A Minor Obsession

“Hey?” I whisper into the quiet darkness of the bedroom, “Are you awake?” He doesn’t answer. Asleep. His steady breath sounds strange and unfamiliar in the intimate ambiance of my bedroom. I poke my finger into his relaxed side and he jumps groaning to a sitting position. Whoops, maybe I poked too hard. “What do you want?” I think he is angry at me for disturbing the glow of his sleep but I say it anyway. “I want to talk.” He sighs, “God, Beth. You always want to talk. Can’t we ever just relax and enjoy some peace? Or sleep?  Like people do at night?” Hurt, I turn my back to him pulling the blue blanket that my grandmother made for me up to my chin. “Never mind, then. Just go to sleep. Forget it.” And I deliberately turn some more so that my blanket pulls away, leaving him cold and I can feel him glare at my back. “Yes, I think I will.” He is really mad and he slams his feet down, probably waking the baby that sleeps in the apartment below me, and he stomps to find his clothes in the dark and he swears while he puts them on. He doesn’t say goodbye as he bangs the door shut behind him. I get up to lock it so nobody will come in and steal me. Then I jump back in my bed and pull my knees up to my stomach and nestle into the hollow left by his body. I press my nose into the silky pillowcase with embroidered flowers (Grandma again with the win) and it smells like I him.

I feel a twinge of regret. Now though I can’t sleep because it is so quiet without his breathing near me. I want to talk to someone, but I can’t think of anyone who would listen, especially now, since it’s midnight. I get up and look through my phone. The light stings my eyes so I turn down the brightness. A through W, I scroll down my contact list – I don’t know any X, Y or Zs. There is nobody to talk to. I flick the screen, close my eyes, and put my finger on a spot. I open them as the scrolling stops and see T:  Thomas, Thornton, Tobin, Torley. I don’t want to talk to any Ts. I flick again. Finger down. G. I know some people named G. Mark Grant from work is a kind sweet man who stops by my desk from time to time to talk about literature or other abstract matters. He would be a good listener. The time slips from my memory and I push the call button. “Hello?” A sleepy voice answers the phone and I want to hang up. “Hi! Mark? It’s me, Beth, from work.” Hopeful that my name will make him wake up and sound happy instead of hanging up on me, I make my voice deliberately bright. “What time is it?” He sounds confused. “Oh, I don’t know. Sorry to call so late. I just want to talk.” I sound so dumb and I start to say goodbye so that he can go back to sleep and forget me. Maybe in the morning he won’t even remember that I called. Or if he asks did I call, I can say oh no, it was just a dream and tease him for dreaming of me.

“That’s OK.  What’s on your mind?” He makes sitting up noises as if he really wants to know why I called, so I don’t think it would be fair to hang up on him after I woke him. That would be like calling for nothing. And since he’s awake, I might as well get to know him better now because I am interested in Mark. For a friend, of course. “Well, I guess I’m just lonely and afraid, but it’s OK.” I can’t stop my voice from shaking a little bit so I add, “Boy, it’s cold in here.” “You should like you’re freezing. I can wait while you get a blanket or something. . . “ Concern is in his voice and it almost makes me smile, except now I feel too serious since I have already begun to talk. My room is too dark and the shadows seem to move, so I reach over and turn on the lamp. “No that’s OK. I’m just too cheap to turn up the heat. I’ll be fine. So, anyway, Mark, I don’t know why I called.  Maybe I should go.” I don’t say this meaning it; it is a test. I cross my fingers so he won’t agree. He doesn’t.  “No, go ahead. I’m awake now, so you just go ahead and talk.” “I don’t know. It’s just that I don’t like to be alone at night. I don’t like to fall asleep. I mean, I don’t mind it,  really, but I like to have somebody to talk myself to sleep to – I do like to talk a lot.” “There’s nothing wrong with that, Beth. I think everybody feels that way sometimes. I do.” So reassuring. He is almost like my father who calls me once every two weeks or so to tell me everything will be OK if I just wait long enough. Like he’s been waiting his whole life. “I’m tired of waiting,” I say to my father, who isn’t here. There is a confused quiet in the phone. I hurry to explain so he won’t think I’m crazy. “It seems like every time I find a boyfriend and tell him that I like to talk late at night and he says ‘Good – I like to listen,’ that he usually ends up being a liar because what he really likes is to sleep. And I sit there and talk and talk and pretty soon, I’m talking to myself, only I don’t know it because he’s not saying anything so I think he’s listening. Then I’ll ask if he’s awake. And he’s not.”

“Sounds you like want them to talk, too.”

“Sometimes.”

“I understand. Sometimes the things you want to say aren’t nearly as important as what you want to hear.”

