Pulling Taffy

Aphrodite sat staring silently into her coffee cup as the morning sun streamed in, highlighting the grey strands in her otherwise auburn hair. Her eyes were grey with gloom and tears sat just behind her eyelids, ready to spill out at a moment’s notice.

Another coffee on another morning on another day in another week. Another month. Another year. The same things, in the same order, day in and day out.

Mike gazed at her lovingly from across the bistro table that served as a breakfast nook. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she replied flatly, closing her eyes hard to will the tears back into her head.

Mike reached his large hand across the table and grabbed hers, “Taffy,” he began, using the nickname he’d affectionately called her for almost 30 years, “talk to me.”

Aphrodite let the tears flow freely down her cheeks. She was soon sobbing uncontrollably. “Nothing’s wrong,” she gasped, “but everything’s wrong too!”

Her husband sat quietly, unsure where to take the conversation. It had been obvious to him that his wife was struggling for a while with something. Her usual jovial mood had become a strange mix of morose and fear. The once-proud strut that was a symbol of her confidence, not only in her intellect but her uncommon beauty, shifted to a tentative trudge.

He tried talking to her but was met with a wall of denial.

“I’m fine.” She’d say.

He knew she wasn’t fine.

“Is it me?” he finally asked with a lump in his throat. The thought that the only woman he ever loved may have grown tired of him filled him with dread. Yet, he couldn’t help but wonder. Their sex life, once exciting, passionate and frequent had dwindled to a slow drip. “Do you want me to leave? Do you want to leave?”

She sobbed harder. She loved Mike dearly. He was the only man she ever loved. She longed to be close to him again, to feel that excitement, that wild abandon that love brings, but it all just felt like too much work. It felt like another job to do, a chore, a task to be completed in order to fill the “good wife” checklist.

Sure, Mike had gained weight and lost a few strands of hair in the 3 decades they’d been together. She didn’t care. She found him as attractive, even more attractive than ever. The problem was her. She didn’t find herself attractive. She hated what she was turning into. And it all felt like too much effort.

“No,” she cried, “It’s not you. It’s me. I don’t even know what it is. I feel lost, empty, I can’t explain it.”

“Maybe you need pills,” he reasoned, “we should go to the doctor.”

Pills were Mike’s answer for everything. Can’t sleep? Take a pill. Sore foot? Take a pill. Feeling down? Take a pill.

Taffy shook her head, wiping her eyes, “You don’t get it,” she began.

“I think you’re depressed,” he countered.

She took a long deep breath. She knew it was time to try to explain. “ No, I’m not,” she said flatly.

She continued, “What I am is invisible. I’m not here. I have no idea who I am or what I want. I’m almost 51 fucking years old and I have no clue who I am!” She started sobbing again.

Mike bristled, uncomfortable, then relaxed slightly. He remembered feeling the same way years before.

“Who do you want to be?” he asked gently. “What mark do you want to leave on the world?”

Taffy continued to cry. She had no answers. She’d been daddy’s girl, Mike’s wife, Marley’s mother. She’d been the boss, the employee, the student and the teacher. The one person she’d never been was Aphrodite.

Maddie was off at university, working on her Doctorate, living her own life over 1000 miles away. At first, it was exhilarating, having her gone, having the freedom to do whatever she wanted. Taffy and Mike thoroughly enjoyed their empty nest. At least for a time.

Taffy retired early from her career as an accountant, a job she was good at but hated. She, at her husband’s encouragement, left and followed her artistic passion.

She was having some success, but it still felt empty, hollow somehow.

“I don’t think I have anything left,” she finally said, “I don’t think I have anything to leave.”

Mike shook his head. “That’s not true,” he protested.

“Isn’t it?”

He sighed loudly, his patience wearing thin, but his compassion still large. “When was the last time you felt like yourself?” he asked.

Taffy rested her head in her hands as she pondered. She had no answer. Her life had been the property of others. She felt a pull to something else, something different, but it was vague, without definition. All she knew was she couldn’t continue as she was. She was alone in a sea of self-doubt and uncertainty.

She quietly loathed herself for being such a loser. She had been given so much, looks, talent, a brilliant mind, and she wasted them all. For what? To please others. And now, on the cusp of 51, her womanhood being slowly stolen from her through the ravages of nature, she was no one, an invisible mass of nothingness. Used up. Spent before her prime. Ready for life’s junk pile. Nothing to say. Nothing to do. Nobody watches. Nobody cares.

He tried again, “Okay, when was the last time you felt alive, truly alive?”

She thought some more. She smiled softly as she recollected. She was 17, just coming out of high school and on a day trip with some friends. She was at the ocean. It was the first and last time she felt the rush of life’s promise within her.

She inhaled deeply as if the salty ocean breeze was within reach as she recounted the day:

We all went out to St. Martins. The tide was out.

It was the day before graduation and we all felt like we were on top of the world!

I walked in the wet sand, feeling it squish between my toes. I put my shoes on because I didn’t like the feeling.

I picked up shells and pretty rocks. And the smell! Oh, the smell was amazing! Salty, fresh, clean!

Someone dared me to go in. I can’t remember who. But I did because, well, you never turn down a dare.

The water was so cold it made my feet ache, then my legs as I went further. Finally, I just dove in and screamed. The others followed me. It was frigid! But I felt so alive and happy. And I kept smelling myself all night after that, and tasting my arm, just to get that salt on my lips. It was intoxicating!

Mike grinned mischievously. “I know what we have to do,” he bounced with a strange sense of glee.

Taffy shrugged, now exhausted.

Mike’s blue eyes twinkled, “Do you trust me?” he asked.

She nodded wearily. She was done with the conversation.

A few days later, bags packed, he summoned his wife to the big ugly van they called “Bernice.”

“Where are we going?” she demanded, used to controlling all trips.

“Wait and see,” he smiled widely.

They drove and drove and talked and talked, over 3000 miles until they came to the end of their nation’s land mass. The ocean.

A small, neat cabin with modest furnishings awaited them. It smelled like a mix of fresh pine boards and salt.

The surf was there, 10 feet away, beckoning.

Past midnight in the July moonlight, they stood on the shore, feeling the icy waters kiss their toes.

“Dare you to dive in,” Mike smirked, his blue eyes catching the moonlight.

One step, then another. The cold sent a searing pain through Taffy’s legs. She held her breath and ducked her entire body into the Atlantic, screaming with a mix of euphoria and shock.

Mike ran in and grabbed her. He took her in his large muscular arms and kissed her, passionately on the lips.

She kissed back, feeling something more than duty for the first time in ages. Feeling loved. Feeling beautiful, desirable. Maybe, just maybe feeling like herself a little bit.

It wasn’t the answer to everything, but it was a start. She didn’t know where it would take her, or Mike, but she knew what she had to do. She felt the pull, the call and she was finally ready to answer it.

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Originally published on Medium.com