Because the whole world must stand still and turn around them. Something it is not necessarily agreeable to.
They would find out very soon, of course. Tonight, in fact. April, the twenty-third, 1995.
Or is this how the whole ordeal ends for the both of them? With adultery and whispers, secrecy, hoops to leap through, the whisper of the truth?
This will end poorly.
There are of course those moments when you can’t remember what’s happened. Those must also be addressed. That split second when you realise, ‘oh… Oh I see, so that’s what’s causing all the trouble?”
Too much contact is a bad thing. That’s why there are rules. Rules about never during the week. Rules about secrecy, about hoops and casual arrangements. Rules that were mutually agreed upon.
They never go looking for trouble. That is the trouble. Trouble usually finds them. Because… well, we’ll save that for later.
“But what happens? What happens when you stop knowing where you were and when you were there, or even how you got there to begin with? What happens when you aren’t sure what was real and what your mind just made up as it went along? What happens when you’ve been blacking out for two weeks, losing four or five hours at a time? What happens when you don’t even remember how the whole evening ended, several days in a row? What then?” - from Brenna’s Journal
——
And that’s all for the day, I’m sorry to be the one to inform you. I know, I know, I’m slacking. My apologies.
When the tension finally breaks, it is more a matter of being an inevitable occurrence than a moment of maddening passion. By this time, both sides have been teasing one another for so long that it becomes anticlimactic. It is more a game than it is anything else, and whomever gives in first loses the round.
The repeated request from one to the other that they just stop thinking and act on what they really want becomes incredibly irritating after about the fourth repetition. At this moment, it is merely a matter of who gives in and starts it first.
Then afterwards, it becomes a blur of several things happening very quickly, there are a few games of blackjack, several cigarettes, and the obligatory questions that must be asked, facts established. The answers are surprising, but welcome. One side does have the grace to inform the other that their impressions of themselves are wildly wrong, and they should start believing it.
It could be dangerous, this believing someone about themself. It could be dangerous to believe that it stops when they want it to, and not otherwise. It could be dangerous to play these games to begin with, in all real honesty.
But both are only human, and following rules aside from their own is not something that humans do very well.
This is the void. The world is quiet here, as if it were asking for permission. The feelings of people are almost not in existence at all. Someone has turned the volume dial down to a mere whisper, as these preparations are made.
She chose the clothing carefully. She had already made her plans and the deals associated with them for the night. She wanted to tame her hair into gentle curls, set her mind in the right place for the evening, and just act.
There was no emotion here at all. Nor was there really a plan. She had openly told everyone involved not to call her, because she wouldn’t pick up. She had made sure that no one would tell her ‘no’ on this day. She had ensured that all things would be within one plan, but she refused to plan the rest of the evening at all. She would merely act on what she felt, and pay no mind to any sort of justifications. It had already been stated that she was a whole different creature today.
On this evening, she would not answer how or why questions.
She would dress, put on makeup, slip out silently, and fall away into a void of music, laughter, intensity, and cigarettes until the next morning.
This night was her own.
Though, this would likely end poorly.
The third night is much like the first. The doubts have finished creeping in, and people have changed their initial decisions. The songs that trigger a good time play early on in the evening, before it is even half dark out in the world. This turns out to be a fairly bad sign.
There is a bit of a tug of war going on between what is really there and what isn’t. It becomes a choice of what is right, and what is easy. But the lines are thin here. The black and white blur together and then everything is in shades of grey. Both parties have made a radical switch in positions.
That bothersome self-confidence issue presents itself in rare form on the third night. The other party has made some choices that frustrate you, and by extension, you begin to play the aggressor. There is still kissing, still touching, but… the other one, their heart just isn’t really in it.
A challenge has presented itself. So in the morning, you bathe and get yourself into the correct mindset. You cut your hair, and wear something from another time period. You begin to get ready for the following forty-eight hours, and the event that will make you so tense that if you happened to be a bow-string, you would snap.
But above all, you put a blanket ban out on the following day. You will not answer who, what, when, where, why, or how questions for the next forty-eight hours. On this day, you feel no need. There is truly absolutely no desire to account for one’s self, or justify one’s actions.
A taste of freedom.
It was like a trip down the rabbit hole. Whereas on first nights, things are always tentative, and very little actually physically happens, second nights are always intensive on everything. Second nights take everything from first nights, and put it under a microscope.
If the circumstances, the people, and the timing are right, then everything becomes a new level of intense. All the questions are loaded. Every glance, every touch, every word, becomes something of importance, worthy of being pondered and analysed.
This can go on for hours, if you aren’t alone. Hours of every look being a communication, fingers poking back and forth, jokes that no one else but the two involved understand… The music on the radio becomes a source of hilarity, because somehow the disc jockies know, and they know that we know that they know.
