In last night’s Creative Writing: Fiction class, the professor attempted to make a point of story coming out of everyday routines and how little things can be expanded upon with a touch of imagination. He pointed out that it’s often what seems mundane to us that may appear quirky to others. Focusing on marital relationships in particular, he asked students to reveal some of the patterns that have established themselves but perhaps have changed intent over the years. Little things that start out of love and caring, sweet things like bringing coffee to a spouse still caught up in the morning’s claim on dreams must, out of necessity become habit.
Soon, you’re banging dishes and clanking spoons to wake your better half, who has not once in all these years noticed that this is like a pain in the ass to do, you know, the rushing around and tiptoeing in with a steaming cup of coffee just the way she likes it, every single day. And sometimes, when last night’s rejection, when she shivered off your hands on breasts that should, you think, be grateful for the touch; when muttered words you caught like “freakin’ lazy bastard” that she denied ever saying; well, things like that make you want to sidle right up to her side of the bed and Oops! Sorry, Dear! spill that goddamn coffee right on her sleeping ass. Then she’d appreciate it for sure, or maybe you just wouldn’t have to do it anymore. That’s all you really want; to not have to do it anymore.
I sat there listening as other students let the class in on their private world of loving promises turned moldering blue. My own morning rituals bubble up like bile to sear my throat with sourness. Acid reflux, bull. But the pills do help and though I wanted so badly to speak up–I raised my hand and now thank the Lord the professor didn’t catch it at the time–I know I can’t. Can’t because if ever it comes to that, someone will remember and someone will dig it up and whisper to another someone else who maybe sat inside the class last night, Hey, remember what she said about her husband and the eggs? She looked kind of weirded out and I don’t know, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she…
So I kept my mouth shut. Listened to everyone else air their petit resentments. Giggled along with the class because these things were cute. Compared to what I’ve lived with every day and night for thirty years, these things are cute. Trying to fall asleep to the sound of your lifelight crunching crackers in your bed? Heck, get on your knees and light a candle to all the hoary horny gods for this precious partner. Shower her with cheese nib crumbs.
But someday I’ll come in this classroom, take a seat and smile and raise my hand and without a qualm, without any fear of retribution, I’ll tell them all about the wonders of waking when you want to, eating chocolates for breakfast and ice cream sandwiches for lunch; of going to bed whenever you are sleepy and staying on the goddamned couch if that’s where you fell asleep. And that, not while watching Monday Night Football, but Sleepless in Seattle one more time.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology