Sticks and Stones − January, 2000
One night, not long after New Years, we went to the River Rock Bar. Coralee was there. Peter had made comments before that confused me, about how he didn’t like her. I didn’t understand. She was funny and confident and beautiful and kind. Peter would say that she was a slut, which was ridiculous. I didn’t understand. I think now it is because he was attracted to her, and he couldn’t do anything about it. And it frustrated him. And perhaps he was angry that she was not attracted to him. Maybe he resented her confidence because he had none.
That night, after Peter and I left the bar, we climbed into bed together at the apartment. I was exhausted and the alcohol was beginning to wear off. I felt wonderful, warm and safe in bed with him. I began to fall asleep, and then he put his hand on my back, slowly tracing shapes with his fingers. He kissed my forehead. His hands slid down my back, pulling me closer to him. It was so romantic. Everything was so sweet and so magical. His breath was hot and fast against my throat, and I slid one leg over his body. His hands on my hips, holding tightly. Everything was wonderful. Everything was so wonderful. I was so in love with him. And then his voice broke the silence that had become so thickly woven into the atmosphere of the moment. It was a broken sound, pushed out between breaths of increasing desire; pushed out almost in a moan as he closed his eyes.
“Can I call you Coralee?”
How can I describe the instant change in the atmosphere? All the magic was suddenly sucked out of the room – it happened so fast – like a god inhaled. My hands faltered against his skin, suddenly too warm and awkward. Suddenly not good enough. There was silence following the request, silence louder than before, filled only by the blank look, the lack of movement. Peter were still breathing hard, staring at me. My mouth jerked slightly, wanting to speak, wanting to spit. The hurt mangled my throat with the need for tears and my voice just couldn’t worm through. Darkness gathered in my belly, a feeling that was strange and black and painful. I wanted to be sick. It was so humiliating. I was so vulnerable there, in that moment, naked in front of him. I wanted to slink back into the darkness. And in that second, I truly wanted to hurt him. I hated him; I hated myself; I hated Coralee. And so, when anger gave me back a voice, I said to him, “Only if I can call you Dan.” It felt wrong to say it, as though the words were the wrong shapes moving through my throat. I didn’t give a shit about Dan. But my words didn’t have the desired effect. “I knew it.” He whispered, gloating, crowing. He was pleased. Now his comment was justified. Fair. Punch for punch. Only, I didn’t mean it. Only, I never wanted to call him Dan. I never wanted him to be anyone except himself. So it was never really fair at all. He had cut me much deeper. And I didn’t know how to heal that.
I don’t how to describe how much that comment hurt. I felt like such a fool. That I could love him so much, when he obviously felt nothing for me. I slid away from him, pushing his hands away and lay alone on that bed next to him. He fell asleep long before I did. I lay awake, staring into the dark, until he woke suddenly to be sick. Silently, I helped him change. Wordlessly, I brought him water. I lay his head in my lap, feeling the warmth of his sickness. All night I watched him as he slept fitfully with fever. I carefully cleaned him every time he was sick, hating that I loved him still. The next morning, his fever broke. I never said a word about that night.
