This was inspired by a story written in the letter section called "Torn" written by Lits own Patricia51. I have to say that that she is one of several really good writers here and it is always a great pleasure to read her stuff. But reading the story "Torn" touched me (and from the response many others as well) where very few stories here do, somewhere north of the beltline. Before you read this, read her letter "Torn". It deserves reading and maybe a comment and vote or two. So, having been in a somewhat similar predicament as our Jim in the story, I felt I had to write a reply, from one man's perspective. Most of you won't like it. Some of you will. But I offer it to you…submitted for your approval…
A typical day? Is there such a thing? Prior to reading the letter I certainly thought so. I remember going to work, arguing with Peter the Asshole about the delivery dates on an out-of-stock item and then taking lunch at the diner across the street from the shop. I even remember the heartburn hockey puck they tried to pass off as ground beef. But mostly I remember that antsy feeling in the pit of my stomach I always have when it's time to come home to you. Oh, its strength has ebbed and flowed during the years to be sure. We have had our ups and down, sweetheart, and never more so than this past year. But the feeling never really left, it was always with me just as you are. Just as the tappet noise in my truck is; the one that always lets you know I have come home. A typical, solid day as any other. But it ended torn.
And my dear, sweet wife, I can't mend it, I can't fix it, I can't make it like it was. Dear God in heaven I wish I could!
I knew that there was trouble. You don't hide things well. You never have and most especially from me. You met me at the door with a quick peck on the cheek just as you have done for almost a quarter of a century. Only the past year the peck has been a tad quicker each time. My dinner was ready just as you always, well, almost always have done since our joining as husband and wife. All the while you clutched at that folded up piece of paper in your hand as if drawing strength from it. Finally over coffee I had to ask.
"Erica, what in the hell is that in your hand? You've been holding on to it all damn night." I said reaching out to take it from you.
You jerked it out of my reach an tucked it into the hip pocket of your jeans. "No, no. It's nothing." You paused for a moment and looked at me. "Jim, we have to talk."
"Oh, shit, Hon, not that again. Every time you start a conversation with that I know its about something I don't want to hear!" Prophet, thy name is James. You stumbled a bit. You wanted to find the right words but they were never there. How could they be? Finally, your eyes looked into mine, and said, "I wasn't going to do this. You deserve so much more than this."
You reached back into your hip pocket and thrust the paper out to my hand like something you wanted desperately to be rid of; a bomb waiting to go off.
Gingerly, I took it from your waiting hand. It was damp from your sweating palms. I opened it slowly, cautiously as if whatever evil living on its pages could reach out and grab me as it had you. I read.
It wasn't long but it was honest. We have always had that. On its page I see a person in pain; a person torn. You watched my face looking for signs of my own pain, confusion, anger, understanding and, perhaps a bit of disgust. I am sure that you saw them all at some point. Finally, I set the letter down. I looked at you. Your eyes searched for some sign of reaction. I started to speak but nothing came. I cleared my throat and began again.
"It took a lot of courage to write this. Is this the way you feel?" I croaked. My heart was beating 300 beats per minutes. My head was swimming.
"Jim, I love you. I don't want to hurt you ever. But, you deserved to know what was going on with me." You searched my face again.
I stood up. I knew if I didn't I may never rise to my feet again. You waited as I walked over to the mantle where we kept our memories.
"This is a lot to take in." I said flatly.
"Jim, darling, I.." you began "Do you hate me, now knowing that your wife is gay? That I desire a woman's touch?" You sounded like a child asking a parent for forgiveness.
Still looking at the mantle, I replied. "Quit saying that! You aren't gay! Hate you? Of course not! I love you and always have; probably always will."
You leapt up and threw your arms around me. I didn't mean for it to happen, but as your arms came around me I stepped back, wheeling from your embrace. In that moment, we knew things could never be the same. You staggered back, agony lining your features.
"I revolt you, now?" your voice quivered.
My mind still reeled from the letter. Yes, there was revulsion there, fighting with anger, compassion, love, and fear for dominance of my soul.
Which one would win you couldn't guess and I didn't know. Still, I looked at the mantle. There in photos was our life together laid out. Our wedding photo, pictures of our children, bright and happy, your one "glamour shot", me in my uniform fresh home from my enlistment in the army. Our family photo that we used for Christmas cards two years past. A photo from the PTA. It was all there. Seventeen years. Seventeen years of lies? Seventeen years gone. I knew what you were feeling. The anger at God for doing this to us. The fear for the future, our future.
