The Erosion Of Beige

Prologue - Louisville, 1982

I used to think you had to do something spectacular to lose your life. A car crash. A plane falling out of the sky. A diagnosis in a quiet room. But I learned that sometimes, you lose your life by standing still too long, by staying married to a man who doesn't really know the sound of your laugh, by folding laundry and forgetting you once had a favorite color.

For me, it wasn't sudden. It was the slow erosion of being a "wife," a title heavier than it looks in print.

The truth was, I didn't just

lose

my life--I surrendered it. Piece by piece, year by year, until I became a woman I no longer recognized in the mirror. It wasn't Mike's fault. Not entirely. He was a good man--steady, predictable,

safe

. But safety had a way of suffocating you if you stayed in it too long. I used to think love was supposed to be a fire, but ours had settled into embers so faint I forgot they were still burning.

And then there was Todd. He wasn't just an escape. He was a mirror held up to the woman I'd buried--the one who used to laugh too loud, who once dreamed in color instead of beige.

THURSDAYS AND OTHER OFFENSES

Thursday mornings were the quietest. No garbage pickup. Just the low whirr of the refrigerator and the upstairs neighbor vacuuming for the second time that week. I had oatmeal most days, always with a little milk, never sugar. Sugar made me bloated, and while I had no one to impress, I didn't want to add physical discomfort to my world.

Mike was an army reserve captain on another TDY two weeks in Texas this time. He'd turned his GI bill from his prior enlistment into a career in dentistry and had rejoined the army five years ago.. The Army and VA were short on oral surgeons, so shipping him everywhere seemed practical to them, and provided him with valuable experience.

That morning, he exited after an unenthusiastic kiss on the forehead and a half-empty cup of coffee. The night before he'd left, we had sex, if you could call it that - there was about as much passion as someone folding a fitted sheet while half-asleep; like always, I'd lay awake after, staring at the watermarks on the ceiling. Sometimes, Mike's mouth would occasionally make sounds about having children as pillow talk, but I wasn't real enthused about essentially becoming a single parent, and told him so. You can imagine how the mood went after those conversations.

I wasn't real happy in my constrained world, but my expensive (and thus infrequent) long distance calls to my sister in Minnesota didn't offer much by way of solutions - and it was something I could never talk to mom about unless I wanted a lecture on what the bible said. Mom and dad had split when I was little, she never could get over him leaving, and thought they should be together forever.

By 8:30 in the morning I was dressed--jeans, sweatshirt, hair pulled into the same sloppy low ponytail I'd worn since '76. I applied a little powder under my eyes, just to avoid looking ill, as my skin ran to fair with some freckles. I'd stopped caring a lot about clothes or how I looked a while back - if I didn't watch it, I'd start to lose muscle tone and put on weight, it wasn't like Mike seemed to care, but I wanted to have at least some physical constant.

Russian class was at 10, my spot of color in days gone gray. Todd (or as I affectionately thought of him, the class distractor) was already there, chewing a pen cap and sprawled out in his chair like an undisciplined housecat. If he wasn't brown haired, I'd call him a ginger cat. You know the type - no sense of limb placement when seated politely.

"You look serious today," he said as I slid into the desk beside him.

"I'm thirty-three," I replied. He smirked. "That explains it."

Todd was twenty, lived with his parents, commuted to school and tended bar four nights a week at a decent Italian restaurant. He was extroverted, had a smart mouth and was probably the most irritating person in the class, but he was also the only one who ever talked to me like I was still part of the world. He dressed OK, tended toward jeans and a sweater with a ratty sport coat with a frame more like a man than that of a boy. He wasn't model pretty, but was appealing in his own quirky way.

That day, he shoved a half-folded brochure toward me. "You should go to this. Ohio State's Russian seminar that I'm going to got to. There's the seminar, and then a big screen viewing of Zhivago, and a mixer". He seemed a little breathless with this announcement.

I picked it up, my curiosity piqued, and asked "Accommodation provided?" "Probably some dorm couch or a sleepover in Lenin's ghost's guest room, but I don't really know the details it's a Friday, so no class the next day, and we can carpool", he replied.

I smiled before I could stop myself, and wonder if he noticed.

That's how it started.

