Monica looked dazed. Like most couples, we had our routines, and as the days and weeks passed, we had taken each other for granted. I knew Monica would be there. She could barely move. In fact, I was aware she would always be sitting on the living room sofa with her usual tray table full of goodies, and besides leaving for a day or two to work with a touring company, the only place I went was to my regular AA meeting. Monica knew I could be counted on to end up at home at X, Y, or Z hour. The desire for alcohol had long left me, though my alcoholic thinking was still there-as they say, I carne for the drinking and stayed for the thinking-and with the exception of that brief moment when Monica blew me, so had my desire for sex. Complacency had set in. But Monica's near-death experience had made it painfully clear how devastated 1 would have been if anything had happened to her. I still stumbled when it came to words. My caring feelings came out like little more than a slap on the wrist as I admonished her to chew more carefully, but I was worried. She ate too fast.
"I still have a sour taste in my throat. I need an Oreo or something before `judge Judy' comes on."
I wet a paper towel and cleaned off the screen of our TV. 1 turned up the volume, which we always do when one of our favorite programs is coming on. When I wiped away the vomit, we found ourselves in the middle of a commercial for Stay-Free Maxi Pads. Sometimes when Monica was watching, I wondered what she was thinking, since it was hard to detect the presence of emotion; the rolls of fat created a poker-face. She was so concentrated on the television that she'd already forgotten the mess in the apartment and the upchuck that covered her. And who was Ito puncture her balloon? I got a small paper plate out of the kitchen cabinet and carefully laid three of the doublefilled Oreos on it. And I brought her a glass of apple juice.
"Don't you have any of that ice-cold milk?" I would have brought her the cold milk she loved with cookies if her stomach hadn't been upset.
"I need a commitment. I need to know our relationship is going somewhere." Next week Dawn confronts Robert on "One Life to I looked over in Monica's direction to see if she was connecting the soap opera star's words to our situation, but she simply stuck another Oreo in her mouth. Monica was like those prisoners who build walls of muscle (in her case it was fat) to protect themselves from emotional pain. She fortified herself with her constant eating. Monica picked up the remote and switched the channel. Bob Dole was sitting in a garden, hyping the virtues of Viagra.
"James, these cookies are so good. Could you bring me a few more? And I don't think a little milk would hurt me."
It was uncanny how she and I were always on the same wave length. She'd guessed exactly why I hadn't brought the milk without my explaining anything. It was this unspoken rapport that had existed in our relationship from the first days of our fucking, and continued on today. In addition, she hadn't called me by my Christian name in a long time. I was touched. For a moment, I played with the idea of moving us to a motel until the place could be cleaned up. Then I realized Monica was already adjusting to the new conditions. By the time we packed up and found a place to stay, we'd both miss our favorite programs. She seemed happy. The cleanup would simply have to be done around her. I could see Monica was working up an appetite already. Despite the fact I'd vomited my guts out, I needed to work out. We had an institutional-grade slop bucket and mop I kept on hand for just these kinds of emergencies. I filled it with warm water and soap and started to work on the most egregious puddles myself. As I looked at Monica I was filled with gratitude about the life we'd created together. Yes, I had a few bones to pick with her here and there and we had a big mess on our hands now, but these kinds of details are incidental when you're in love.
THE END