The first time I experienced it was at the breakfast buffet of the Serine Resort in Varadero, Matanzas, Cuba. My husband and I had just flown in from Toronto for our honeymoon, a joint wedding gift from both sets of parents. It was our first morning there together and I was still groggy from the night before. We were in a long line of people, most of them dressed in their bathing suits and carrying towels over their shoulders. I had on a neon pink bikini, which I wore beneath a gauzy white skirt and black tank top, with rope soled thong sandals and white sunglasses. He was dressed in navy blue shorts and a white band tee shirt. Black wraparounds obscured his eyes.
We hadn't spoken more than a few words to each other since the previous evening—just the quiet smiles of a newlywed couple—and I can remember to this day the delicious afterglow of newlywed sex that we basked in. I can recall with ease the love I felt for him, the lust that made me want to forego breakfast altogether—I had suggested as much—but which I had somehow contained in order to satisfy the simpler of his two needs.
Matt never liked to miss a meal.
Just thinking his name brought to mind his presence behind me. He was close: so close, a warm reassurance of the rightness of my world. I knew that he wanted me as much as I wanted him. And I also knew that I couldn't wait to get back to the room so I could be alone with him, just the two of us.
The line moved slowly. The servers behind the sneeze barriers seemed half asleep, like I was, and doled out portions of the resort's meager offering of fresh food—omelets made to order, waffles with cane sugar syrup—as if they knew how desperately I wanted to be done with it all. When offered, I took one of the waffles. It was dark brown and crispy and looked delicious. Moving past the servers, I came to the hot table, where trays of premade food sat under bright red heat lamps: hash brown potatoes, scrambled eggs, sausages and bacon.
I remember I picked up the bacon tongs, thinking I would grab a crispy piece, since they tend to have less fat and less chance of being underdone. But before I could actually do so, I felt Matt's hand close over mine.
"You don't need that," he said gently.
"What—"
"You know you'll regret it later. Besides, you always get sick when you eat pork."
"But I want some bacon," I persisted.
His grip tightened.
"No. You don't."
His voice was quiet but, nevertheless, people at the nearby tables turned to look at us.
"Matt," I whispered, "Let go of me. Please. People are staring."
He held on for a moment longer, his eyes not leaving mine. As soon as he judged that enough people had seen, he let go.
"Fine," he whispered, "Get sick. Just don't expect anything but 'I told you so' from me." And he stalked away.
Furious, I grabbed a pile of bacon and put it onto my plate, then left the line and made for the vacant section in the far corner of the room. I had originally intended to eat alone, but found myself sitting down across from him, in spite of myself, at a two-person table up against the white stone barrier that separated the dining area from a small garden.
He never said a word. He barely even looked at me.
I remember the food had no taste. Its texture made me retch with every bite. Yet I ate it all, mechanically chewing and swallowing until I'd finished everything on the plate. Everything, that is, except for the bacon. I couldn't bring myself to touch it.
When the waiter came to clear our plates away I felt guilty, ashamed. My eyes went from the pile of uneaten food to his kind face, then, automatically, over to my husband. He smiled at me, and I knew that behind his glasses his eyes were smiling, too. There was a night's worth of stubble on his cheeks—the sight of which always made me want to feel it against me—and his skin was very pale. But his smile was bright. It was sunny. It was vibrant and alive. In the face of it, I was powerless.
The anger I felt melted away. It left nothing but shame in its wake.
