reprint: lives of the saints

i’ve decided that now and again i’d like to “reprint” old posts, things so buried in the archives they’ll likely never see the light of day again unless dragged out. perfect for a wednesday in my frazzled estimation! this particular reprint is actually 3 posts from back when the nonist was a dizygotic zygote, separated into two fraternal blogs, zeitgeist and philology. lives of the saints was an ongoing micro fiction project focussing on the sometimes trying intimate moments between couples. i’d like to continue with the project but want to drag the beginnings back into the light first. commencing reprints:

lives of the saints (1)

“who loves you?”
it’s a rhetorical question, sounding like baby talk no matter how flat and even a voice it was spoken in. they went through this routine with the timing and practiced nuance of an abbot and costello.
“my mom.” he answers.
“no not your mom.”
“but my mom does too love me.”
as repetitive as this dialogue had become after 10 years, hearing the words “does too” spoken by a man of 40 still seemed to amuse them both. it was warm and uncomplicated. qualities the outside world could be very stingy with.
“but who else loves you?” she asks in a sing song.
why she always initiated this exchange after she had removed her bra, but before her panties, he never knew. maybe to distract him with those perfect brown nipples, to put a carrot at the end of the stick?
“god”
“yes god loves you, but that’s not who i’m thinking of. who else?”
it was at this point that he would inject a variable, a constantly changing response to keep the mating ritual fresh. he imagined the quality of his answer would influence the quality of the lovemaking to come. a particularly clever reply might result in something special, something out of the ordinary.
“um…”
once he’d answered “my mother-in-law” and had gotten a decidedly disinterested hand-job as reward, so now he thinks it over striking upon an answer that surprises even him for it’s simplicity. “why has it taken ten years for this answer?” he thinks to himself. she peels his socks off and holds them aloft by two fingers like a dirty pamper. she is beautiful, his wife of 7 years. she pokes at his blue/white thigh.
“c’mon, who loves you?”
he waits; watches her thin hands as they unclasp his belt buckle. he grins and she knows he has a good one, she knows tonight’s is a command performance. she’s laughing almost before he answers.
“telly savallas.”

lives of the saints (2)

“doves don’t chirp, so i cant very well be yours or any one else’s chirping dove. now get off me!”
she was like this sometimes, would initiate erectus and then unceremoniously interrupt coitus. it was within her rights she told herself, no matter when or why. a woman’s body is her own. he’d just have to deal with it.
“i don’t care if your hard as the fucking blarney stone, we’re done.”
she had reasons, or so she told herself. she considered it a mental condition which the pharmaceutical industry had, uncharacteristically, not managed to medicate yet. she called it “severe context anxiety.” she reminded herself to write a letter to pfizer.
“but honey, c’mon! i mean…”
“forget it. playtime is over. get dressed.” she tossed rumpled boxers in his general direction, not looking to see where they landed.
“what the fuck? what did i say?”
he had taken it in stride thus far. but he was beginning to get fed up. that was clear enough. he never swore. she never bothered to explain because she knew it sounded ridiculous. she just couldn’t help it. it was context anxiety and it was defiantly severe. she couldn’t even look at him.
“honey, please…”
he approached her, his pants not yet zipped, she could see the softening lump under his boxers. she felt guilty. how many times had she done this to him in the past year? the words still flashed in her mind, chirping dove, chirping dove. christ.
“what is the problem? you have to talk to me.”
the problem was simple, she was ultra sensitive during intimacy to anything cliche. music was never allowed because it almost always illicited one of these fits. an ounce of prevention. but there was nothing she could do to prevent dialogue that sounded like it was ripped off from some shitty b-movie script. chirping dove was beyond bad movie, more like bad theater in the round. it was too much.
“i feel sick, o.k.? i have diarrhea. my head hurts. whatever. you should go.”
“no, i’m gonna stay. i don’t want to take the train all the way back. it’s like a blizzard outside…”
but she knew coitus-interuptus had to be followed this time by a swift homo-ejectus.
“...do you mind?”
she liked him a lot, didn’t love him exactly, but he was a good guy.
“honey?”
he loved her, she knew that. he put up with her shit. when he kept his mouth shut he was a great lay. if she sent him out into the snow he might never come back, she knew that too. the lump in his boxers was long gone, his hair was messed up. he stood there, finally silent. she wondered if the trains even ran this late on the weekends.
“yeah, i mind.”

