PDF - “Honey, I’m home…!”
“I’m home, too.”
Jon comes into the living room.
“Anything the matter?”
“No. Nothing’s the matter. Can’t you see?”
He sits down, careful as ever when I’m in ‘the mood’.
“So what is the matter, honey?”
I switch channels again – and then change my mind and switch back.
The video comes on again. Because I set it to loop. At least the DVD-recorder is still working.
“Had a good day at work?”
“Don’t change the subject. You were also sitting there, curled up on the couch, in the morning when I left.”
“Maybe I like to sit here, curled up on the couch.”
“Maybe you don’t.”
“I’m fine, Jon. Are you going to fetch the kids before or after dinner?”
“My mother called and said they’d asked if they could stay over for the night. So I guess it’s … our night… if that means anything.”
He gets up, heavily, making a show of it.
” – Don’t give me that, Jon. Don’t try to play the victim here. It’s not as if you don’t get any – ever.”
For a moment he stands, bewildered, looking at me like I was some kind of buy in the supermarket that he’d dragged all the way home and then found out already had an expiry date.
“Now – what the hell is that supposed to mean?” he asks, already getting angry. “I’m not trying to attack, criticize… ”
“You were about to go into victim mode.”
“And you are not? Good – then it’s perfect that the kids are at my folks. That means we get a perfect evening alone to sit – each in our own little corner of the old sofa – and pretend not to feel victimized. Hey, that’s a fucking great prospect!”
“Don’t get mad at me, Jon… I’m sorry… ”
I can almost see what he’s thinking:
‘Now she’s retreating – the pity-me-curl-up-again-tactic. Well, I’m not going to fall for it. She’s got to pull herself together.’
And that just makes me more weary and somehow … angry.
And that doesn’t improve the atmosphere.
Jon breathes in, audibly .
“Do you want me to fetch you something from the fridge?
“You gonna go get a beer?”
“Figured I might … ”
“Well, get one for me, too.”
Armistice. Temporary. God, is that what marriages come to after only 4 and a half years? Well, I guess it depends on who is marrying whom.
Jon comes back with two Budweisers.
“Don’t we have anything else?”
“Nope.” He opens his and gulps down the first gulp. “You want?” he asks. “Or should I do both?”
“I want… ” I reach for mine but I can’t make myself do anything more than zip. On TV a group of dancers fling each other around. For the 13th time in the last hour. I don’t feel like switching channel. I don’t even feel like trying to pretend I should feel like changing channel.
“That looks… different,” Jon says, already half-way through his first beer.
“New single from the Pet Shop Boys… ” I mutter, looking distractedly out the window. It’s not as if the view is important anymore. I just listen.
Together’s amazing. Together we’re blazing. Together…
That’s all I can hear right now, but the words – I don’t feel them. I just register.
“I didn’t know you like gay-music?” Jon says, with that mock-inquisition-look that I’m sure he practised a lot in the service.
That’s Jon’s way of trying to be amusing, by the way.
“I like all music that’s good.”
“I don’t like pop.”
“I know you don’t like pop. I bet your brother would, though.”
“David’s got taste.”
“Yeah, because he’s gay.”
Jon laughs drily.
“I don’t think he ever liked those Pet Shop whatevers… and I thought they’d retired by now. I remember dancing, at some party, to that Go West-song… “
“In high school?”
“Something like that. In the stone-age… “
“Must’ve been. By the way – Go West was Very Much a homo-song.”
“Maybe I do like some homo-songs…”
Now it’s my turn to laugh, but it’s strangely dry, too, almost guttural.
“Honey… “
And now… the tears. I don’t want the tears but they always seem to be waiting for the moment when you have your parades down, and then they press on. Damn them. Damn…
“Honey…”
“Let’s not get started on it, again, Jon… Let’s not…”
“I’m not about to start anything. I was just wondering…”
“I HAVE checked out the job sites today. All 7 of them I know plus
couple of others I didn’t know.”
“Okay.”
“There’s nothing. Okay. Nothing I’d qualify for anyway… “
“I dont’ get it. You’d qualify for a lot… I mean… “
“I never finished my degree. You know that.”
“I know that, but…”
“Let’s.Not.Go.There.Jon – okay?”
“Whatever – hey it started again.”
“That’s because it’s a recording. I’m abusing the new DVD-recorder uncle Web bought you. I think it likes me better than you…”
“Whoa-boy, that’s some statement.”
“It is?”
“Do you really like that song? To me it just sounds like any other pop-song.”
“Maybe that’s why it’s good. But since you ask, I didn’t even remember I liked them until I just – accidentally of course – switched to MTV and there it was. It brought back a few memories.”
“Such as… ”
“I never really listened to Pet Shop Boys. They were too … aloof. And then later… I just forgot about them. Oh, there were the hits of course, but I was never really into that music. Lin, however… ”
“I see… ”
For a long time we just sit in silence, let the swirling synth-rhythms fill the room. Like some kind of drug.
“Maybe I should got take a shower,” Jon then says. “If there’s nothing…”
“There isn’t.”
I won. This time I won. Carrie vs. tears: 1-0.
I should be proud.
He gets up, but it’s obvious that I’ve upset him. He wants so much to help and I… I just want to watch another song that sounds like songs of old. That sounds like it’s about old teenage dreams that can never be.
The safest songs of all.
*
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Feedback: I hope you enjoyed the story. All stories are (copy-)edited regularly. I'd like to hear what you thought of it - or - if you have corrections of US English grammar or suggestions for better use of language, particularly as regards my attempts at writing slang or local dialects. (English is not my native language.) You can reach me here: beyourstory AT gmail DOT com - or leave a comment on the Facebook fan-page Thanks! - Chris.
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