Wednesday June 29 2011

Getting out of bed at 1:28 p.m.

Breakfast: Cream of Wheat Cereal. Orange Mango Juice. Zinc.

Anthony is being a pest—sneaking into my room and stashing my cell phone somewhere—placing the weight scale on my chair.

As him and Kelley shower I pile up everything I can against the bathroom creating an obstacle when they open the door.

Lunch: Egg Salad Sandwich with Tomato. Kettle Cooked Potato Chips with Avocado.

I get the sudden urge to organize and decorate the house—all the while Lauren, our nanny, is doing her thing, vacuuming, cleaning, and picking up. Kevin’s here cooking his daily eggs and bacon—Maury on the television—You are not the father! You are the father!

It’s the queen’s birthday. Doing it up at Otani’s for the Hibachi grill. All of her friends from work are here celebrating. The chef lights up a volcano onion—chopping up shrimp and tossing it into our mouths. Sake bombs and warm Sake shots. Kiri Ichiban. Hibachi Chicken with Fried Rice and Mixed Vegetables. An Asian lady marches over with a gong and accidently identifies the birthday girl as Martha.

Moving the festivities to Harpoon Larry’s. Darren and Kevin show up and have a few drinks. Then across the street to CP Shuckers. Sitting on the bench outside with the guys—watching a serious game of Cornhole.

Moving along to that stretch of Atlantic Avenue referred to as The Block, where 20-somethings can have their fun at hopping from bar to bar. We follow the girls inside of Chemistry. Dancy pop music booming through the PA—watching amateur break-dancers on the slippery dance floor. At some point after the girls decide to switch bars to The Boxx, Darren and Kevin leave. I’m all alone in the hot sweaty crowd while Margot parades with her lady gang at the bar. I take off to wait it out until she’s done. As I’m walking down the strip I spot a familiar face, the face of a coward, that asshole who took advantage of my queen back in December. Part of me wanted to go right up to him and wallop him upside the face and maybe say a few nasty things. But instead, I just keep on. That’s over with.

Already feeling out of place and little weird to begin with. Now I’m being reminded of dark history. I don’t feel good. I express this to Margot as we’re driving home. She keeps asking me if I’m mad or upset.

Me: “I’m not mad. I just feel weird. I don’t feel good.”

I tell her who I saw which wasn’t a good idea because when I go to open the passenger door she starts her “I want to go home” speech and claims I’ve ruined her birthday for bringing that up. Oh man, here we go. I’m not even sure I feel like describing what happened next[[[[[[[[[[Let’s just say it was the destructive abusive angry violent ferocious scene where the couple fights and things just get worse. Even Darren and Kevin have a hand at trying to lighten up the situation—playing their video games and being their cheerful selves.

In episodes like these she brings out the worst in me—I get angry because she won’t give me control—she won’t let me take care of her—one thing sets her off and the night is over.

“Why can’t you let people take care of you?! You think you’re so above everybody!”

I hide her keys to protect her from driving drunk and upset. She won’t give in. She refuses to stay here with me. She sounds like a broken record

“Give me my keys! I want to go home! I hate you!”

HATE HATE HATE HTAEATE HTEAHTEHA. My goodness.

“You are a wreck! Just lay down and breath, please.”

I’m tired of yelling and hearing her yell. Eventually I give up. She gets her keys back and marches off out the door.

She didn’t leave. I can see her car still parked in the guest spot. I’m on the ground Indian style in the parking lot leaning up against someone’s white mustang—clove in hand—phone ready to be answered because I know she’s going to call. And there it is—phone lighting up. I answer. I’m relaxed now—we’re talking like nothing happened. Inhale the Black. Exhale the white. She pretends that she’s on the road driving home or somewhere when all along her direction is aimed back to my house. I watch her pull up.

Me: “I see you.”

Her: “That’s not me.”

Me: “[snickering] You’re a liar.”

Still on the phone as she walks towards me on the sidewalk…

Me: “[:)] You came back.”

I know her too well. She can’t just leave me. Even now though, she finds a way to blame me for letting her. OMG. I tried to keep you here and you wouldn’t shut up about going home.

If something doesn’t change I foresee this progressing into a disaster for the both of us. Not that I didn’t see this before. I have a really hard time giving her up because I love…I love…I just love her. What can I do? What do I do? What do I have the strength to do? I’m not strong enough to let her go. Are we doing either one of us justice by staying with each other? I wish I didn’t love her so much. I wish she didn’t love me so much. There’s not much we can do about that. I think choosing to not love is harder than choosing to love.

She lies there almost naked underneath the sheets—a little bit of makeup smudge on her face. I stroke my hand over her head and kiss her brown shoulder….I didn’t even get the chance to give you your birthday present.

Sleep 5 a.m.