ROAD TRIPPING

Friday morning. November. The trees had surrendered their leaves, and the wind bit through the sleeves of my sweater as I locked the door behind me.

Todd pulled up in a green Cutlass with rust at the wheel wells and a muffler that sounded like it was being strangled; I raised an eyebrow - this won't do.

"This car might make it to Ohio," he said, stepping out. "Maybe we should take yours. But I'll DJ."

"God help me," I muttered.

He followed me into my apartment for coffee while I grabbed my car keys. He looked around.

"Wow. This place is... clean. I'm impressed", he offered.

"Sterile," I corrected. "I like order." He raised an eyebrow in question, but really made a statement that said a great deal without many words - "No photos?"

"They're all in the drawer", I countered, omitting any explanation about military transfers and the need to stay nimble. He didn't ask why, seemingly filing it away as a piece of data.

By the time we hit the highway, I'd already learned that he played guitar "just for funsies, not real serious", he said. More convo (and God, that kid could talk), and I learned that he really yearned to travel, and was saving up money to get certified to scuba dive. In the romance department, it seemed like he simply drifted from meaningless pickup to meaningless pickup and while I didn't ask, it sounded like most of them were a little older than him and occasionally married.

Interesting. My guts fluttered a bit but I choked it down.

"And you?" he asked with a smile "Can you tell me about your world?"

I didn't answer, not really, just a vague biography - really a resume - shorn of any detail that would allow anyone to crack my shell. I talked in monotone about my 12 year marriage, my 39 year old husband, my sister, my father who had died in my teens. I didn't point out that he was probably in the third grade - maybe second - the day I got married.

He didn't press further, and I wasn't offering - he seemed to sense that, something that impressed me.

Somewhere past Cincinnati, I let him light a cigarette since he was polite enough to ask. I'd quit in 1979. But I still liked the smell, and truth be told, I was thinking that I wanted to start up again, just for something to do.

"Why are you even taking Russian?" he asked.

"Because I never got to be interesting".

He looked at me a little longer than usual after I uttered that little bomb,, and didn't have a smartass reply. Was this emotional intelligence, something that Mike struggled with on his best days?

The seminar was academic, and the crowd leaned heavily male and annoyingly, pretentiously intellectual. Because of that, I found myself holding onto Todd's elbow more than necessary. His jokes were juvenile, he flitted between conversation groups in the vicinity like a moth in a lampshade, but he kept ponderous men away from me, which I liked. When a graduate student in wire-framed glasses and a creepy, leery look slid up to my chair and asked if I'd ever read Tolstoy in translation, Todd appeared at my elbow like a ghost and simply said, "She reads men like you in the original", and I swore I thought I could see his jaw clench a bit.

Interesting. There's that stupid goddamn gut flutter again. As creepy guy slunk off, defeated, I snort-laughed into my wine.

As the evening burned on, the promise of overnight accommodations turned out to be a disaster. The organizers had begged OSU students to offer up couches and sleeping bags. Todd looked at me. I looked at him. Putting someone out didn't seem cool, and staying with a random student in a dorm felt pretty unsafe, particularly for me. Nearly in unison, we said "wanna bail?"

Joint laughter, and we said our goodbyes. We were tipsy, but not at the edge of drunk, and the notion of that long drive seemed like an awful chore. I suggested, bravely, that we should grab a hotel, and that I'd pay for it. Nonchalantly, like I hadn't been coming across some odd thoughts. He agreed that it was smart, but his agreement was not instant - he thought about it for a couple of beats.

OOPS

The motel was cheap and anonymous. Wood paneling in the office. Cigarette burns on the check-in counter. Flickering fluorescents.

I paid a sad sack clerk on duty who probably noted the absence of real luggage and the lack of a wedding ring on Todd's hand; he'd glanced at the ring on mine, which, coincidentally, felt like it weighed about 40 pounds at that moment. Todd tried to hand me some cash, but I refused. "My treat", I said.