By the time it all calms down and you get a moment to breathe, just between the two of you, it’s already three in the morning. There is an obvious, blatantly defiant tension in the room. But you blow it off, because the more you let it build, the more likely things turn out on the right side of interesting.
Both of you said something about this. One said that they wouldn’t make the first move, while the other said that they have no self-confidence whatever in their abilities. You had reached a stalemate. It was almost pleasant.
But now, alone in this dark room, after the last nine hours of pure running, something has changed. The way they look at you, the way you look at them… Those looks are still charged, but this time there seems to be an intent behind one set of eyes.
The games have been intense this far, and the level of tension between the two of you could be cut with a knife, but the moment one person makes a decision, and that look begins to show signs of intent… You are already lost, it is merely a matter of how long it takes to give in.
A kiss is a kiss is a kiss. Yet somehow, they feel so different between one person and the next. Once you begin, though, it becomes near impossible to stop. It’s far easier to tumble onto the nearest flat surface.
But duty calls, and you must stop, so you pull away, and run for the door to the car before they can change your mind. It’s this. This little fact that the phone can ring at any second and interrupt you that makes it that much more fun. And then it does, and you curse it, because that was the last time that night you would be alone.
Until the next time the sun sets, and darkness takes over for a few hours. It promises to be very, very interesting.
—–
This will end poorly.
“When you don’t plan it, the most absurd impulses you act on can be the best ones. The ones that end up creating the best times you will ever have.
…Tonight was one of those times. I can’t explain the whole turn of events yet, because I really do not understand how it happened, but I had the time of my life in a moving vehicle from eleven pm on. I’ve just returned, and it is the absurd hour of six am.” -From Brenna’s Journal
That was this morning. She hasn’t yet been to bed. Not even remotely close to tired. The facts are harder to understand than you might think, sometimes. Even when it’s just happened, even when you have it all very clearly in your head.
You know those moments in your life that change everything, or at least make it seem like they change everything? It’s an instant, a split second decision. Like a phone call you make, on a whim, without thinking that it could possibly end in anything other than a ride home.
Then you realise you don’t want to go home, not really. So you ask a tentative question, and the answer surprises you. Then someone later on makes a few comments that set the wheels turning. The conversation makes a slight detour, just enough to allow for the occasional little quip. You both laugh at the person who made the comments to begin with, but now the idea is there, in the background. Tempting both sides towards discussing it.
There’s no rush, really. Neither party wants to make a decision without a signal from the other, but things change subtly. A few tentative remarks are exchanged, and while everyone involved knows exactly what the situation is, there is just this period of feeling one another out.
First nights are always the most intriguing, the most fun, the easiest to manage. After the first night, doubts start to creep in, within hours. Confidence falls away, and both parties start to consider changing their minds, thinking that the other has already backed out.
It’s a very dangerous, and somewhat thrilling game. As soon as someone raises the stakes, it becomes a challenge. It becomes a few parts of an entertainment, and the pieces of the story cannot wait to play themselves out.
———————
With that finished, I have to announce the reasoning behind just writing something out without any introduction.
Depending upon which set of rules you go by, BEDA is Blog Every Day in April, or, Blog Every Day in August, like last year. I am apparently crazy enough to do both. If it’s now, I’m going to be posting in April. If it is in August, I will also be posting in August.
The first four days or so will be more of this little story. Then… well, after that?
Look forward to randomness!
There are two pages of accidentally printed off conversations that are in my writing files. I keep them, even now, even with coffee and tea stains, even years later, because they are all I have left of you.
The single pure fact is that even while I was dating, even while engaged… even while married… I had the impulse to run to you when I felt like fleeing. The only real thing is that there is nothing in this entire world that could hurt me so completely that a day or two of films, good food and a few drinks with you could not fix it all.
Perhaps that is the reason I don’t ever really, completely feel things. Nothing was ever real until I shared it with you, or pastry boy. Maybe now, a few months short of my twenty first birthday, it is too late to realise that. But at the back of my mind, you are still the beneficiary, still the one every word I write for my books is dedicated to. Still the voice of reason about my marriage that says, “Get out! Get out now, while you still can.”
I never feel it otherwise anymore, but when I look at those pages and really read them… I am, very briefly, a few years younger, and hopelessly in love with the person who wrote the other half. You, my dear, are a time machine. I even remember that story you wrote that we were talking about. It makes me forget about him.
Then again, we both know I don’t fall in love. Not really. Not… completely. See, a long time ago, there were these two boys and another girl that I used to play warcraft with on the weekends. They raised my standards for the world. And sometime along the way, I became a bit of an elitist. And before the other two, I started writing for you. Whatever else changes in my life, you seem to be eternally Rhett, and I will apparently always be your Scarlett. Whether or not I like it.
