Gotta watch that ice

Gotta Watch that Ice

Either my heart or the kitchen clock is loud. Oddly, the rest of me is calm as I stare past the letter and out the window at the slushy street.

The three o’clock school bus passes the driveway, showering the slick concrete with another layer of dirt and more chunks of ice.

So how can I hear the clock?

Or how can my heart thump and pump along so loudly in my ears, but go unfelt in my chest?

The envelope had sliced my finger, leaving a tiny, stinging cut. Another reason to regret having opened the damned thing.

But I’m not looking at the papers in my hand, with the tiny speck of my blood on one edge.

Nor at the black text on smooth white paper—so easy to read. The words are few and communicative, digested at a glance.

Instead, it’s the window that has my attention. The one over the kitchen sink giving onto the street.

For almost three years I’ve hated the stupid lacy floral curtains, traditional dust traps hanging in the traditional spot chosen by his oh-so-traditional ex-wife.

The paper in my hand—the not-divorce paper—flutters when I toss it on the kitchen table and step to the sink. It is polished and shiny, like everything else in the immaculate (if I say so myself) little house.

Except the fucking curtains.

They hang in all their dingy cuteness, framing a view of the front yard. The outside is carefully kept by the Asshole I live with. (For now). Late winter, it’s drably sterile—if life, paused for winter and poised for spring, can be sterile.

Dragging my eyes from the window, I run cold water over my finger. It hurts quite a lot for such a tiny cut. I’m not surprised. I’m a veteran of many a paper cut, from back in the days of worksheets and handouts.

But the Asshole likes me home. He helped me find a job I can do without leaving the house. Now the only physical danger I run into, doing medical coding, is my rapidly widening behind.

My phone trills and I jump.

I look around for a towel, don’t see one, and rub my wet hand down my hip while I search for my phone. Belatedly realizing I’ve just smeared blood on my khakis, I grab it from my purse.

Asshole’s name on the screen.

Instead of ignoring the call and letting him leave a potentially useful voicemail, I answer.

But I don’t say anything.

I let the silence grow until he gets up his nerve.

Finally he sighs. “Katherine, does it have to be like this?”

“Like what?”

Another sigh. “Like awkward. Like uncomfortable.”

The nerve.

“Should I be gracious and thank you?”

“Come on. After all, this kind of thing—”

“Happens. I know. I even know who it is, this time…” I raise my voice over his protest. “And I truly don’t care.”

Now it’s my turn to take a breath.

“So… now what?”

At least he doesn’t play dumb.

“Now? Well, I’m on my way to the house. I’ll be home in a minute.”

If the word home chokes him, it isn’t apparent.

And why should it? It’ll remain his home.

I’m the one who needs to leave.

“But the letter from Mike?” I can’t fathom the need to involve one of his lawyer buddies. “Obviously I won’t stay where I’m not wanted.”

“Well…” He clears his throat. “I sent it to give you, uh, some notice. You know, if you wanted to leave. Right away, you know? It would be more…civilized, maybe. Avoid a scene. All that… stuff.”

“Oh? We’re going for civilized? How civil is it for you to pull the rug out from under me with no notice? I live here too—”

“Kay—”

“—and I can make things really difficult for you if I decide I don’t want to leave. Eviction proceedings can sure be messy.”

“Come on.”

“And costly. And public.”

Silence.

I have his attention.

“Scandal isn’t good for any professional, but for an attorney it’s especially to be avoided” I warn, but then for just a moment my knees sag, and I lean against the counter.

What does winning a verbal skirmish do for me?

I need to get out of here and find a hotel that will make me feel pampered. Something with room service and a spa. Despite all my threats, I want to be gone every bit as much as he wants me out.

Humiliation is motivating.

“I’m almost packed. I’m almost ready. I want to be out of here today, too. I’ll just need a hand with the suitcase.”

When he agrees he doesn’t sound as meek as I’d like. In fact, I hear mostly relief.

And maybe anticipation.

Speedy exit, stage left, of aging girlfriend.

“Fine,” he says.

The call ends.

For a second I stand there holding the phone.

Three years.

That should produce something bigger than this.

Grief. Panic. Pleading.

Something.

Instead I put my phone in my pocket and head for the bedroom.