The room was scruffy and cold, but appeared clean. Todd offered me the first shower. It was kind of dingy in the bathroom but the water was hot and the soap and towels were decent. I came out in an overlong sweatshirt and panties, and slid into my bed - the closest one to the heater. He showered quickly, coming out in a towel, and I couldn't help but notice that he flung it to the floor next to his bed as he flicked off the light. Must be a nude sleeper - Mike was a pajama boy through and through. Todd said "good night, Mary Ellen", to which I chuckled and replied "good night, John Boy", like we were Walton siblings.

I'll admit, that room really was cold - the heater struggled a bit. In the dark, lying in our separate beds, after a few minutes I said, "I'm cold, really goddamned cold - can we share some body heat?". I don't know if you noticed, but I'm naked", he replied, his voice seeming a little strained.

I said "I noticed, but I promise I'll behave", and convinced myself I would with a mental lie that I really did mean it.

He opened the covers, and I crawled in, playing little spoon to his big spoon. His body was warm, bare, firm, unfamiliar. "You're freezing", he said as I snuggled in. "Just hold me, I'll warm up in a second", I replied, my mind racing. His arms embraced me, driving off the shivers. When I felt him stiffen against my rear (and I should have guessed - he's 20, duh), I didn't move away; instead, I reached back and groped him. He gave a barely audible gasp, sweet breath on the back of my neck. I turned to face him and he kissed me, hesitant and clumsy at first, like he didn't expect it, then hungry - I kissed him hard back. My sweatshirt came off. My panties followed. We didn't stop and everything was on the table.

I know I came at least three times (I think he came four - I was just a sloppy puddle) before sleep finally took us; each time his caresses and whispered kisses and nibbles and licks brought the need back and we would be pounding again to another shattering climax. I slept lightly, occasionally stealing a glance at him as I contemplated the very bright line I'd just crossed and never really expected to cross. His face was still boyish in the early light--lips slightly parted, eyelashes fanned out like a doll's. There was no trace of cocky bartender or clever student in him then. Just a kid, not actually old enough to drink legally, who'd wrapped himself around me like I was the last warm thing in a cold world.

And I had let him.

We made love twice more after dawn - he was a little hesitant at first, and it was clear that he was fearful of my feelings about what we had done,, but I let him know with some tenderness that he was perfect and beautiful and that everything was wonderful. I wanted this, and we talked and caressed and kissed as the sun got high through checkout time. No protection. No regrets.

The first time Todd looked at me--

really

looked at me - as we walked through the parking lot of that shabby little hotel, I felt something more dangerous that I hadn't noticed before:

seen

. It wasn't just the sex, though God knows that was unlike anything I'd had before. Mike treated intimacy like a chore to be checked off, something to get through before turning out the lights. But Todd--Todd

worshiped

me. He had traced my hips like they were constellations, smiled at my face, kissed the faint lines around my eyes like they were proof I'd

lived

And that terrified me.

Because what if this was all just a game to him? What if I was just another conquest, a bored housewife to brag about to his bartender friends? Worse--what if he

meant

it, and I wasn't brave enough to follow through?

The validation was intoxicating. For the first time in years, I felt

desired

, not just

tolerated

. But with it came a gnawing fear:

What happens when he realizes I'm not worth the trouble?

We didn't speak much on the drive back. I caught him watching me more than once, his expression unreadable. I didn't ask what he was thinking. I didn't want to risk him saying something flippant, something that would send me careening toward shame, but he didn't. When we pulled into my parking lot and he helped me with my bag, he kissed my cheek--just once, featherlight-- before whispering, "You're not who I thought you were."

Neither was I.

EPIPHANIES AND A JOURNEY

That Monday, I bought mascara.

I stood in the drugstore aisle for twenty minutes, heart pounding, staring at little black tubes like they were syringes full of arsenic. It felt like cheating, like claiming a version of myself I hadn't earned, but I bought it anyway.

That next morning as I prepared for class, I watched myself in the mirror for a long time, dragging the wand slowly through my lashes, careful not to smudge. My hands trembled. I looked older, somehow, but not tired. Not plain. Just... visible.

Todd noticed, of course. Said nothing in class, but sent a note across the aisle.

You look like someone I'd try to get to know better.

I laughed and blushed. I tucked the note into my pocket while looking into his eyes. I didn't want to throw it away.

