Romance: The Art of my Love: a story of betrayal, desire, love, and marriage (18 page)

The overall effect – Paul’s speed, his strong hands, even the pain he is causing me – is that I’m even more turned on. Every move he makes resonates inside me. Each powerful thrust inflates my desire. I’m moaning now, my head tossing from side to side, my eyes closing. “Look at me!” this strange man commands me. “I want you to know who’s fucking you, and who’s making you come!” I open my eyes, but I’ve gone blind. The orgasm wracks my whole body, and I scream. Paul wraps his arms around my back, lifts me up and presses his lips first to one breast, than the other. Then his own orgasm takes him. He presses me to him so tightly that I can’t breathe. He buries his face in my hair. A couple minutes later, though it seems like an eternity to me, he lets me go, and he collapses down on the bed next to me.

I’m the first one to recover. I stand up, collect my bathrobe from the floor, and go to take a shower. When I return, Paul is gone. I put on a t-shirt and some gym shorts. The sound of the door opening makes me turn around. Paul is coming in again, tucking a pack of cigarettes into his breast pocket.

“Since when do you smoke?” I ask.

“Since you left,” Paul answers, pale. “Where’s your bathroom?”

I point. He runs for it, and a split second later, I can hear him vomiting. I take a bottle of water from the refrigerator and bring it into the bathroom. Paul is sitting on the floor, slumped against the toilet. I get out a clean towel, sit myself down next to him, and pass him the bottle. He doesn’t have time to take a drink before he’s heaving over the toilet again. He obviously feels terrible – I can see beads of sweat on his forehead, and his face is ashen gray.

“How much did you have to drink?” I ask him, and offer him the water again. This time he manages to open it and swallow half of it down.

“A lot.” Paul’s eyes are shut now. I wipe his forehead with the towel. We both sit there for a while, until Paul pukes up more of whatever is still in his stomach into the toilet. I soak the towel in cold water and wipe his face again. The process repeats itself. About an hour later, when we’re both completely beat, Paul seems to be done throwing up. He sits motionless, eyes closed, while I flutter around him.

“Cinderella had it a lot easier than this. She was used to cleaning up after everyone. Her prince could get drunk off his ass every night if he wanted. Probably didn’t even bother her. I bet that turned him into a real alcoholic.” It’s amazing what comes to my mind when I’m stressed out.

Paul had really scared me. First he bursts in unexpected in the middle of the night. Then he makes me have sex with him. Now here he is, sick and sad, chained to the toilet. I feel so sorry for him, and my heart is full of tenderness.

Paul opens one eye, then the other. He does it slowly, as if his eyelids are made of iron. He tries hard to look at me, his eyes gradually focusing. I know the exact moment the meaning of my words hits him, because little wrinkles appear around his eyes. Usually they show up when he smiles. He’s too wiped out to actually grin right now, but that smile is in there somewhere, close to the surface.

“My poor little Cinderella,” he mumbles. Bracing himself against the wall with his hands, he tries to stand up. “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna be an alcoholic.”

I stand up quickly myself, and give him a shoulder to lean on.

“That’s great, I am relieved to hear it,” I answer calmly. “Let’s go. I’ll make you some sweet tea.”

We creep out of the bathroom together, and I nudge Paul toward the table. While he sits down, I put the kettle on and start looking around for some food. There is not much to eat, just some crackers and jam that I put out on the table together with a cup of strong tea.

“Drink this,” I tell him, adding a few spoons of sugar in the cup, “You scared me.”

Paul starts nibbling on the crackers, dipping them in his teacup first. I take a roll of paper towels and head back into the bathroom to clean up. When I’m finally done, Paul is sitting, or rather slouching, on the side of my bed, head in his hands. I sit down next to him. I still don’t quite understand what just happened. I know one thing, though: Paul is here. He has come to me. And he’s furious with me. He was at first, anyway. Now, though, he just looks terribly old and tired. For a while, we sit there quietly together. Then Paul lifts his head and looks at me.

