It Takes Two

When she asked Bill about the scar on his cheek, he grimaced and self-consciously or lovingly touched the tip of his finger along its rigid surface. He shrugged his shoulders and looked away, his eyes seeing something more vivid than the harvest moon, rising against the clear Midwestern sky. She followed his eyes, but couldn’t see anything. She couldn't see the clear green glass of the bottle as it approached the side of his face, couldn’t smell the bitter beer, couldn’t feel the pain as the flesh on his cheek ripped and his bone fractured, couldn’t hear the thud when his body hit the floor. She couldn’t absorb the shock when he opened his eyes in the emergency room, felt his face and knew that his life would never be the same again. At sixteen, he would never go back home.

He didn’t know why he held onto this information so viciously. He couldn’t get his mouth to form the words to tell her that his face was a souvenir from the last time he saw his father. He knew it was wrong to keep something like this from her. He knew that it bothered her, but he still couldn’t tell her. If he wanted to feel good about it, he convinced himself that he didn’t want to burden her. If he wanted to feel bad about it, he convinced himself that he was selfish. If he didn’t talk about it, the pain would eventually disappear. The scar would no longer hold meaning. Perhaps that was it. Every time he caught himself tracing those lines, he felt something that vacillated between nostalgia and rage. He was torn between love and pain.

The quiet of the night and his silence grated on her nerves. His unwillingness to open up had been driving a wedge in their relationship for years. She felt the familiar lump of anger in the pit of her stomach steadily start to rise.

She looked at the bushes, the flower beds illuminated by the small circle of light coming from the porch where they sat, each in their own Adirondack chair. She looked beyond the glow, not needing her eyes to see the large expanse of their manicured lawn, the towering trees, the white fence, the long, winding driveway leading to the highway. They had built the perfect home, the perfect yard, the perfect life.

She looked up into the blue black sky; its few visible stars sparkling like beacons. On any other night, this is when the calm would descend. Drive the resentment back down into her bowels. The vastness would comfort her. Remind her of her insignificance, how unimportant her problems are in the grand scheme of the universe. Tonight, she does not feel comfort.

“Diane?” Bill turned his eyes towards his longtime partner and it was her turn to look away. It was like a dance, their predictable avoidance, like new lover’s glances. But this time, she didn’t look away, refused to dance their dreadful tango. She let him look into her eyes and feel her pain.