September 18, 2007
Husbands and Lovers
“I don’t want to leave,” Margo whispered, biting her lip to stop the tears. “Not again.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Margo,” I sighed as I flopped down on the couch. “I’m not the one with the problem here.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Fair enough.”
I just can’t please Margo. She read some of these nostalgiac, regret-filled blog posts I wrote in the past few days and she can’t seem to understand I’m going through something here that’s only partly due to my wanting to sex up Sarah Goss. Besides, I already did, so that’s out of my system. Now it’s more of an emotional, “Did I do the right thing in letting Owen Autumn steal her?” Now that she’s going to die, it’s a question I can’t get out of my mind.
I tried everything to make Margo feel better about it, including revealing that the lyrics for “Man Is It Sweaty” were about Sarah. Always one of the rare people who could understand the deep symbolism of my lyrics, Margo knew I used this isolated experience—a couple on a hot night—as a metaphor for an entire relationship. Sarah Goss and I experienced that level of tumult, beach-sex, and selfishness. I’ve never had that with any other women.
And yet here Margo stood, waiting to give up everything we’ve built together over the past decade.
“I love you,” I said, turning on the television.
“Prove it,” she snapped at the same time she snapped closed her little overnight bag.
“I’ve been trying to,” I said. “I’ve been trying to for days. I wish you’d just believe me.”
“Look, Girth,” Margo said as she inched toward the door, “I’ve told you this time and time again: I don’t care if you fuck around on me. You know I fuck around on you. A lot. I have to. Sometimes that thing goes off so fast I need to find another one before I dry up. You know that. I’m honest about it. I just hate all the bullshit.”
“Well, Jesus Christ, maybe the reason I lie about it is because your honesty hurts me. It’s like a knee to the fuckin’ balls every time you come home after a 72-hour disappearance smelling like a gas station and feeling looser than the Third Street tunnel.”
Margo’s jaw dropped, unable to speak, but her eyes said it all. What I said appalled her. It should!
“Well, fuck you, too, motherfucker!”
“She’s dying!” I snapped, leaping to my feet.
“So am I!” Margo suddenly started bawling.
“Jesus…” I whispered, moving close to her. “You have cancer, too?”
“No, you dumb-shit!” she spat, pounding on my chest with her fists. “I was being metaphorical.”
“I don’t mean to hurt you,” I said, taking her in my arms, stroking her hair.
“I don’t mean to hurt you, either,” she breathed.
“Then why do you?!”
“You know what?! Fuck you!”
She stormed out of the apartment. I haven’t seen her since. It’s been three days; usually she’d be stumbling home right around now, but I’m afraid she might be gone for good. She has a really, really large overnight bag.
Written by Girth McDürchstein on September 18, 2007 3:08 PM
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Cancer Crisis!
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