This morning my husband came out of his usual ennui and made a go of doing some household chores. He brought the trash and recycling bins from the street, swept the sidewalks, tidied up the porch, raked a few leaves from under the orange tree and chopped a small pile of wood.
He loaded the dishwasher, cleaned all the pots and pans, swept the kitchen floor, threw out all of the old food in the refrigerator, took a chicken from the freezer for dinner and looked up a recipe for coq au vin, alphabetized the spices and threw away those at least five years old and made a new shopping list.
He washed the sheets, hung them to dry, dusted the telephone table and removed all excess clutter and paper, rearranged the bookshelves, took up the rug in his den and beat it, put all of his archeology magazines in order and made a display, picked some odd flowers and arranged them in a vase for his desk. He then sat down to watch TV and drink a beer.
I sent one e-mail, checked my bank balances and drank two cups of coffee while reading The Wall Street Journal, all sections from front to back.
And still I complain of him. What is this mysterious fission that runs through our days? And more important, can the divide ever be traversed?
I don't know when exactly I fell out of love. One year I was exuberant, joyous I might even say, and the next year wildly vexed although I have not yet left him.
He is confused, as anyone would be, and at times lashes out at me. I lash back at him and for a moment or two I am adamant that I must find my way out of this disturbing relationship. He throws things and I slam doors.
Three time, so far, I did try to leave, went back to the city, but after two weeks missed familiar companionship and what once was. He takes me back freely without recrimination until we have another squabble and he flings my various departures back at me with scorn. He is holding a grudge but I am none too cool myself.
Yesterday his mood was bad and mine was good. Saturday he felt fine and I was a witch. Sunday I'm okay again, he's in the dumps. We seem unable to synchronize our highs and lows.
I wonder where it all went, what it all means and when it all ends. He just fulminates and blusters, which sets me off again. I need his guidance for our break--I can't seem to do it alone. He refuses to acknowledge the impending break or help me with decisions. We are at an impasse or possibly and abyss.
Today we picked persimmons from the tree and each of us did a rather good drawing of them. He framed his and presented it to me like a proud child wanting to impress his mother. Mine remains in my sketchbook but I keep it open for viewing. His style is whimsical while mine is naturalistic and somewhere in this comparison I know the key to our differences can be discerned but that is a long shot.
Last night we popped popcorn in the microwave and watched "The Guns of Navarone." Lately it has come to our attention that we do not, as a rule, like the same movies. We've stopped sleeping together though we both think it is temporary.
He says I am growing colder by the day, and I think, but do not say, he has always been somewhat cold. Nevertheless, he is right and I suppose that makes me wrong.
No, I don't know when exactly I fell out of love...tomorrow we will visit friends in the city who knew us when we were happy.
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