I pause for a moment to think. “I just want them to say something. Anything. So I know they’re there.”

“Well, you can’t expect perfect compatibility with everyone you meet. Sometimes you’re probably tired when they’re not, aren’t you?” I don’t reply right away because he is right but I don’t want him to be. My eyes wander over the framed photographs of my family on the wall. My parents before the divorce. My brother, 6 inches taller than me. I look away, searching for something to rest my eyes on and see my collection of glass perfume bottles. Finally, I answer ineffectively, “That’s different.” But I can’t think of a reason why it is different except I want things how I want them. Little tiny tears of frustration begin to trickle down my face. He knows I am frustrated, too. He just laughs a quiet understanding laugh. Defeated by trying to explain, I think I want him to tell me that it’s OK, things will be better in the morning, go to sleep. But he doesn’t tell me that.

“You know, Beth, you sound like you don’t want to be alone. I’m wide awake now and I really don’t have anything to do at work tomorrow. Would you like to meet for a drink somewhere now? Would that make you feel better?” If I do have a drink with him, I will probably begin to like him too much for his own good, so I am very polite. “Oh, Mark, that would be lovely. But I can’t.” Tears are a little larger now because I want to go. Persuade me, I think. “Come on, Beth. I wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep if we hung up now. We’ll have just one drink and talk a little so you won’t be so lonely when you go home.” It seems like he really does want to go and not as if he’s just saying it to make me feel better. I stop crying because it’s silly to cry for no reason anyway. “Well, for one drink only.”

<<<>>>

There aren’t very many people in this dark little bar with candles on the table that reflect spills of liquid. I arrive before Mark does and there are too many seats so I stand near the door waiting for him. I pull my green jacket a little tighter and try to avoid eyes. The bartender is a woman with tight blonde curls close to her head and lips so dark that her mouth would be frightening if it weren’t pursed into such a thin line of disgust as she glares at me for invading her place where she is a queen among men. Sly eyes of men peer at me from behind frosty gold mugs of beer.  I turn to walk out the door because I can’t stand there anymore and Mark is just coming in. “Sorry it took me so long. I had to wait for train. They run a slower schedule late night.” As we slide into a somewhat private booth with sticky maroon cushions, the men turn their attention back to the bartender. Satisfied, she sends a waitress over to our table with a flick of her bleached head. A woman my age stands there with her hand on her hip. As always, I am momentarily overwhelmed by the number of drinks there are to choose from in a bar. Mark orders a beer. I finally decide on a glass of Chablis.

‘Don’t have none,’ she says, “What do you want? We have beer and liquor. No wine.” She is somewhat pretty and stands next to Mark’s side of the booth, glancing at him every few seconds. I am mortified by having made the wrong decision and don’t speak. Mark answers for me because my face is red with embarrassment and he knows something is wrong. “She’ll have a beer, too.”

“Two beers,” she yells at the bartender and saunters over to wait by the bar for the mugs. She leans suggestively against the bar rail and smiles at Mark. He doesn’t see. “Nice place,” I finally say. I am uncomfortable in my short pink skirt and wriggle on the vinyl trying to find a better way to sit. I move my purse nervously from the seat next to me to the table and back again. “It’s close to where you live. I didn’t want you to have to go far.” I know he is being sweet again and I feel a little twinge inside me because he shouldn’t be sweet to me. I have woken up, made him get out of bed and jump on a train to come talk to me and here he is ordering my drink for me.

“Why are you so nice?” I decide to just ask him because that’s the only way he’ll ever tell me. He smiles as if I said something funny. “I’m not really. I can be when I want to, though. I just felt like being nice tonight. You sounded like you needed someone to be nice to you.” Oh. He pities me. The twinge doesn’t come back and I feel more comfortable. I think I’ll be able to talk to him now without worrying about him taking it all personally. The waitress slops down two beers and foam splashes on the table. “Ten bucks.” I fumble for my purse but I grab the seat first and then remember it is on the table. Mark has already paid her before I can even get out my wallet. I offer him a five but he generously waves it away.

“You can buy the next round. Or leave a tip.” I sit quietly planning what I want to tell him and what I don’t want to tell him. He considers me from across the table.  “Well,” I say. “Well.” I begin. “Mark, it’s really nice of you to come all this way to talk to me. I don’t know what to say to you because I don’t know you very well.”

“Well, Beth, you can tell me whatever you want. I’d like to get to know you better. I keep private things private. I’d like to help you feel better if I can.” He pauses.  “I like you.” Everybody likes somebody. I like Mark because he’s pretty nice and he knows who my favorite author is, even if he hasn’t read his books. Very many people don’t even know who he is, and especially my boyfriend doesn’t but he says he doesn’t have to. “Are you dating anybody, Mark?” I don’t know why I ask this. I know that he isn’t or I wouldn’t have called him, because then he might not have been alone.

