beginnings, again

I was reading through some posts from last February, trying to find out when we got our fence. We had an ice storm last week, and a pine tree fell in our backyard, significantly bending one section. I had to call the fence guy, and I wanted to make sure I could remember when exactly the fence was put in.

Anyway, I ran across this post that I wrote about first meeting my husband and thought I'd repost it. So here it is...

beginnings


"Where's your costume?" I ask as I open the front door, anticipating a typical answer.

"This is my costume."

Yep, typical.

"All black does not a costume make, especially not when you wear it every day of your life," I reply, now back in the bathroom, stroking silver eyeshadow above and below my eyes, trying not to let him see my disappointment. Although it wouldn't be the first time he saw it, especially not lately.

"Whatever. I have a cape and hood."

Great, it's like dating Batman. 

I slide the door to the bathroom closed and adjust my fishnets. That straight line up the back of my leg doesn't want to stay straight. Joe and Amy should be here any minute, with Michael, the oldest son of my favorite professor, my academic advisor, Dr. Mendell. Being in Dr. Mendell's class is like being in heaven-- all I have to do is sit and absorb the information, observe the slides of historical places and beautiful works of art as they grace the screen, and let him render unto me the knowledge he has spent his entire life collecting. 

Michael is good-looking, like a young Dr. Mendell would have been, before gray hair crept in and the glasses that rest on the tip of his nose were needed. I've seen his picture in his dad's office, though it was from about 9th grade.

"Hey, when the hell are they getting here?" he yells from the kitchen, his mouth half full of food which I'm sure he's spitting out onto my floor and will never clean.

"Should be any minute. You know, we're eating out before we go to the party."

If you paid attention when I spoke, you'd know that, I think, and then I stop myself, resting my hands on the edge of the counter and staring down into the now-glittered sink. Lately all I've been feeling is annoyance and disdain when he's around. After four and a half years I'd hoped we'd still be in love, but that word hasn't been appropriate in, oh, at least nine months. I just can't shake him. 

Looking at myself in the toothpaste-stained mirror, refusing to go out just yet even though my make-up is sufficiently shiny and my hair is stiffly spiked, I don't see myself. It's not the costume, either. I feel lost, like my body left me somewhere back down the road, like a hermit crab shed its shell, only the shell kept moving too, and he's been filling it, me, up with hate, self-pity, and sadness. 

He used to be fun. He used to make me laugh, hard. I don't know what happened, I just know something did. I look down in the drawer at my old locket and wonder when was the last time I wore it. It doesn't match anything I wear anymore. I'm done trying to fix him or make him happy. Obviously, I can't. 

"Hey, get the door!" he yells.

You get it. I slam the drawer. When I finally hear voices in the living room, I open the bathroom door and step out.

"Oh, dear, you look fabulous!" Amy coos, and she pounds over to me in her five inch platform boots to poke at my hair. "How is it staying like that? Oh, here, this is Michael," and she steps aside.

A knot forms in my stomach and rises up through my diaphragm and into my lungs, forcing me to exhale and step backwards, a little off balance. I feel my face flush. It's been so long.

"Hi," is all I can manage.

"Hi."