When Snooping Gets Out Of Control

Or he could just stop walking and talking, pin me up against the side of a building or tuck me into a doorway, hold me by both of my cheeks and pull me forward so my face would dampen from his breath. He could pant and shake and shiver, and I could watch fearfully as a vein would fill with blood in the middle of his forehead. He wouldn't have to say much, just that he's crazy about me and that he's sorry. Then he could kiss me, and it wouldn't matter where we ate dinner, because my appetite would suddenly return and I'd be able to eat anything.

But at the neither cheap nor delicious Italian restaurant, I don't eat a thing. I sit across from him, watching him eat everything. I drink several glasses of wine. I talk about trust and feelings, and he pushes pieces of focaccia in front of me. I go to the bathroom. I play around with my hair and wash my hands with soap. On the way back to the table, I notice I'm not walking in such a straight line.

"Where'd you get that ugly Mexican blanket?" I ask him clumsily.

"In Texas. Why do you ask?" He's honestly curious now.

"Who were you with?" I ask. The pain behind my voice is enormous. He smiles and kind of laughs, but he doesn't answer. We get up to leave the restaurant. He puts his arm around me.

Outside, he kisses me—not like with the drama and the sweat and the vein, but just like always. He kisses me, and I kiss him back. He rubs his hands down the front of me, and I open my eyes to see what his eyes are doing. My grandmother once told me never to trust a man who kisses with his eyes open. His are closed.

"I got that blanket with Tom, on our road trip after college," he says as we walk back to my apartment. That gives me a little something—a lifesaver—to float on for a while. At home, I light candles. Little by little, I start to feel beautiful again. I lie on the bed, waiting for him to come and kiss me everywhere. I wait for him to worship me like a precious piece of lace, fingering all the details of the one and only design of my body.

But there may as well be a director and his crew standing in the corner: This is what we're supposed to do, this is how you make up. Turns out, I'm the only capable actor—he's trying, but he can't stay in character. He lifts his arm around me and slides into sleep, leaving me to wonder what more I could have done.

In the morning, he leaves.  Last night doesn't mean anything, I tell myself. One too many, is all. But if he calls before 11, he really loves me.

If he calls before 11, if he calls before 11. And then it happens: 10:52 a.m., and that’s all I needed.

"I'm sorry," I say into the phone.

"I know," he says, "I know." We're both crying—so soft and distant, yet only three stops apart on the express train. He's calling from his cell, and I hear Chinatown noises in the background: the negotiating of street vendors, the shuffling of feet and traffic. I can almost smell the raw fish. No talking between us. No touching. No fury. Just sniffles and breathing and love.

This moment is so full of understanding that I grip the phone tightly, careful not to lose the connection. I look at the flowers on the bedside table, and I realize how perfect they look next to my bed—how simple and beautiful they really are. I can finally stop shaking, and I can finally put this one to rest. At least, until the next time I'm alone.