The Beginning of the End

Grabbing my car keys and two sacks of groceries, I slipped from the car and onto my sore feet, which screamed to be loosed from the high heels. I turned to get my purse, and bumped my head on the car roof, muttering about luck, I reached out to my full length to grab my purse from the passenger seat. Any person in their right mind would probably think to go around the car, but my mind wasn’t really on that. As I reached I heard a slight sound, that could be mistaken for a million things, but combined with the minute pressure change on my calf, I knew. I grumbled at the lack of understanding from men, and pulled out of the car, forgetting the blasted purse, to see the damage. A run from my ankle to the middle of my thigh. What a day. Oh well, it could get better in the next few seconds.

Leaving the purse where it sat, I kicked the door of the car shut, and wobbled towards the tiny house with my two sacks, slipping the keys into my coat pocket. I rolled my eyes when I reached the little yellow door, realizing I had to unlock the always lock door. I set down the sacks to dig out the keys again. I groped through three Kleenexes, one credit card, a receipt for the groceries, and some pocket change, finally grasping the jingling little ring of keys. I jammed the wrong key into the door, and then switched it with the right one, while picking up the groceries.

"Honey?" A faint sound came from the upstairs. I dropped the grocery, mentally wincing at the thought of the can of peas crushing the plums, and kick off the shoes. I threw my little dress jacket over the coat rack, and turned to trot up the stairs just in time to see John come out of the bedroom. He smiled a big smile, but I barely saw it. All that filled my vision was his flannel pants, and white tee shirt.

"You’re finally home." He trumped down the stairs two at a time, and picked me up at the waist. I placed my hands on his broad shoulders woodenly, and forced him to let go, unable to speak. I turned from his hurt and confused face to go to the living room.

"Mona?" His voice sounded as confused as his face looked. I kept walking, and sat on the edge of the couch, burying my face in my hands. John followed with concern etched on his face. He knelt before my crumpled form, and placed his hand on my shoulder. "Mona, honey, are you sick?" He inspected my head as if to find the answer there.

"You forgot, didn’t you?" Accusation tore into him.

"Forgot what Mona, are you okay? Are you sick?" He let go of my shoulder, sensing that he was the problem, and not my body.

"Forgot the appointment." I looked up, hoping to hear it wasn’t so, hoping he would say that he got back early, that he at least went.

His eyes grew, and he glanced toward the kitchen calendar. "Was that today, oh Mona, I did forget, I’m so sorry, I know you hoped I would go. I’m so sorry. I really am." He rocked back on his heels and ran a hand through the dark mass of hair.

I dropped my head back into my hands. "What is wrong with you John?" I couldn’t keep the anger out of my voice. "Is this just a joke to you? I can’t do this alone you know. You haven’t worked in four months. We can’t live off my job, you know that!"

He dropped back to his knees, and looked steadily at my face. I used to admire that. I always thought he was owning up to things. I think maybe it was his way of hiding, though.

Before the flood of aggravated tears found their way down my face, I stood and walked back down the hall to the entryway. I picked up the groceries, and kicked the pointed shoes against the wall, so as not to step on them later. I went through the living room, under the hard stare of John, and to the kitchen. I began the process of dinner by washing my hands in the sink, refusing to face John as my face turned red from the anger that was pouring forth from my heart.

John stood silently, and walked behind me. I could hear him there, probably studying my back, trying to decide how best to deal with me. I heard him move, and felt his hands slip around my waist. I exploded.

"Is that how you intend to handle this?" I spun, and threw his arms off of me, disgusted that he thought he could just buy me off. "I’m not a little girl, who craves for your touch anymore, John. I am what’s keeping you alive. I am your income. I at least deserve some respect, don’t you think?" I immediately colored at my words, but still looked at him. He visibly cringed at my words, and seemed to crumple a little. It felt good to see him hurt. That was all I had felt for the last four months. We had been tight budgeted before he lost his job, then his laziness had cost us even more pains. Now I had to scrape to buy a new pair of panty hose, just to look presentable. "John, look at yourself, look at me. Is this what you want?" He dropped his gaze to the floor.

"Mona, I only want you." His voice was that of the little boy I married two years before.

"John! That’s what I’m saying; that doesn’t cover it anymore. That was okay when I was sixteen, but it isn’t paying the bills. That won’t pay off the car in the shop, and it won’t put any food on the table we don’t have!" I stopped and stared at him, angry, and hurt at his thoughtlessness. I turned back to the sink. In a light and sarcastic tone I threw out, "Maybe since all you want is me, it is enough. I guess I am paying bills, and putting food on the table we can’t afford." I stopped, too pained to speak. "John…" my voice broke. "…we don’t even have a table." For some reason that suddenly symbolized the life I was living. No kitchen table. A small little thing, but the thing that had always symbolized love, family, time . . . life. We didn’t even own a kitchen table.

I heard soft sounds behind me, and I turned as a tear spilled over my tired eye lid. John stood, hunched, pained, and crying in the middle of our cramped, little kitchen. His shoulders were bent, and his head drooping. His hands hung at his sides, and tears glistened on his smooth 22 year old skin. He looked broken, and all joy in his pain fled. I moved toward him, and he put out a hand to stop me. I looked up, and the anguish in his eyes bit at my heart. I wanted to hold him to me, and forget that day. I wanted to forget the words I had just thrown at him, and I wanted to start back at our wedding day, but wasn’t going to happen. I reached out to him again, and the severity of his deadly gaze stopped me, as much as his out stretched hand did.

"Mona, I have to say something." His voice was raw, what ever was going to cross his lips was being pulled from his core. "Mona, I don’t…" his voice cracked, and he gulped air, "I don’t deserve you. It doesn’t matter that I love you anymore, that used to be enough, but it isn’t anymore. I am not good enough. Please, don’t…" his arm of hindrance dropped, his gaze with it. He turned, and placed a hand on the counter top, then, using the counter for support, turned towards the living room. He began to lurch forward.

"John, wait, I didn’t mean…" He stopped all movement, but I couldn’t lie to him. I did mean ever word I had said. I wanted to stay him, to tell him I still loved him, but I couldn’t lie to him. That was something he didn’t deserve. "John, it was good while it lasted." I whispered it for all I was worth, and my body began to tremble with the permission I had just given him.

With his back still to me he whispered back, "Yes, Mona, it was beautiful. He stood, and walked, a bit slowly, from our kitchen, into our living room, and out of our living room. I could hear his sock feet striking our hall floor, and his strong arm opening our door. I heard him pause, and then I heard him shut our door, and leave our life.