Other Lives

He called when he shouldn’t have. That was the main problem. That was where this started and ended. His face leaning sourly to the floor he wondered how long he had been seated like this. He remembered hanging up and adjusting his bitter body on the couch. That had been hours ago- since his last motion. It felt as if he had moved through decades of his life.
Already he was so sure she had come home- gingerly shutting the door.
She had seen him sitting there and recognition had spread wildly over her fact. She had begun to justify and rationalize with incongruent sentences and fabricated excuses.
He had been quiet and then loud, calm and then irrational. His expressions had resonated across the walls- and hung with deafening solidity between them.
He had already pushed through the words, watching them fall around him. Watching everything fall around him.
Already he had given her the ring- folded it neatly in her hand.
He had stormed out angrily and stood on the doorstep waiting for life to proceed.
And still, he was seated on the couch, waiting for her to come home- unsure which reaction would possess him when she finally did return. Already he had imagined a thousand possibilities, none of them appealing, none of them satisfying.
Time passed in fragments. He measured it in the length of time he could go not envisioning the two of them together- not thinking about the man who had answered the phone.
She returned home in the evening- her hair dampened by the passing showers. He heard her moving in the kitchen, setting down bags on the table and maneuvering into the living room. For the first time he moved, sitting straighter on the couch. He felt an immense feeling of loss as she made her way over the threshold into the room.
“Sorry I’m late, baby. They kept me over at work again,” she put her hands roughly on her hips as if to demonstrate her frustration. He didn’t respond and she motioned toward the kitchen brusquely mentioning something about Chinese food.
He nodded and lifted himself from the couch wishing to hell he could leave his problems to ferment between the couch cushions. He wondered if he could lose them as easily as he misplaced the change within his pockets, leaving them permanently pressed between either cushion.
As he approached her he realized the impossibility of that. As she cuffed her arms around his neck and leaned into him he wondered how long he had been sedated by her lies. She kissed his neck lightly and laughed cruelly about how the restaurant had accidentally given her an extra order of rice and she had not bothered to correct them.
He unclasped her hands mechanically and moved into the kitchen leaving her stuck in the doorframe. He tried not to note how different she had looked when they first met. Her hair had been longer then, more unruly. Now it was strangled inharmoniously into a strict bun. Her face had been warm with welcome and passion. Now it stood somber and embittered by the world. He remembered her most vividly lying in the raw sand of the beach, the granules curling freely into her hair, her skin sealing in the summer sun. It was a rough contrast to the pale way she now personified her cubicle. He could not seem to equate the two images in his mind. Instead they stood as stark contrasts, polar opposites. His girlfriend would never have cheated on him, his wife obviously would.
She had already set out two paper plates and he scooped noodles loosely onto one of them as horrid images of her wormed uncontrollably within his mind. He slid the plate in front of her chair with crassness. She seated herself rigidly, her mind gearing around the thought that her husband had been wordless for the past few moments. She watched as he stroked long noodles out of the flimsy carton and onto his own plate with deliberate focus. There was an informal shuffling of silverware as both began to eat, the silence devoured the room.
“Bumped into Allen at the post office today,” she finally broached between greasy noodles. There was a long pause and then he spoke.
“For how long?” he managed.
“Oh, we talked for a few minutes, mainly about Elise- poor thing the doctor just told them the tumor is malignant.”
That hadn’t been what he meant. He had wanted to know for how long this had been going on- he had not even really processed her inconsequential meanderings about the post office. Now though, it was too painful to reiterate his original thought. He could feel the world burgeoning upon him; snippets of grimness attaching like barnacles to the underside of his feet, the lining of his esophagus, the tips of his fingers. The news of Elise’s tumor added yet more weight to the impossibility of the day. He tried to say something compassionate regarding Elise, but his murmerings came out as insincere and hollow.
They finished dinner, throwing the paper plates away before he mentioned it again. They were standing some yards apart- his back to her as he turned to exit the room. He paused, the thoughts of the day igniting within his mind.
“For how long?” he managed, afraid to turn around. Finally, when she did not answer he turned slowly, facing her with a pained look.
