at the calendar on the wall, recognizing that it was exactly one year since the final divorce decree had been granted and the pain in his eyes was apparent.
John looked inside himself, asking again if he had done the right thing; had he made an error, had he acted too precipitously, could he have at least tried to save his marriage? He should his head wearily, he knew that he would again come to the same conclusion. He had little choice. Every time he began to have doubts about the divorce, all he had to do is recall the scene in that lounge, the scene of Esther and her paramour and he knew that his marriage was over.
He had told her that it would be easier for him to live with regret than with suspicion, but that was such an oversimplification. Neither choice was 'easy.' Suspicion would have eventually destroyed him, but regret was turning him into a cold, bitter, terribly unhappy man. He was between the proverbial rock and a hard place - screwed regardless of choice. That's the true tragedy of it all - if he hadn't loved Esther as deeply as he did, the divorce would not have been as devastating.
Perhaps he didn't love her enough to fight for their marriage, perhaps he was a coward for walking away, or was it that he loved her too much and that was why he could forgive but couldn't forget. John couldn't fool himself; he loved Esther - would probably always love her. He just couldn't forget her betrayal.
Consequently, John went through the motions of life; going to work, performing competently, coming home, dining and then sleep. Blessed, comforting sleep when unconsciousness blanketed the sorrow that was his constant companion. Many times, after a meager dinner, he would leave the house and walk. He would walk, aimlessly, unaware of direction, oblivious of his surroundings.
This became a pattern for his existence, a routine that he embraced, the very repetitiveness of his days allowing him to focus on that routine, a hollow method of forgetting...of sublimating his unhappiness.
Friends called, but conversations with them were brief. The calls soon tapered off... a relief, not having to make excuse after excuse, refusing invitations. Irene called, Woody called. He spoke with them on the phone, but again, made excuses, pleaded with them, told them he needed time alone. They understood, at least they finally backed off, giving him time to himself, time to heal. Heal? Could his psyche ever really heal, could psychological scar tissue form to cover the raw wound in his heart, allowing him to find peace?
John was startled out of his musings by the repeated ringing of the front door bell. The ringing was constant, unceasing, forcing him to stride rapidly through the house to the door, angry at the rude interruption. He pulled the door open, prepared to confront the intruder then paused, a weak smile on his lips.
"Irene...damn it, lay off the damn doorbell. My head is pounding as it is."
Irene Holmes, nee Adler, brushed by him and strode into the living room where she turned and put her hands on her hips. Her eyes were blazing and her anger was evident in her words. "Enough of this shit, John. You've been hibernating, feeling sorry for yourself long enough," she spat.
"Someone has to put a poker up your ass and get you to start jump your life. No, No," she put up a hand, stopping John from retorting angrily. "I don't want to hear it, John. We love you, you idiot. That's why I'm here. Enough with the phone calls, enough with the excuses. We gave you time, shit, enough time to bury yourself, but enough is enough. Wake up, John. Wake up, life is passing you by."
Irene paused, pity and sorrow for her dear friend apparent in her gaze, her voice now soft and pleading. "John, it's been a year since the divorce. You've got to get on with living. You can't keep shutting yourself away forever. Please, John. Try to understand what I'm telling you." The first flush of anger felt by John had passed. He turned wearily and sank into his easy chair. He motioned to another chair and smiled wryly as Irene sat, cautious now, concerned about what his reaction would be.
"Irene...Renee," he began haltingly. "I know...I know...you're right. My mind accepts what you're saying. It's hard, Renee... It's damned hard. I never thought it would be this hard. I need time...I just need time," he whispered.
"Bullshit, John," Irene retorted, but quietly this time. "That's bullshit and you know it. The only way that you're going to be able to get over the split with Esther is for you to reenter the human race." She saw John flinch, but continued. "Johnny, please. Just come for dinner, that's all. All I'm asking now is that you come for dinner. It's Saturday, John. I know that you don't have any plans. Come for dinner this evening," she pleaded.
John sighed, his shoulders slumping. "Okay, Renee...okay. I'll come for dinner, but why you would want me there is beyond my comprehension. I'm really not very good company."
Irene perked up, now smiling. "Don't worry about that. You know that Woody and are both yakkers, we'll keep the conversation flowing. All you have to do is just sit there, smile and nod your head occasionally. Be there around 5, John. We'll have time to get reacquainted before we eat," she added factiously.
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Despite John's reservations, he enjoyed himself that evening and, for awhile, was able to put his sorrow aside and immerse himself in the company of caring and loving friends. He was able to chat with them and even laugh at their attempts at humor. He was able to gaze at Irene's antics and smile, knowing that she had pulled out all the stops. Her impersonations of other members of the faculty at the university were spot on and they elicited laughs from both John and Woody. Irene was the assistant chair of the Drama and Performing Arts department and her talent was evident.
John had glanced at Woody at times and Woody had winked and smiled indulgently. They both knew what Irene was doing - she was bending over backwards trying to get John to climb out of the hole he had dug, an abyss into which he could sink and forget the pain. John was no fool, he knew that his behavior was self destructive, and he found that he now welcomed Irene's attempt to pull him up out of the pit of despair. He again looked at his friend, a person he had known for decades, a person he could trust with his life.
"Okay, okay, Renee," he finally was able to interrupt her interpretation of the strange walk/hop of the Dean of Academic Affairs. "Knock it off or I'll pee in my pants," John chuckled. "You're right, I know you're right. You've made your point, Renee, you win."
Irene and Woody looked at him expectantly. Irene also had a hopeful look in her eyes. John chuckled again. "Renee, Woody, you're both right. I've been thinking all evening. I did need time, but I'm carrying this time thing too far. I can't hide forever. I hurt, but I also know that I'll live, I'll get over it. Thanks to you, I think I can start climbing out of my den of self pity. Jeez, Renee, you really beat yourself up entertaining us tonight," John chuckled again.
Woody looked at his friend affectionately. "I'm glad, John. I'm glad that you've come to that conclusion, albeit with a push from Renee. Just remember, if you need us, we'll be there. Never forget that, John."