So this is for you, though no doubt, you will hate it:
“It’s such a cliche, the waiting and the biding your time, the packing your things slowly, and secreting away money for weeks or months before you leave,” she paused for a moment, her eyes dull and empty, and gave a grim laugh. “But it’s true. That really is how it happens. It’s how it has to happen. In secret, in silence. You act as if nothing were wrong while you plan and wait for the moment when you might escape.”
She rose to get the tea, as the kettle started to whistle, while Bridget just looked on, waiting for her to speak again.
She did, with an empty voice, “The first time he hits you may be some time in. First comes the manipulation, and the pain of how he tells you that you’re worthless… The way he makes you cry and then comforts you. He gains complete control before he starts. And the first time he hits you, it might seem like an accident; he’ll apologise, he’ll swear it will never happen again. He’ll hold you and comfort you, and kiss your tears away. Things will be calm for a little while. He’ll be sweet, and he’ll court you as if you were just beginning again. A period of grace where he apologises before the next time. But there will be a next time. and a next time after that, and again and again. Eventually the grace period will shrink to one single day, or perhaps hours in between his rages. After the first time it never stops,” she hesitated before continuing. “Then he will begin to make it your fault. The blame is on you for it all. He begins to convince you that you deserve all of it. He says he’s sorry, but that you know you did it, you know that you provoked him.”
A moment passed before Bridget dared to ask, ” And then what? What do you do at that point where you are convinced that it is all your own doing?”
The other woman let out a harsh laugh before she answered, ” Oh, you try. You try to be better , you try to be perfect, so that he never has a reason. But he’ll always find a reason after he starts. Nothing will ever be good enough to please him. His food isn’t cooked well enough, there is a towel out of place on the shelf… If he can’t find something, he will begin to invent excuses, after he’s tasted having power over you. You took too long at the market, so you must be doing something else, something bad. You catch the eye of some other man accidentally, and he won’t stop looking at you, so you must be having an affair behind his back. You still have friends that call or that speak to you somewhere, so you must be telling them horrible things about him. So he punishes you. But you try. You try and try to please him, sometimes for months, or even years.”
She was quiet for some moments before she spoke again, pouring and serving their afternoon tea.
When she spoke again, it was in a soft, almost whispering monotone, ” One day you stop trying to please him. You resign yourself to it all. You begin to simply go through the motions. Even when he starts to keep you from going out, makes you cut down or quit at work. Even when he starts to hurt you worse…” she trailed off for a moment.
“If you are lucky, one day you begin to lose your fear, even when he threatens to kill you if you tell. Or someone comes along to wake you up. Then you begin packing, once piece of clothing at a time. You begin saving every spare dollar, every spare bit of change. You begin to wait for that perfect opportuinity. That moment when he isn’t there, or isn’t looking. You make arrangements for thsoe you love. It’s much, much harder if you have a child. But you try anyway, you try that much harder. And if you are lucky, you get the chance, and you disappear, with your child if you can…” she trailed off again, the last word so soft Bridget could scarcely hear her.
Before now, it had all been without emotion. Everything she said came with a calm impression. But now the woman’s eyes were filled with something akin to agony.
Bridget tentatively spoke, seeing the pain, but also that the story was desperate to get out of her companion. So she gently asked, “Do you… want to tell me your story? I would like to help you get it out. I want to write it for you.”
The other woman was still, but after a moment she nodded slowly, “But not tonight. Not now. Come back later. Please!” she said.
Bridget nodded, then left to gather it all in order, and type some notes. It was wisest to let it be for now.
Only for now, though. Soon the story would begin to eat at them. It needed to be told. And stories were not known to take ‘no’ for an answer.
On most days, I have an agreement with the universe. I don’t mess with outside, outside doesn’t mess with me, and if outside and I are having a disagreement, I stay inside. This has worked very well up until recently. and by recently, I mean the greater part of the last week.
The universe and I are having a very loud and obnoxious disagreement. I have work to do. To do this work, I have to come here, to the library. I have no car, or driver’s license. This means I must walk. Walking is normally fine. except of course when it decides to pour for seven hours straight, snow in MARCH, or suddenly begin sleeting the week after the first day of spring. Mother nature and I are going to be having some words. Or possibly tea. Perhaps even a few drinks. This all depends upon how willing she may or may not be to drink with a writer and/or allow me to teleport to my destinations. I would not begin to think of asking her to change her weather patterns, but there has to be some sort of agreement made, or I will soon be homeless.
Someone please send me a case of champagne to take with me to my tea appointment with our very dear Mother Nature. Because unfortunately, even while sleep deprived and permanently neurotic, I still live out of my date book, and time must go on.