We started meeting between classes, and Mike's orderly and frequent TDY schedule was our template. There were parked cars. Campus benches. My apartment. Borrowed apartments of people Todd knew if Mike was home. Parks. One time, in the shadowy stairwell of a library annex no one used anymore. His mouth was always warm, his hands always eager but soft. He kissed me like he thought I might break. I kissed him like I needed to prove I wouldn't.

At first, it was all heat. Hot hands under sweaters and into my pants. Whispered groans in my ear, my hands gripping the back of his neck. Over time, the way he looked at me changed--more searching. Less hungry, more reverent - and was much more focused, less flippant, like he was changing along with me.

He started asking questions. What kind of music I liked when I was younger. Music I liked now. Favorite art. Whether I ever wanted to go to Europe. If I liked dramatic theater. Most inspiring historical figures. If I'd ever driven aimlessly just for the hell of it.

I had to hunt for answers for any of it, and that shamed me more than the cheating ever could, because that old me, the vibrant me, had forgotten who and what I was.

The next time Mike called from Texas, I let it ring twice before picking up. I had to count down to remember the right pitch for my voice. We talked about nothing. Car troubles. A recipe I found for meatloaf. The neighbor's new dog. He never asked how I was. When we hung up, I stared at the wall for a long time. Thankfully, Todd had left one of his T-shirts under my pillow; I held it to my face and cried not from guilt, but from the terrible, delicious truth that I was finally waking up.

A week later, I showed up to class in a red scarf and blouse combo that the old me would have thought was too young for me. It was vintage--bought at a consignment shop across town where the cashier called me "ma'am" and seemed surprised I was there.

Todd whistled low under his breath when I walked in. "Well, now we're in trouble", he grinned boyishly, winking as he said it. I sat next to him, our knees just barely brushing. I didn't pull away. I could see that our professor noticed, but she said nothing even though she looked at me and raised her eyebrows.

We started meeting more. Not just for sex--though there was plenty of that. My body ached in new ways, but never in protest. Sometimes we'd just drive for hours, no destination, listening to his cassettes. He liked Dire Straights and Talking Heads. Old me liked silence, but I found myself changing.

But he talked, always, even when I'd sit in silence; I enjoyed hearing him.

About how he hated being treated like an idiot by smug professors.

How he was sick of pouring drinks for businessmen who tried to tip him with life advice.

How sometimes he wished he were born in a different time - one that matched my own.

"You'd hate the 60s, so damned many rules," I said once. He looked at me sideways in reply, declaring "Yeah. But you'd be the one breaking them". I realized: that's how he saw me now. Not a sour housewife, not a woman past her prime, but something dangerous. Something worth chasing.

We made love one Tuesday afternoon in my kitchen. It was one moment of what had been many moments, but this one stood out.

The light poured through the tiny window above the sink, bathing everything in gold. We were halfway through a sandwich when he pulled me onto his lap, my skirt riding up as he kissed me breathless. Afterward, we didn't bother redressing. We sat there, me on his lap, our skin sticking slightly from the passion, sharing the rest of the sandwich and laughing about how we'd broken the kitchen chair.

"I don't want to just fuck you," he said suddenly, causing me to catch my breath.. "I mean--I want to. A lot. But not just that", he continued.

I stared at him.

"I want to know where you're from. What you always wanted to do when you were growing up. Whether you still dream", he said, melting my heart yet again.

I hadn't, for years. But now? I was beginning to.

Somewhere between the first motel and the third borrowed apartment, I stopped seeing what we were doing as something temporary. I no longer flinched when I passed the mirror. I walked with a sway I hadn't used since I was twenty. I knew what shades of lipstick suited me and what time of the afternoon light made my skin glow like bronze. I remembered how to flirt. I remembered how to hunger.

Todd never said he loved me, not outright at that point.. But he said it a hundred other ways. He said it in the way he touched my hip while pouring coffee. In the way he left me his worn flannel shirt to sleep in, smelling faintly of cologne and cigarettes. In the way he stopped checking his watch when we were together.

But I was still married. My world was split neatly in two: husband and lover, beige and color, silence and music.

Mike called every few days, his voice tinny over the phone, full of sandpaper and habit. He talked about army politics and new toothbrush sterilizers. I asked polite questions and offered polite laughs. I could feel him drifting, even from hundreds of miles away.