This did not endear Mike to his appearance as much as they probably thought it did.
He’s scratching his wrist, nervously nodding at everyone who passes him. It’s not helping that he’s getting knowing smiles, like they’re all in on the secret. Not for the first time, Mike thinks about the lack of privacy in Amorea. It’s never really bothered him before—he’s not even sure it bothers him now—but it’s more noticeable today. Shop owners are standing in front of their businesses, waving at him and patting him on the back. Mrs. Kim (who eyes him like she thinks he’s about to inflict his Commie propaganda on her right in the middle of the street) hands him a violet, saying, “It means faithfulness and truth. Something that you will both need.” He takes it with a nod of thanks but doesn’t stop to chat.
He’s off Main Street, and the parade of people has lessened. He’s about to turn into Sean’s neighborhood. He’s reciting in his head: Knock on his door, he’ll open, say hello, you look nice today, this flower is for you, I’m so happy to see you, knock on his door, he’ll open, say hello—
One moment he’s ready, ready, ready and he’s going to do this, he’s going to be confident and Sean is going to smile and everything is—
You can’t see, can you.
He stops.
Takes a breath. It crawls in his mouth and down his throat.
His eyes widen.
None of you can. You’re glazed over.
He thinks, The birds. The birds, they circled overhead. Thousands of them.
Hollow on the inside. I see you in my garden, you know?
There was a horse, wasn’t there?
It crossed the road and he touched it.
You’re brittle and thin and won’t take much to break.
He’s standing on a street in Amorea on a beautiful Saturday afternoon and he’s—
HE’S TIRED of it.
They’ve been arguing for hours. Back and forth, back and forth.
This is it, he thinks. The dying gasp. He doesn’t know why neither one of them has pulled the plug on it. Called it. They were so much better before when they were just friends. He doesn’t know why they’ve let it twist into what it’s become. It’s not fair to either of them. Sure, they tried, they really did. And he likes to think he did the right thing, marrying her. It was one night. One drunken night when they were both feeling a little bit sorry for themselves. It was a mistake, yeah. It was all a mistake.
They woke up the next morning, phones going off, text messages from their friends: where r u guyz and holy shit Tara said you were kissing?!?!? and it was awkward, but they laughed about it and said it wouldn’t happen again. One-time thing. Sex wouldn’t ruin what they had before.
Two months later she said, “Hi, how are you? I’m pregnant,” and then she burst into tears while he sat there, skin buzzing and mind racing.
They tried. They really did. He’d been raised right. His momma said that a man’s job was to do right by a woman, and even if he wasn’t always with women, the sentiment was the same. (The fact that his mother said this to him while sporting a black eye that his old man had bestowed upon her should have meant more to him, but he was eleven at the time and didn’t understand the meaning of irony.)
So he did right by her as best he could. He took care of her, of them, just like he said he would, and yeah, sometimes they kissed, and sometimes they still had sex, and maybe one time he said, “We should probably get married,” and maybe she’d replied, “Yeah, that sounds okay to me,” even though he thought it was probably the worst idea in the world. They were both angry people, and they could lash out at each other viciously, most of the time with words, but sometimes with more. She’d scratch him, bang her fists against his chest, and he’d take it, he would, even if he felt like reaching out and slapping her silly, but he would never be his father. He would never do that, even if she left marks on his arms.
They tried, though. They got married, just went down to the justice of the peace, signed some papers, wham bam thank you, ma’am, and it was done. It felt like the right thing to do. Maybe it wasn’t what they wanted, but the right thing isn’t always about want.
Their friends thought they were making a mistake, but by then, they weren’t really their friends anymore because he’d pushed them away, even though she begged him not to. She still went out with them, she still saw the old group, and sometimes she’d come back smelling of booze and cigarettes and he’d yell, “Are you stupid? Are you out of your goddamn mind? You’re fucking pregnant, how could you be so careless?”
And she’d cry and say she was sorry, she was so sorry, she never wanted this, she never wanted any of this. And he was twenty-eight years old. He was in the prime of his life, and it didn’t help that he thought, This is your fault, this is all your fault, every time he looked at her. It wasn’t fair, he knew, because it took two to tango, but he couldn’t stop it. He loved her, he did, but he wasn’t in love with her, and maybe he even resented her sometimes.
He was twenty-nine when the kid was born, and the kid turned out to be a daughter, a wrinkled little thing with pale skin and a shock of red hair on her head. He was blown away by her, by the fact that she was real, but she was sick, they said. The doctors said she was sick, her fucking heart had been growing on the outside of her chest. They knew this. They’d been expecting this. There was hope. There was always hope.
She lasted two years, most of which was spent in and out of different hospitals.
When she died, when their daughter died, everything else died too, and they fought like animals, teeth and claws and they gouged each other with vicious barbs. She said things like Maybe if you were more of a man, maybe if you’d done more, she’d still be here, and he’d say I wish I’d never even met you, I wish I’d never even heard your name, you are the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, and on and on it went.
He knows they need to end this, this thing that they’ve become, because he’s sure he’s going to cheat on her, and he’s sure she’s already fucking around on him, not that they’ve even slept in the s
ame bed in close to a year. This last fight is it, really. They are getting to the point where the words will never be taken back, and they will break each other.