“No.” He confirms what I already know. “Well, I am.  Sort of. He is this really nice guy and his name is Alan. We don’t date all the time. Just sometimes. That’s why I haven’t talked about him at work. He told me when we first starting dating that he loved to talk at night and that he would probably keep me up with all of his talking.” “And he doesn’t, right?” “He lied to me. He goes to sleep right after…” After what, I don’t say because I don’t want to talk about my sex life, but I’m sure that he figures it out easily because his eyes seem to widen a little bit as if he wants to say, aha, I know what you do at nights now.

“Well, Beth, some people just get a little worn out. Does he work during the day?” This conversation is making me nervous and I begin to twirl a strand of my hair. I pull it where I can see it and stare at the pretty blonde hair. So much prettier than the bartender’s hair. If we keep talking about sex, then I might want to go home with Mark, but of course, I wouldn’t be able to do that. “But he told me he liked to talk and he gets mad at me when I want to tell him things. Late at night, I get so scared and I get so sad. I hate to be the only one awake. Then I just need somebody to make me feel better. But Alan never does anymore."

“Maybe you shouldn’t go out with him, then.” I know it. But who likes to break a person’s heart? I’m sure that Alan would be terribly hurt if I broke up with him and not talking at night is a bad reason. “That’s not a good reason.” It sounds like a weak excuse. Mark finishes his beer and signals the waitress for two more. “What kind of reason do you need? He doesn’t make you feel better. He’s supposed to, isn’t he?” I don’t want to talk about Alan any more. I have to go to the bathroom so I grab my purse and slide awkwardly out of the booth, the backs of my thighs pulling from the stickiness.

“I’ll be right back.” I hurry past the waitress who gives me a look of disgust for my pretty skirt which is so out of place in this dark man-filled bar. In the bathroom, I lean against a dirty gray wall and try to calm myself down. My heart is racing and I’m breathing as if I just ran a mile. I’m panicking because for a flash of a moment sitting in the booth, I remembered when Alan made me feel better. When we first started going out, I didn’t ask him to talk all the time because I didn’t know him well enough to bother him. The third or fourth time I stayed with him, I started to feel the blackness slip into me as he fell asleep. I waited until he was breathing steadily, then I got out of bed quietly, without squeaking the springs, and I tip-toed out to the front window of his apartment. It was snowing, and there were some owl-types out building a snowman in front of the building across the parking lot. I wanted to be with people, too, so I put on my clothes and shoes and a coat. Then I went out.

I was sitting on the front porch of his apartment building, watching the small group across the way scoop snow and pat it onto their snowman’s body to round out the shape. They had rolled it a little oblong. The cold air massaged my temples and soothed away the dark part of me. Then I heard the door open behind me and Alan came out. He sat behind me and held me close. “Are you OK?” I felt better, and then we went back inside. But he’s not like that anymore. He’s not like Mark would be, I can tell. I think Mark wants me. But he probably doesn’t and it’s all in my mind. But Alan has changed too much from how he was and all of a sudden he is nothing to me and I don’t remember what he looks like. I only know that he won’t give up anything for me and I want a man who will sacrifice himself for me. I mean, only in small ways. I’m not asking for a dagger on the altar or anything. But an hour of sleep here or there, a thoughtful act. Just something so that I know that I’m worth something.

I pull a brush out of my purse and brush my hair. I splash a little cold water on my face and pat it dry with a hand towel. So many bathrooms have air dryers, I thought, but you certainly can’t dab your face with one of those. My face looks calm staring back at me in the mirror, but I know that inside I’m a nervous wreck. My eyes seem bigger, bluer than they normally are, but tinged with a bit of red from crying. The only unusual thing is that my upper teeth keep biting into my lower lip like someone who is concentrating on doing the hardest jigsaw puzzle in the world. Finally, I am ready to go back and face Mark like nothing has happened.

“What happened? You took off so suddenly I thought… is everything OK?” “Oh, everything is fine.” I take a long drink of my beer and smile back at him innocently. He smiles back.  I am going to control the conversation from now on, so I say “I just have a lot of delusions, Mark, and I don’t have any intentions of changing them because I like who I am. I get lonely, and I’m not always happy, but I don’t want to let those pieces of me go. I would be bored.” He laughs. “Happy is pretty boring, isn’t it? What do you mean by delusions?”

“I just think that love should be perfect and I should be the center of my boyfriend’s world. It’s totally unreasonable and stupid but that’s how I feel.”

“I understand that feeling, Beth.”

