The Long Argument

Robin woke up to a foggy Thursday morning outside her second story bedroom window, disturbed. She did not know exactly why but she knew she wanted to talk about it. She ran through her list of her friends. Her husband Don had dressed, said goodbye on his way out, left her in and out sleep. An hour passed.

Steve definitely would have to be there. He couldn't help but tell her she was stupid, which is what she needed to hear. Cecilia, too. Cecilia could be discrete, if pressed. Now, where? Well, to get Steve, it would have to be Toppers. Not Cecilia's favorite place but she’d be okay. Drinks on Steve.

She made her calls, two confirmations, the fog lifting at last.

When Toppers opened its doors at 11:30 a.m., Steven Barrios was the first customer.

As he took his customary seat at the elbow of the bar, Marianne, his buxom server, asked if he wanted the Shiner Bock he usually got. He asked if they had any Sam Adams beer in a bottle. Marianne said no and brought him a Shiner. She asked if he wanted his usual burger and he said sure. Don’t toast the bun, no mayonnaise, cheddar not American, well done, cut in half and fries in a to go box, she asked, more like told, him. He said I love you and she rolled her eyes, walked away and put the order in. The mandatory Toppers uniform accentuated her rear end and he was studying its contours when a grab on his left shoulder from Robin diverted his attention. Reflexively he yelled out White Zin to Marianne who didn't answer but gave him the OK sign from the register. You order yet, Robin asked, shaping up into the bar stool next to him, noticing his half finished beer. Yea, he said, I ordered. You seen Cecilia, she asked. No, he said.

Barrios attempted to make small talk, never his strong suit, while waiting on his food. Finally, he came around to the point, the reason we’re here.

"So what conjured up this council meeting," he asked.

"I had a dream."

"Oh, okay, Dr. King.”

Marianne brought him his burger and placed it on the bar in front of him. He picked up the half closest to him and started chewing.

"Whatever," Robin continued. "Are you mildly interested in my dream?"

At last, Cecilia walked up, poked Steve between the shoulder blades, hugged Robin and sat next to her, two away from Steve to his left.

"I don't like boy girl girl. Can we do girl boy girl," Steve asked between bites of food.

"No," the girls said in unison.

"I never get what I want," Steve complained.

"Don't pout," Cecilia said. "It's unattractive."

"Besides, you want weird shit," added Robin.

"What are you having, babe," Marianne interjected from the other side of the bar, facing Cecilia.

"Whatever she wants," Steve said, "it's on me."

"You're so sweet," Cecilia responded. "Why did my sister ever divorce you? Gimme that cucumber martini thingy you gave me last time."

"Someone married you,” Marianne asked incredulously from across the bar, glancing at Barrios. Then she told Cecilia "you got it, hon,” and sashayed away. That ass, though, he thought.

Robin turned to Steve, "You wanna hear the dream or not, Barrios?"

Steve took another bite of his burger and muttered "not in the least."

"I'm listening honey," Cecilia said, rubbing Robin’s shoulder, shooting Steve a look.

"Yea," Robin replied and drifted off. "I don't remember it."

"What?" This time it was Cecilia’s and Steve's turn to reply in unison, half male / half female.

Robin had awoken that morning revulsed at her husband, as inexplicable as it was real: a loathing despise, a Category Five Hate as strong as it was irrational. She couldn't wait for him to leave her bed, dress and get out of her house. She was certain he had done something wrong, something criminal, some unsanctioned extra-curricular activity. Her certainty of his infirmity was thick and smokey, directly inverse to any evidence or objective proof. To say the case against Don was thin would be generous. It was non-existent. There wasn't even a reason to suspect. Just a visceral early morning knowledge. She knew. As he fixed his tie in the mirror, god damn if he didn’t know that she knew. He double checked his text messages. All clear.

Robin’s sister was younger, athletic. Gorgeous. But no texts.

He glanced at his wife.

Her damned knowing. And right where she lay.

