History
Nefertiti supposedly said, “You can’t change the desert.” Janis Joplin said, “Cry, cry, Baby.” There are lots of inspirational quotes on the Internet. The one about the horse. That one is good.
My husband spent this rainy Sunday idle, on his phone, searching for cute video after cute video of our son, the bygone years, the baby fat, the blonde hair, the toddler lisp, saying to me over and over, “Come here, watch, it’s so cute.” Each time I reluctantly crawled out of the crevices of the house to watch with him. Doing laundry, weeding, checking the dogs for ticks, cleaning food out of the sink drain. My hands wet and smelling of rot. Hours of this. Morning, lunch, afternoon. I don’t know what he wants. The perfect video, the perfect quote our son once said, the perfect line or the perfect memory.
After years of couples counseling, we finally bought a new mattress. After the first night, he said he didn’t like it and went back onto the mattress in the guest room. And I felt relieved. This man whose hands and skin I know and love. The harsh saw blades of his fingers, the roughness of his skin. The smell of his neck, an anchor. I have wanted him when I had him and wanted him when I didn’t. We used to make love, and I could feel immediately in me the wanting for more. And he’d say, “Damn woman, I just gave you sweet love,” quoting from the TV show South Park.
February, I came home with groceries. He was off his meds but we needed groceries and he said he was fine. When I got home, he was at the top of our driveway with the puppy and the old girl, about to bring the garbage cans down. For a moment, I felt elated, because he hadn’t been out of bed and taken the dogs out in so many weeks. So I idled, and when the puppy saw me in the car, she pulled to get near, tugged the leash, which tugged his arm. And this hurt him, so he kicked her in the stomach and called her words. Words that are so historical, so ubiquitous, they do not need to be quoted. She yelped. A real cry. Then turned her snout to him as if she could replace the sensation of his foot in her stomach with her tongue on him, her nose on his denim, his knee. I sat in the car, my hands on the wheel, and all my electrons shifted their buzzing. A flash. Then I knew I never wanted his hands to touch me again.
* * * * *
Warranty
I am at the car park, pushing quarters into a machine
to suck clean the crumbs, the peanut shells–things my husband
leaves behind despite his promises. “I solemnly swear
not to eat in the car. Not to leave wrappers in the car.
We should take care of the car, honey,” he said, back
when the keys were bright and jangling.
How far can I push this car metaphor? Because,
for me lately, it’s all about the car. The car
as life, as death. And at Mr. Sudsies Car Wash,
the car as marriage. How I miss the back seat.
All mixtapes and shadows. Too much aftershave and latex.
I also miss the pragmatics of a front seat that is not so sticky!
Which is why I am here, adulting. Ketchup packets,
an open container of pretzels shaped like a monkey barrel.
What is the next page
after adulting.? Deathing. A day’s worth of warmth held
in rock. Clay mouths. I guess what I am saying is
I am so fucking tired of being an adult and not fucking.
The other day a friend asked, “What about an affair?
Some handsome soccer dad?” I laughed. A black-tie affair,
an affair of the body sans heart. Not a high-class affair!
But I promised myself when I was a wee Catholic school girl
I would never commit suicide. It was a sin. And that
is what adultery means to me. Love. Marriage.
Adultery. Suicide. What is
adulting if not sex? What is marriage if not a pact
to ferry each other’s bodies to the underworld, the afterlife?
When I think of adultery, I think about one of the best first dates
I ever had. Which was with my husband. He kissed me
and fingered me in many angular alleyways of New York City.
My back against bricks, night clubs vibrating. I wonder
if he remembers. This life is adulterated. Curtains
made of beads. A back room. That, too,
is what adulting means to me. Loneliness, mass-produced
plastic, and lies. Existence is incoherent at times. Lord, please.
I’ll never get the gum off this plastic. The stains.
Let’s see how far this quarter is going to get me.
I asked my husband to clean the car
for Mother’s Day. He laughed and said he should get me
something better. I asked for my birthday,
stating how I hate cleaning out his empty soda cans.
He didn’t say anything. Finally, Christmas,
I suggested a coupon. I would prefer a coupon for love,
a coupon for sex in front of a fireplace. But let’s get
serious. So I asked him for a coupon to clean
his toothpicks from the car, and all he said was, “No.”
Don’t you want me anymore? In couple’s therapy,
I told him to think long and hard.
Is the wanting really there? “Darling,” I said,
“this is our first and only brand-new car we have ever bought
in twenty years of marriage. Don’t you want to take care of it?”
He sighed and agreed to take it in for its scheduled
maintenance so we could keep up our warranty. Till death do
us part. Adult, adultery, it’s all about the warranty.