Not A Person
She sits beside me in the passenger seat. My hands loosely grip the steering wheel as I drive downtown to the market. The air, though chilled with winter’s end and spring’s beginning, is thick with silence. It is her. It is always her.
As is tradition, I speak first.
How about Thai for dinner? We still have the pasta leftovers from yesterday but we can eat that tomorrow.
“Okay.”
—————————————————
It always ended with okay. Okay. Okay.
Was it okay? Were we okay? Why was she always okay? Could she not be okay for once?
I loved her the moment I laid my eyes on her. Outwardly fragile, she had the eyes of a hawk and the heart of a lion. But she never once spoke about those things. She kept the facade of weakness and of tranquility, as if to hold back a wave of pain that had not yet washed over me. But I didn’t know. I still don’t know.
She never told, so I never asked.
For two years, we kept the balancing act. I was on the ropes, while she was swinging by her feet. Neither of us was happy, neither of us was sad. Early into the second year, I had lost my job, and we moved to a smaller apartment with thin walls and even thinner conversation. I couldn’t talk to her because, well, I wanted to respect her space. By God, if she could just see what I was going through. If only she could speak to me. I loved her. I hoped she knew that. No, she has to know that. —————————————————
Wednesday, 7:46pm. A return to the supermarket. We enter and go our separate ways: I shop for the toiletries while she grabs the produce.
7:58pm. Where is she? I never finish before her. I walk to the produce section. No sign of her or her basket. Then I hear whimpering. It’s her. Crying on the floor. Next to the pears.
I drop everything and run to her, kneeling next to her shoulder. She’s holding a magazine; a baby smiles on the cover. Her hands are shaking. Is she okay? What’s wrong?
“Everything. Everything.”
Why? What do you mean by everything?
“Us. Everything. I feel like I’m trapped in a box with no light. Nothing.”
What’s going on? Please. Please tell me.
“Why did you turn away? Why didn’t we ever talk about the real things? The REAL things?”
I never told, so she never asked.
No. Wait.
She never told, so I never asked.
Was it me? No. Was it her? No.
Who was in the wrong? What was it? It had a name.
The p in pneumonia, the b in subtle.
Silence.