She had looked at him earlier that morning when they were both in bed. He had been asleep but the night before he had set the alarm to wake to music, the local radio station playing a classic Stones song, Jumping Jack Flash: I was crowned with a spike right through my head. She thought he would look good that way, a spike right through his fat forehead. To unhearing ears, she said: get out. Then, as soon as she heard her own voice, it was over, like a magical puff of disappearing dust. Her anger, her incipient need to do something, even her certainty: vanished. Like nothing had ever happened. And to her sleeping husband, nothing had happened.

Only a smoldering loathing remained. Now Don was wide awake, getting dressed for work, straightening his tie, a palpable despise rising in her throat.

She longed to express her experience of the morning to Steven Barrios and Cecilia Sanchez, her closest friends, tell them how weird and real it felt. Allow Steve to emotionally slap her back into reality. But she could not describe something that did not happen. She remembered her own morning anger, her gritted teeth and clenched fists, quiet and menacing. But she could not explain why. Barrios joked about Robin calling the Council together to discuss something she couldn't even bring up (How stupid!)(as expected) while Cecilia turned a three drink lunch into a six drink lunch and Marianne brought the tab. The meeting was adjourned inconclusively, Steven hinting about returning to Toppers in a few hours to watch Thursday Night Football, Saints at the Packers. “Should be good!”

The dream Robin Klossen could not remember was explicit: her husband’s head between her sister’s open legs to the point of orgasm and then her sister returning the favor to her husband’s naked torso, ending with Don masturbating on her sister's face, the two of them then falling asleep on her bed while Robin, clueless, got her Wednesday massage, got her nails done and headed home. Don, later that evening, faking a full day's work, coming home to kiss his wife Robin on the mouth, his breath full of her sister's snatch. As bright as sunshine and as unexpected as a recreational vehicle exploding on Christmas day in downtown Nashville. All a dream. Unremembered.

She remembered the dream fully only once, in an office, sitting on a mauve couch, reciting it to her attorney, two weeks later, after Don suggested if she was so fucking unhappy maybe she should file for divorce. She had been picking on literally every aspect of his existence for the previous fourteen days. It was the way he had said "fucking" that frustrating evening after work, the way he emphasized the middle part of the word, rising to a crescendo that led her to take him up on the offer. After all, it had only been six, seven years before that when he had said that word the same exact way with different words around it. "God," he had said before they got married, "you fuck so fucking good,” emphasizing the middle part of the word.

Their lives were ruined now; there was no fixing it and they both knew it. The reason why was shared but the sharing was unknown.

They knew it that morning two weeks earlier when she had woken up, a spike right through her head.

Her lawyer, like Barrios, after listening carefully to Robin’s motivation for the divorce, essentially said that's not a reason to get divorced. He explained that the court system deals only in provable facts, that it was ill-suited to deal with hunches and bad dreams. Robin persisted. Her lawyer suggested marriage counseling. Again, she insisted. They compromised: he would prepare the petition for divorce, no fault grounds, but he would add a request for the court to appoint a marriage counselor.

They sat on the couch in his conference room, below framed evidence of his accomplishments, and he began asking her pre-filing questions, taking notes on his yellow legal pad. Halfway through the questioning, Robin started sobbing, carefully controlling her loss of control. Scott Hunter got up, opened the conference room door and told his secretary to bring him his new client's retainer check. The secretary came in, handing her boss the check, waiting for further instruction.

"Here," he offered, equal parts sympathy and annoyance, extending the check to Robin, who was still sitting on the couch,"go home."

Robin stood, taking the check into her trembling hands, a remnant of tears evaporating. Mr. and Mrs. Don Klossen, it read in the upper left corner, 3808 Meadow Place Drive, Sendera, Texas, 77909. She looked at it. Pay to the order of Hunter Law Group, she had scrawled. Her signature had changed over the past few weeks. She handed it back to her lawyer.

"I'm OK," she said.

They stood there, lawyer to client, client to lawyer, the check hung out between them like a young Wallenda, the lawyer's secretary looking at both of them.

"Danyelle," Scott said at last, "please take Mrs. Klossen's check and go deposit it, then go to lunch." Robin extended her hand to Danyelle and the secretary, taking back the Safety Blue check (#1949), did as she was told, closing the door behind her.