 

lives of the saints (3)

“i’m sorry.”
it may as well be his mantra he repeats it with such frequency. she hates it. it totally befuddles her.
“why? you have nothing to be sorry about.”
where as other people habitually light a cigarette, or collapse into sleep after sex, he goes on a apologizing jag, then gets sullen and quiet like he’s twelve and just got caught playing with himself in the bathtub. she can’t begin to understand. result of some earlier trial and evident error? she pets him, kisses his shoulder.
“don’t apologize ok? you don’t need to.”
he usually molds his self-hatred into a more palatable self depreciating humor, gruff and curmudgeonly but ok for public consumption. after sex it’s another story all together. he is totally bare. he’s like a skeleton in a cold wind. he stares at the floor or off into space, not a shred of funny on him.
“yeah.” he snorts and closes his eyes.
it’s hard for her. she can’t seem to help him and can’t get him to stop. his apparent joylessness scares her and pisses her off alternately. “does he even like me?” or “what the fuck is his problem?” neither one a nice post-coital sentiment to come away with. as the months in his bed have rolled by she’s started to visualize them in her mind as sheets peeling away from a desk calendar.
“you want some strawberries? i want some.” she attempts, sweetly upbeat. but no answer.
she’s responded in different ways, testing the waters to ascertain how best to pull him from the undertow. initially, in their first month, she would try to address it head on, pushing a bit to better understand his reasons. she’d say something forthright but good natured. “it’s all mind games babe, you’re doing this to yourself, i had a great time.” he’d only become indignant, shifting the direction of his anger with surprising ease, sneering, “thanks for that assessment dr. freud.” later she tried preemption, telling him it was “great” and “amazing” before he had a chance to slip into his funk. she’d be rewarded with a tirade about not patronizing him. there was no winning and no helping. she got up, the strawberries wouldn’t wash themselves.
“so do you want some, or not?”
“whatever.”
she stops and just she stands over him, looks at him. looks at his greasy hair, his slumped shoulders. she wants to smack him, scratch his face. “asshole!” she thinks. “what a fucking jerk. what am i doing here?” he looks sour faced, crumpled, pathetic. he is either unaware or just uninterested in the poison he spreads.
“whatever?”
she realizes suddenly that this is him. this spiteful, childish, behind-closed-doors personality is the real one. this is the person she has been fucking these last months. this is the person she’s cooked meals for, whose
toothbrush is next to hers, who she shares a towels with. the funny, confident guy she met at the japanese bookstore is not hers, he exists only for strangers and acquaintances. it is this surly lump who is her boyfriend. the lump looks up at her. he is red faced, sad.
“listen, you have to stop doing this. you have to stop apologizing every time. it’s ridiculous. do you understand? it’s beyond baggage. it’s beyond performance anxiety. ok? you HAVE to stop acting like this or we’re going to stop fucking. and then what? it’s no fun.”
he does not look away. does not answer. just keeps looking at her.
“you have to just relax. i want to have fun. i want us to have fun… like normal people.”
he’s silent but it’s plain she’s gotten through. his eyes soften. he looks away. she feels better, having said it, getting it off her chest without having to resort to threats. without having to pack any bags.
“honey?” she wants a response. needs one.
he grabs her around the calves, looking sheepish. embarrassed at the truth of it no doubt. the room’s small. their shared collection of books rising above the low shelves and stacked high in corners. her cosmetics are piled on the windowsill. his stinky gym clothes are scattered by her feet.
“your right. of course your right. i’m sorry.”

hope you enjoyed. more to come…