She looked at him questioningly and the silence circled ravenously over them, a scavenger looking on as their marriage seemed to be nothing but skeleton before them, a facade. Her eyes finally widened with recognition. The kitchen seemed too small, and she looked nervous standing before him.
“What do you mean?” she asked but he could tell she knew the answer.
“I called your phone today, Allison. A man answered. A man answered your phone today, Allison, when you were supposed to be at work.” His words were tight and dense, he wondered when words had gained weight- become tangible and immobile walls between people. The room was filled with expectations. Her, expecting an explosion of anger, a registration of deep and profound emotion. Him, expecting a sudden breakdown, tears and excuses, pleadings for forgiveness. Nothing followed for some time, and then finally she sighed, sinking hard into her chair at the dinner table.
“Three months,” she announced to the table before her. The silence fell sharply in shards on the kitchen floor. Three months. He wished she would stop biting at her nails. He used to find her little habits endearing, but now he found them to be revolting.
“Three months.” He repeated. He wished she would stop biting at her nails. There was nothing endearing about this Allison.
“What’s his name?” The need to know was suddenly insatiable. The urge to yank her finger from her mouth was almost uncontrollable at this point.
“Frank.” The word carried immense weight as it dropped heavily from her mouth. He thought of all the Franks he had known throughout his life, thought of their hands on his wife, and somehow, quite strangely, thought of the way her hair had lain in the sand like seaweed that day at the beach. What had happened? How had they arrived here?
His ring was off, he left it resolutely on the table and she finally stopped picking at her nails long enough to look up at him. Grief lined her face, regret etched in every wrinkle. He wondered whether she regretted more the action, or the consequence.
“Eric, can’t we talk?”
He didn’t bother to answer.
“Please?” He climbed the stairs.
“Please?” He clung harder to the railing.
“Let me explain.” He reached the landing and kept walking.
Downstairs Allison let remorse trail down her face in the form of blotchy tears. She did not dare touch the ring- did not dare move. Instead, she dissolved softly as the world hardened around her.
He slid into bed and closed his eyes to fabrications of Frank and nightmarish visions of Allison. He saw all the things he had missed. He thought of the time she had spent late at work, the faint smell of cologne that clung to her hair, the thousands of excuses. And he thought of the spaces on Allison that were his, the place where her neck slid into her back, her long fingers, her enticing smile. How had those pieces of her been stolen from him? Why hadn’t he noticed?
She sat there for an eternity, starring with a feeling of loss at the ring before her. The ring was simple, like Eric. She had loved that about him, how easy life was for him. Eric found love and professed it- with no hesitation, robust and efficient words. He was calm and stable. On their first date she had been wracked with nerves, picking fastidiously at her nails. He had taken her hand in his with little afterthought, cradling her emotions. It had been so perfect, laying on the beach- the sound of the waves comforting in the background. For the first time her bun seemed as if it was clenched too tightly. She undid it slowly, letting the waves of hair relax slowly and adjust to the unbridled position. When she finally did move it was a heavy motion that took her methodically into the living room. Allison slept on the couch, covered in a flannel blanket and wrapped in her lies. She thought of all the little moments she had erred.
Her mind vacillated from that first date to her long nights at the office. And her mind trailed over Eric’s rational and reliable composure- how he waited patiently for her return each night. Lastly she thought of Frank. She thought of how impatient he was, how passionate and intense. He spent no time waiting for Allison, but demanded her. His words were not simple, they rambled on wrapping her in webs of elegance. How was she in love with Eric and intrigued by Frank? Why were neither enough to fill her?
Upstairs her husband did not sleep. In his bed his mind traveled over lifetimes. He considered thoroughly the lifetime he had spent with Allison, his girlfriend, and analyzed the lifetime he had spent with Allison, his wife. Finally, he let his mind traipse over the lifetime he expected in his future. Allison had always been entwined throughout his future, through parenting, grandparenting, and aging. This new future was different; she was not there. She was not there. Three months had ruined three lifetimes. He buried his face in his pillow and wished he had never called.
