“What the fuck are you talking about?” My voice rose.
“I’m not being cryptic.”
“You never did?”
“Why do you think I never said it back to you?”
“I thought you didn’t want to confuse everything because I’m married.”
“I’m sorry. I thought you knew.”
“Do you care that I love you?”
He looked at me like I should have already known the answer. He looked at me like he didn’t want to have to say it, and then he said it. “No.” Right on cue: the lump in my throat and the tears down my face. He looked at me like he really didn’t want to be going through this bullshit right now.
“Are you attracted to me?” I asked. Throw me a fucking bone.
“Not as much as I probably should be.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
He opened the door for some woman with a stroller and then nodded at me. “Let’s go back inside.”
We sat down. I cried. There was no point in trying to hold it together anymore.
This is life: You walk down this path and people join you. Then they leave, and you’re alone again, and you keep replacing them. Then those people leave too.
“I don’t want to be with you. You need to accept that,” he said.
“I learned it a second ago,” I said.
“Look, I’m not abandoning you. I do care about you.” This was part of the speech he had rehearsed so he could come out as clean as possible. So he could say to himself, “I didn’t just abandon her.”
“Are you seeing someone?”
“There isn’t another woman,” he said.
“Give me another chance.”
“Believe me, it’s better if it ends like this than if we had a big blowup or if Peter found out. This way we can always be friends, okay?” He smiled.
“I thought you loved me.”
“I didn’t love you and I never have,” he said, staring directly into my eyes. “I didn’t chase you. I didn’t lie to you.” He was being a lawyer. He had all this evidence. “I never said I loved you or made you any promises. I’ve always been honest with you.”
“Stop it. Look, I only like to be treated badly in a hot way.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not your husband. I didn’t make any vows to you.”
“You’re a great teacher, by the way. Some of the lessons were repetitive, like what a giant fucking asshole you are.”
“You came on to me!”
“Right, the innocent sixty-one-year-old teacher who was taken advantage of. Ripped from the headlines of Asshole Magazine.” My voice got louder. People were staring. I was officially making a scene.
“I only answer you when you text or e-mail me first.”
“Like that proves anything except how fucked-up you are. You led me on and you know it.”
“Fine, I wanted you then, but now I don’t. Clear?” He blinked, and then he glared at me. I could feel him hating me for not going along with the script. I wasn’t supposed to fight back. I was supposed to cry and say I understood.
“If you never heard from me again, would you care?” Fuck it. If he wasn’t going to have sex with me, then what was the point of trying to be cool about this?
“I would be concerned.”
“Concerned like they’re out of milk at the store, or concerned like my child is missing?”
“In the middle,” he said.
“Why did you start with me?” I should have shut up and left. There were no answers that would make anything better.
He shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”
“How is it possible I’m sitting here dying, and you’re sitting there like nothing?”
He shook his head. “We’re living in two different universes.”
“Did you sleep with other people when we were together?”
“Yeah.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because it was none of your business.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to be with someone I can be with be with. Someone I can marry.”
“But you’re old and completely fucked-up. Why would anyone want you?”
“Great point. Why did you want me?”
“Because I could tell you were sad.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Can’t you, like, grandfather me in to this new life of yours? Fuck me till you find a wife?”
“Grandfather you in? You’re funny,” he smirked. “C’mon, let’s be friends. This is the worst.” He never said anything was “the worst” before he met me. He was using my own language to manipulate me into not making a scene. He deserved to be embarrassed.
The waitress came by, and I asked for a dessert menu. I was making it uncomfortable for him by making him sit there. I was willing to endure the pain knowing at least I was making this difficult for him.
“Will you share with me?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said.
I ordered the triple chocolate mousse and banana ice cream. “You are a deceitful selfish asshole.”
“You’re the one who is married, and I’m the one who’s deceitful?”
That was good. I hated him. I kind of wanted to make out with him. Why was he doing this? Why couldn’t we just go and fuck and be happy?
“I’m married, so I’m always the villain and you’re always the innocent one, right?”
He grinned. “Why did you want an old guy like me anyway?”
I could tell it wasn’t an act. Never seeing me again didn’t mean shit to him. Take that, self-esteem. “Is this the only way you can get off anymore?”
“Keep it up, and I’m gone,” he said.
“Fine, go. I’ll go, actually. You are officially boring the shit out of me.”
I stood up and threw my napkin in his face and knocked over my water. Before I could take his glass and throw it at him, he jumped out of his seat, and then I left. Tears running down my cheeks. I called Elizabeth, blubbering. She said, “Just come here.”
Behind every crazy woman is a man sitting very quietly, saying, “What? I’m not doing anything.”
* * *
It was inevitable from the moment we met that Peter would leave me.
After we returned from visiting his family, things cooled between us. It was obvious, but he wouldn’t admit to anything being different. A common tactic of men — denying they are behaving differently so you feel like you’re just going nuts.
He would wake up early, go for a run, do sit-ups as he watched The Colbert Report, then go to work, and then come home. Instead of pawing at me drunkenly like he usually did, he would pass out facing the wall. I tried to kiss him but would get a cheek instead of his lips. When I said, “I love you,” he said it back like a robot. When I asked him what was wrong, he said he was busy. I chose to believe him.
We had been together for so long we had gone through cycles, and I wanted to believe this was just another one. I tried waiting it out. There would be a day when he would feel lonely or sad and then he would come to me. If I pushed too hard it would just start a fight. He would scream, “Dammit, Maya, I am exhausted.”
I called Ogden. “Hey, miss me?”
“Of course.”
“Regret dumping a hot piece of ass since you know you’re closer to death, and you probably won’t have that many chances to have sex?”
“Every moment of the day.”
“Good. Drinking more?”
“Yeah, Maya, I’m completely miserable and live in constant regret.”
“It’s too bad you ruined a good thing. You’ll never get another chance.”
“I don’t think I could honestly live with myself if I lost you again, so maybe it’s better we don’t try it again.”