By the time Danyelle returned to the office from her lunch break and took her place at the front desk, Scott had completed Robin’s petition for divorce and was ready to file. Robin was still there.

Danyelle took a small stick of cinnamon gum from her purse, slid the purse under her desk and, while she unwrapped the piece of gum, watched her boss walk the client to the door. Scott Hunter gave Mrs. Klossen a brief hug, perhaps saying "everything will be fine," opening the front door for her. Danyelle watched the front office door close behind the client while the boss disappeared back to his office. Danyelle started chewing the gum, masking the chicken sandwich she had just eaten, and watched Robin (through the office’s large front window) get into a light blue Nissan Pilot SUV, hesitate briefly behind the driver’s wheel, then fire it up and drive away.

Don did not fight for Robin. The sweet memory of the one time he fooled around with Karina in their bed still lingering, he signed the Final Decree of Divorce without legal counsel. Nobody rides for free, he told himself, ass, grass or cash. Cash, in this case. Even if she didn’t know.

Funny, Robin thought, that Karina had never asked why their sisterhood had become estranged. There was, as Scott Hunter pointed out, no evidence, no proof. Only seventy percent of Don Klossen’s 401(k) to say anything anywhere had ever happened.

Robin created a new “single” Facebook profile. She reached out to old high school friends. One of them was Zachary Gruene. They had dated briefly in the eleventh grade. She wanted to talk; he probably wanted to fuck.

They agreed to meet at the Texican in downtown Sendera.

A few days later, seated at Texican, Robin, in opaque terms, described her marriage to and divorce from Don Klossen. Zach went further. He confessed his sins, unprovoked, to Robin, over taquitos set on the table in front of the window and a pot of coffee plunked down by their attractive Hispanic waitress, Amy. He said:

“I’ve always been jealous of the guy that could go to a dance club and pick up a girl. I could never do that. It was a chip. A chip on my shoulder. Even when I was married to Jessica. Jess. I wanted to be able to do that. You know. To have that swag. That pull. We, my wife and I, we didn’t share the same goals. When she filed for divorce, it took a year for us to actually physically separate. By that time, it was too late for us.”

Zach’s voice softened. He poured more coffee for himself and offered the same to Robin. She shook her head no. “I treasured every day of that last year. You know?”

Robin did not know. She could not have gotten rid of Don fast enough. No, she didn't know what he was talking about and didn’t want to. But Zach continued:

“She caught me. Caught me being the guy I always wanted to be. But now we were married. So she filed. She—no, we—kept hoping I would change.”

Zach took Robin’s hand across the table. She withdrew her hand suspiciously. Undaunted:

“I got what I wanted, Robin,” he relentlessly continued. “But you know what?”

Robin threw her hands up, growing increasingly unhappy with the decisions that had led her to this moment. What?

“I would have traded every single one night stand for another night with Jess. Just one more night with her. I would have traded them all for one more hour. Kneeling between her open legs. You know?”

Ugg. Fuck this guy.

Robin: “Must have been some good pussy.”

Zach put his cup of coffee down on the table between them more forcefully than he should have.

They looked at each other, waiting for a smile that did not come. Outside, a cloud drifted away and the sun came in through the window's separated curtains, its rays glistening off the pot of coffee between them.

“That’s not what I meant,” Gruene said, his eyes narrowing.

Robin put her hand toward his. He stared at her, pondering his options, then gave in, putting her hand under his, eyes full.

“But it was good,” he said, squeezing her smaller hand under his.

Amy came to the table, put their tab between them.

They briefly fought over who was paying, Zach’s insistence winning out. Amy took his American Express and when she came back to the table, Zach was standing, ready to escort Robin to her car. Then, Amy watched them walk out of the Texican toward a light blue SUV.

At Robin’s car the two old ex-friends promised they would stay in touch.

Zachary Gruene closed the driver's side door of Robin’s car and walked away. Robin sat in her Pilot and pushed on the ignition button. On 106.9 The Bridge, they were playing “Still Crazy After All These Years” by Paul Simon.

She thought about another high school friend, Roberta King. Maybe their conversation would be better than hers and Zach's. Robin made the call and they agreed to meet at a coffee shop the next day, a few doors down from the Texican, around three.

