i once knew a woman who beat her husband. she would humiliate him in supermarkets with her fierce tongue. she didn't hit him when other people were around, only later. he would yell too, get really mad, but she just hit him harder for it. i sometimes thought i should do something, but i never did.
he wasn't small, he was a big guy. well, tall. he had reddish hair that he kept short. he was a stringy man, wiry. one time over beers at the pub down the street, i gave him a cigarette. he smoked it with relish, though he kept saying jokingly that his wife would smell it on him and be pissed off. i asked him how things were. he said they were fine. he told me that his dad used to beat him and his mom with a belt. it was a strange thing to say. i didn't ask him about his past or anything, i don't even know him that well. i think he was about thirty-five. he smelled like sawdust.
i wonder if he loved his wife. maybe he felt like he was taking penance for his dad. maybe he just couldn't bear fighting back. i think it made his wife hit harder.
around the yard, they don't talk. he'll cook on the grill, and she'll clean the car. she doesn't have a garden, but her car is really clean. it's like a dodge something, a minivan. i imagine that it smells like fake pine. they'll brush right by each other and not even look, as if the other was invisible.
i imagine them falling in love. maybe ten or so years ago. she loves his gentle smile, he loves her energy and spirit. she takes the reins, pushes him to the ground, kissing his stubble, undoing his belt. afterward, he stares at the sky, and she stares at his eyes. she thinks that he has what she is missing. i think, she's still trying to get it out. digging with slaps and spit and desperation.
it's so confusing to be jealous. to envy such abuse. i try to sort it out, i'm not a fighter. i don't like pain. i'm not like that. but my life feels diluted. it's not empty, and i'm not sad or suicidal. it's just flat. i can see all the way down the road.
i don't hold anyone's dreams. i don't make anyone sad. i don't want someone to hit me. but i think, i want someone to want to.
he wasn't small, he was a big guy. well, tall. he had reddish hair that he kept short. he was a stringy man, wiry. one time over beers at the pub down the street, i gave him a cigarette. he smoked it with relish, though he kept saying jokingly that his wife would smell it on him and be pissed off. i asked him how things were. he said they were fine. he told me that his dad used to beat him and his mom with a belt. it was a strange thing to say. i didn't ask him about his past or anything, i don't even know him that well. i think he was about thirty-five. he smelled like sawdust.
i wonder if he loved his wife. maybe he felt like he was taking penance for his dad. maybe he just couldn't bear fighting back. i think it made his wife hit harder.
around the yard, they don't talk. he'll cook on the grill, and she'll clean the car. she doesn't have a garden, but her car is really clean. it's like a dodge something, a minivan. i imagine that it smells like fake pine. they'll brush right by each other and not even look, as if the other was invisible.
i imagine them falling in love. maybe ten or so years ago. she loves his gentle smile, he loves her energy and spirit. she takes the reins, pushes him to the ground, kissing his stubble, undoing his belt. afterward, he stares at the sky, and she stares at his eyes. she thinks that he has what she is missing. i think, she's still trying to get it out. digging with slaps and spit and desperation.
it's so confusing to be jealous. to envy such abuse. i try to sort it out, i'm not a fighter. i don't like pain. i'm not like that. but my life feels diluted. it's not empty, and i'm not sad or suicidal. it's just flat. i can see all the way down the road.
i don't hold anyone's dreams. i don't make anyone sad. i don't want someone to hit me. but i think, i want someone to want to.
posted by he who seeks knowledge at 10:27 PM
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