Love demands of the lovers to have faith, to trust.
And if you lose faith...
If trust is gone...
photo by ldyck
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
House Show Victoria
Saturday, August 15
7 pm
photo by ldyck
My Year in Fairland
Book Launch and Reading
Mayne Island Library
Saturday, August 22
3:30 PM