Robin arrived before Roberta, took a seat at a middle table, ordered her coffee.

It had been a while since Robin had talked to Roberta but at one point they were all friends, Don, Rob and Rob. Roberta had even been to the Klossen house once or twice. Oh my God, Robin remembered, one time Roberta had gotten really drunk and left. A cop who didn't want to write a report that night let her walk back to Robin and Don's house, leaving her car parked in front of a neighbor's house. Roberta had only driven two houses down and pulled over to return a text from a wanna-be boyfriend.

Don and Robin answered the door together that night, the cop standing next to their wobbly friend. He left, tipping his hat to them, and they let her sleep in a guest room.

She must have apologized thirty times the next morning. Don, cooking, offered her breakfast. God, she looked a mess.

While Robin was remembering that night, Roberta walked in and sat across from her. Robin got up and hugged her. The two women got caught up and Robin brought up the drunken sleep-over that had happened years before. They both laughed, Robin enjoying it more than Roberta.

"It was actually pretty lucky," Roberta said, "that I pulled over to answer that stupid text. That cop saw me leave your house and stumble to my car. He really gave me a break." Roberta paused before adding, "So did you."

Robin was still laughing. "You looked like such a mess," she said, starting a new wave of laughter, solo. Roberta looked at Robin, amused by Robin's fun at her expense. She smiled at her friend. They sipped their coffee in silence for a moment.

Finally, Robin asked, "Whatever happened to him?"

Roberta asked back, "Who?"

"That dude you were texting."

Now it was Roberta's turn to laugh while Robin looked at her, puzzled. "I was lifting my shirt to send him a picture when I saw the cop's lights in the rear view. I pushed my bra and shirt back down."

Robin acted shocked. "You were sexting," she asked.

Roberta said, "Well, he never got his picture and I didn't talk to him until noon the next day. He didn't believe y'all let me stay because I was too drunk to drive. 'No way that cop let you off,' he told me. He thought I was sleeping with my ex."

"Were you?"

Roberta nodded her head. "I mean not that night," she laughed. "I was with you. But yes," she continued, "I was sleeping with him. I still am."

Now Robin's shocked face was not an act. "I though he was—"

"Shut up," Roberta interrupted. "What about you? How's Don?"

"Oh," came Robins' response. "Well." Robin sipped some more of her coffee while her friend looked at her, already knowing the answer.

"I divorced him," Robin said.

"Why? What happened, babe,” Roberta asked, slipping her hand underneath her friend’s open hand, resting on the table space between them.

"I had a dream," Robin explained. "I woke up one morning after the dream and I just knew he was cheating. I knew it. And that rat bastard knew that I knew. I just couldn't get past it. It was bad. It was so bad. It was just a horrible, awful feeling. It changed everything between us. He never confessed to anything. I wish he would have. It would have given me closure. But, I suppose, in all fairness, I never confronted him. I mean, I didn't have anything, no texts, e-mails, pictures, no social media hints, nothing. I even stuck a private investigator on him for a few days. I told myself that if the investigator came back clean, I would forgive him. I mean, it's so funny saying it. Forgive him for what? Yea, so, the investigator came back clean but that just made me think Don was even more guilty, you know, he dumped the bitch and tried to make himself look good. But, you know what, he didn't even fight the divorce. He gave me a good kiss-off settlement. I haven't been working much but at some point I'm going to need to. I'm not going to get married again. Fuck that. They all cheat one way or the other." Robin took a breath.

"Honey," Roberta said, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry but what was it?"

Robin looked confused. "What was what?"

Roberta looked at her friend like maybe she was a little slow. "The dream, babe. What was the dream about?"

Robin's confusion grew. Roberta thought her friend might be on the edge of tears. Robin took a sip of her coffee, swallowed hard and said something.

Roberta leaned in and softly asked, "What?" Maybe the whole dream thing was supposed to be a secret. There were only a few people around them but they were being kind of loud, not discrete at all. Even though Roberta lived in a nearby town, this was Robin's home town. For all she knew, Don could walk in at any moment.

Finally, Robin, elbows on the table between them, lifted her hands and whispered, "I don't remember."