Love demands of the lovers to have faith, to trust.
And if you lose faith...
If trust is gone...
Loving Lisa
It's hard to breathe, think, move. It feels like one of my vital organs is missing—a liver, a kidney, a lung, my heart.
I know it would help if I could cry, but I'm beyond tears. I'm numb—my brain's valiant effort to protect me from the truth.
But what is the truth?
I roll the gold band around and around on my ring finger. I walk over to the fireplace and take our wedding photo off the mantel.
Who is this young couple? They look so happy, so much in love—joined together by a promise. Has he broken that promise?
I replace the photo and find myself in the kitchen. Coffee mug in hand, I sit at the table and peer out the window to where his car should be.
I don't want to think I feel abandoned. I feel the distance between us.
But we've always been of different worlds. Me...? I'm constantly in my head—analyzing, dissecting, categorizing, creating. I sit at my easel for hours. Paint splashes across the white canvas. He's always in motion—pumping weights, jogging, swimming, kayaking. He's a ray of light bouncing around the earth.
I'd like to drink away my worry with a glass of wine. I settle for coffee—it's hot against my tongue.
How he hates my dark moods.
"You should talk with someone," he often tells me, pushing me to treatment. I know what he thinks: fix yourself; you're broken. I'm not allowed to be negative, ever. He expects me to be perpetually happy. Well, that's not normal. It's fake. He takes my sadness as a personal insult.
He proudly hangs my paintings of sunshine and sweet things, but my darker, moodier creations are relegated to my studio.
"Why did you paint that?" He asks, judging, trying to censor me.
"You have no right," I tell him, and we fight.
Did I drive him away?
It may sound odd, but I'd like to think that I was at least partially responsible. It gives me a sense of control. I'd rather believe that than...
Is someone else involved?
He's a good-looking man. I see how other women leer at him. They lick their lips like he's chocolate. Lately, I've noticed one of his students—a sweet, young thing. What's her name? Oh, yes, Lisa. I see how Lisa swallows him up with her eyes, then quickly looks away.
Where is he right now? Are they twisted together in silk sheets? Is he loving Lisa? What's the truth?
On and Off Mayne Island
My Year in Fairland
Book Launch and Reading
Mayne Island Library
Saturday, August 22
3:30 PM