I truly don’t have a lot of possessions. His house is fully over-furnished by the curtain-loving Missus, leaving limited storage for anything of mine. A couple of drawers. Part of a closet. Toiletries. Laptop. Chargers. The bathroom had taken one sweep of my arm across my side of the vanity into the gym tote. Toothbrush, makeup, moisturizer, deodorant.

My life, apparently, is highly portable.

I’m zipping the suitcase when I hear tires crunch into the driveway.

I look toward the bedroom window.

Already?

Good.

The front door opens as I carry the gym tote down the hall.

Amos is sleeping beside the electric fireplace when Asshole enters. The sweet old dog lifts his head, then rests it on one plump, manicured hand when Asshole bends to greet him.

I hear him murmur something fond.

That annoys me.

It would be easier if he were an asshole about everything.

He leaves Amos in the living room and approaches me in the kitchen doorway.

His eyes travel around as if taking inventory.

I wonder how relieved he is to see his treasures still in their places. As if I’d want the tacky porcelain figures or the silk flowers I could never get to look clean.

“I’m ready,” I say.

And suddenly I am so very weary of him.

Of this house.

Of this scene.

I’m pushing sixty, and this was supposed to have been a safe landing for us both.

That thought should hurt more than it does.

Maybe that's what bothers me.

I don't ask why we're splitting. I don't need to. Whether I’m right about another woman or he simply woke up one morning tired of looking at me hardly matters.

Somewhere along the way, whatever I was supposed to feel for him has disappeared.

Maybe his has, too.

The letter doesn't break my heart.

It embarrasses me.

There's a difference.

I'm pissed, not hurt. Mortified, not heartbroken. Humiliated and furious.

But heartbroken?

No.

And realizing that feels almost like getting away with something.

He reaches for the suitcase and gym tote.

“That everything?”

“Everything that matters.”

He doesn't react.

Of course he doesn't.

He carries the bags outside while I collect my laptop, purse and phone.

It doesn't take him long.

When he comes back in, his face is red from the cold.

“That’s it,” he announces. “All ready?”

“Almost.”

I turn toward the fireplace.

“Come on, Amos.”

The old dog lifts his head.

“Come on, buddy.”

He slowly rises to his feet, tail making a lazy half circle.

“What are you talking about?”

Asshole laughs, but it sounds strained.

I crouch and pat my thigh.

“Come on, Amos…”.

I stop.

Amos looks at me.

I look at him.

He’s old. Older than this relationship by years.

“Come on,” I say again, quieter, looking at Asshole for what I hope is the last time. “I’m with Amos all day, every day.”

“He’s my dog! He’s been my dog since he was a puppy.”

I know.

Of course I know.

Amos takes one slow step toward me.

My eyes fill.

I love the old guy. Taking him would do wonders for me.

But nothing for him.

His bed is here. His food is here. His yard is here. The man he has known since puppyhood is here.

Asshole is, in fact, an asshole.

But not to dogs.

“Kay—”

I raise a hand.

“Forget it.”

Amos looks between us.

I bend and kiss the top of his head.

Then I stand before I can change my mind.

Asshole starts to say something, but I don't want whatever it is. An apology would be insulting. An explanation would take too long. Kindness would be unbearable.

So I smile.

Civilized.

Then I let the anger carry me through the front door, across the icy concrete and all the way to my truck.

I climb into the driver’s seat and shut the door.

For the first time since opening the letter, there is quiet.

My suitcase is behind me. The gym tote is on the floor. My purse is beside me.

The passenger seat is empty.

I look at it once.

That's the thing that hurts.

I start the truck.

Before backing out, I glance in the rearview mirror at the little house with the spotless kitchen and the shitty curtains.

I’m not sure why.

It’s not like I love the house.

Or the man.

Maybe a last look doesn't have to mean love.

Maybe it's just a last look.

The Asshole comes through the front door and stands on the top step. He raises one hand in a cordial little wave, his face arranged into something that's supposed to look poignant.

I stare at him in the mirror.

Then I raise my hand.

Civilized.

The second school bus rumbles past the driveway.

His smile widens.

He takes one step onto the icy concrete.

His feet fly into the air.

He lands hard on his ass.

For a second I just stare at him in the mirror.

Then I shake my head, put the truck in reverse and ease carefully out of the driveway.

I pull onto the road behind the slowly moving school bus.

Gotta watch that ice.