The morning came softly as both husband and wife resisted the world, clambering further under their blankets and quilts. As noon approached he finally swung his legs onto the floor and barreled slowly down the stairs. He did not look into the living room, though he could not help but wonder whether the blanket was tucked around her toes. He pawed through the cupboards habitually convinced that the intense pain in his stomach could be resolved with cereal or toast. The harder he searched for some sort of satisfaction with a breakfast the more it bothered him that she was still soundly sleeping. He slammed the cupboards loudly out of annoyance, how could she sleep unscathed? How could she sleep when there was nothing to wake up to?
He climbed back up the stairs, disturbed and lumbered back into bed slowly. There was really nowhere to hide but he had to try.
She heard the cupboards and tried not to stir, tried hard not to move, not to comfort her husband. Instead she harbored deeper still inside the blanket trying furiously to lose the world. How could he eat, how was he hungry at all? She supposed she had no right to judge him and swallowed the thought. As he climbed the staircase she closed her eyes and wished to hell she had never left his side. She pulled the covers tighter and hibernated further into the dark folds. There was really nowhere to hide, but she had to try.
Nothing was done that day, the world stopped for Eric and Allison. The mail was left resolutely in the mailbox, the paper was not retrieved from the front lawn, the grocery list went unnoticed on the fridge, the phone unanswered as it beckoned harshly. Instead, the two ignored the day and all its’ obligations. They lived exuberantly in their imaginations.
Eric spent the day underneath a quilt constructing a new future. He constructed a life in which he had never called at all. Instead, he had got up one morning and did not make Allison her breakfast. On this, the day of his dreams, he got into his car and drove the hour and a half to the beach. He lay beneath the sun until dusk. And then, he slid into the driver’s seat, crisp with warmth and continued down the stretch of highway leaving Allison and all memory of her behind. Leaving behind the Allison who wrote every date on the calendar, who scheduled herself too tightly, and whose eyes drooped from exhaust and burden. This new Eric left behind obligations without a single thought, and he never glanced in the rearview mirror.
Allison used her day to deconstruct her past. She thought of the first time Eric had told her he loved her, how his eyes sparkled with such desire and excitement. She remembered when he proposed, how easily the ring slid on her finger, how easily a ‘yes’ had slid from her mouth. She recalled her mouth splitting into an eager smile at the altar; the completeness of their promise delighted her. Her mind wavered over memories of vacations together, simple laughs they had shared, mornings where she had awoke in his arms. And then she was sickened with the memory of Frank from the business dinner. Frank who understood her need to schedule and appreciated the satisfaction achieved from a rigorous day of work. She could feel the guilt eating away at her, biting without relent at the lining of her stomach, her lungs, and her heart.
As the sun fell beneath the horizon, Allison struggled slowly from beneath her blanket. She tiptoed quietly into the kitchen, afraid of making noise, afraid of waking her husband. Her hunger had gotten the best of her and she tried to be as silent as possible as she boiled water and made pasta.
As the sun crossed the line of the windowsill, Eric planted his feet on the floor and vowed to take back his home. He opened the bedroom door broadly and reached the landing with little hesitance. Each stair seemed to take longer to leave but he finally reached the first floor and made his way resolutely to the kitchen. He would not avoid the kitchen because of her; never again would he sacrifice his own needs to accommodate for her.
She froze when he entered the kitchen, her veins hardened with fear, her skin saturated with guilt. Though he had prepared himself for the journey to the kitchen, he had not expected to find her standing before the stove. He noticed her hair first, stretching wildly toward the floor, long and untamed. He could not help but recall the first time he had picked her up for their first date. The afternoon was sticky with unconquerable heat and he had apologized profusely about the broken air conditioner. Allison had shrugged it off and rolled down the window laughing unabashedly as the wind took control of her hair.
She was still immobile when he cleared his throat and turned back around to leave. Though he had convinced himself he could confront her, he was wrong. He wondered if Frank was a confrontational person. She spoke rather unexpectedly.
“Eric,” at the sound of his name they both faltered. He had not yet made it to the staircase and he was aware of her eyes on her back. As he turned on his heel to face her he was sure to catch those eyes in his. He wanted her desperately to see his pain.