“I don’t want you to understand. I want to be unique. I want to be the only person who feels the way that I feel.” I can tell that he’s fascinated by what I’m saying. They always are. He thinks that I would be a challenging person to get to know. Men love challenges. The waitress stands next to our table. “Another round? It’s almost last call.” I look up at her disgusted because she has interrupted my train of thought. She doesn’t care at all. Her eyes are still fixed on Mark. “No, we’re leaving.” I send her away with a look and she shrugs and goes back to the bar to lean and try to capture Mark one more time. I bump my way out of the booth again and put on my coat. I deliberately keep my back towards Mark, in contrast to the flaunting woman across the room.

“Where are we going?” He is next to me. I feel a little triumphant but I walk towards the door because I just want to get away from the people in this bar. I nod my head vaguely in the direction of the bartender because it wouldn’t be polite to leave without some sort of acknowledgement of her beer-pouring prowess, but she is busy laughing with a pair of men at the far end of the bar. Mark is behind me as we walk out the door. I say over my shoulder “I think I’m going to home. Thanks for talking to me.” I begin to walk away theatrically. It’s the end of a love story that never began. I think a saw a movie like this once.

“At least let me walk you home,” he says very close to my ear. I startle a little. If I turned my head, I could probably kiss him without trying. It would be an accident. I keep walking and just let him follow because I don’t want to say yes, but I’m not going to say no. The night is cool and it feels like it might rain. He catches up to me and we walk in silence.  Wisps of clouds swirl in front of the moon as the wind whisks them rapidly across the sky. All the stars are beneath their blankets. The air is clean after the stale atmosphere of the bar. I feel better. I decide to talk to him.

“It’s a nice night.”

“I think it’s going to rain.” Even as he says this, a drop lands on my hand, scaring me in its suddenness. As the rain begins to fall harder, we run. Our hands naturally find each other and we are laughing and breathless as we hurry through the springnight mist to my apartment. I invite him in. After all, it would be rude not to after he came all this way and then walked-ran me home through the rain. And it’s still raining, so making him leave would be mean. I unlock the door and stand aside. “Nice place.” He looks around the small cozy living room. It is a nice place. It’s mine, and I fixed it how it is, with shades of a soft stormy blue. Deep plush furniture and graceful art projects the image I want people to see when they think of me. It is clean and smells of vanilla. There is a fireplace and it would be nice to light a fire but I don’t have any wood. Where do they think you can keep wood in an apartment?  I often find myself wondering who decided to put real fireplaces in this newish complex.

“Can I get you a drink? A beer?”

“Don’t got none,” he mimics the waitress from earlier and we laugh. “Let’s have wine if you’ve got some.” I feel awake and happy after our run, and I hurry to the kitchen and come back with a bottle of wine, a corkscrew and two glasses. I hand him the bottle and the corkscrew and he deftly pulls the cork. He sniffs the cork and raises an eyebrow at me and we laugh again. Our glasses don’t match because I usually drink liquor and I have never bothered to buy a set of matching wineglasses. I’ve picked up a few at weddings here and thrift stores there. He proposes a toast. “To rude waitresses everywhere. May they always drive their customers out into the rain.” We drink to the waitress.

Then it is quiet and I don’t know what to say. I move closer to him and he pulls me in with a hug. I lean comfortably against him with my legs propped on the coffee table and our wet clothes feel warm where we touch. He wants a cigarette and reaches across my legs to where he had set a pack as he emptied his pockets to dry everything out. I take the pack from him and peel the cellophane away. I snap open the top and part the foil to pull out a completely dry cigarette. I suddenly become aware of the music he must have put on his phone while I was getting the wine. My favorite artist sang softly of glass houses and burning memories. Not love songs, but poignant nonetheless. I feel wistful and put the cigarette in his mouth. I try to light the lighter but it has gotten a little wet and it just sparks, miniature fireworks in front of my eyes. I stare at him. My hands are shaking as I try to get the lighter to ignite. I take the cigarette out of his mouth and kiss him. He puts his arms around me but I pull away.  Now I know he wants me and I need a moment. “Here, you should smoke.” I give him the cigarette and this time the lighter lights and he pulls my hand with the flame up to the cigarette and lights it and very smoothly blows out the small fire with the smoke from his first puff as he stares into me. “Cute.” I can’t take it seriously because it would be too sensuous. He puts his head back on the couch and I slip over close to him again. The moment is waiting for us, but after the near-romantic encounter with the cigarette, I think he is breathless and needs to stop and think. I wait for him, my mind already decided. “Ah hell, Beth, I really like you.” He puts out his cigarette and I close my eyes.

<<<>>>

Later we are tangled up in each other and I try to free my arm from beneath him where it is falling asleep. “Mark?” I whisper. He is asleep and doesn’t answer. I lie awake and wait for daylight.