“Emmy, I couldn’t do it anymore. I had to come. I know you needed to spend some time alone to figure things out and so on.”  Paul runs both his hands through his hair. Now I know why it’s sticking out like that: Paul has been using his hands for a comb. “I always took the lead when it came to the two of us. From the start, I was the one responsible for making decisions. I decided to get up here and explain my point of view. When I saw you there in the bar, though, with all those guys, and then you left with one of them... I was seriously pissed. I wanted to punish you.”

I can tell he’s having a hard time talking. Still, my heart barely beating, I sit there and don’t say a word. This night belongs in some other dimension of time and space. I’ve never seen Paul like this before. He has always been calm, rational, and quiet. Gentle, too. This new person next to me is rude and crude, impulsive, and passionate. That is Paul, too. The man I love. When I look at him, I realize that everything about him is dear to me with no exceptions. That includes the person he was before, and the person he is here and now. That episode at the toilet wasn’t exactly on my bucket list, but even then, puking and ugly, he was more important to me than anyone else in the world.

“I’m sorry I was so rough with you,” Paul whispers, finally. He wipes his eyes. They look a little moist. He wipes his nose, too. What? Is he actually crying? Paul? The world is changing right under my feet. My husband
never
cries. “I wanted it to hurt. I wanted to take revenge for what you did to me. But then you came... Your body is so sensitive now!

“I always loved you, and you didn’t do anything to stop me.” Paul keeps going, speaking very fast now, as if he’s afraid he’ll forget what he wants to say, or that I’ll argue or interrupt.

“When I was little, my mom used to take me to church on Sundays. They had this picture there of St. George, with his spear. He’s the one who slew the dragon. I thought he was some paragon of masculine strength and courage. I wanted to be like St. George with you, and slay all of your dragons. I was going to protect you from every evil.”

Without meaning to, I put a hand on his shoulder, and start to rub. He had slain my dragons, one by one. Couldn’t he see I had wanted to kill at least one of them all by myself?

“You were always so rational and calm. You weren’t interested in sex. One glance from you turned everything inside me upside down. It wasn’t just lust, it was this all-encompassing desire. But
you
didn’t need
me
. It’s true,” he cuts me off when I try to object. “Emmy, I know all about you. You haven’t hidden anything from me. What you needed was security, stability, some insurance that tomorrow would be all right. I tried to give you what you needed. I never thought I could actually fall in love with anybody. I had always tried to protect myself as much as I could, to keep it from hurting when I got dumped. Then you went and dumped me...” I hand him a tissue, and Paul wipes his eyes and nose.

“I didn’t dump you,” I comment quietly. “I just left for a while. I hated thinking about you with Rachel, and everything else that happened.”

“Sure, sure, but don’t you think it hurt me to think about how I had been used?” Paul blows his nose loudly into the tissue and turns towards me. “You think I haven’t been picturing you with John? It’s insanely hot, by the way. I basically walk around horny all the time now. I’m going insane. I started to smoke, hoping it would calm me down a little. It does, sort of. I don’t do so well with alcohol, as you’ve seen. Haven’t tried drugs or tranquilizers yet.”

“Wow, and I used to think that I married the smartest guy that I’d ever met!”

“Yeah, right, that sounds too melodramatic…” Paul pauses, then goes on. “The worst part, though, is that women can sense it. I have a bunch of girls in class right now. Before, any time one of them showed interest, I could handle it, no problem. It never even entered my mind to look at them that way. I had you waiting for me at home. Even though sex was the least important part of our relationship, what we used to do was enough for me then. Now I’m afraid I might not be able to deal with it.” Paul stops talking, and looks at me with pain in his eyes.

I’m afraid now, too. I had never thought about the constant crowds of college girls surrounding Paul at work. That’s especially strange, given that I had been one of those girls once. It’s just that I had taken it as a given that he was mine and mine alone, and that nobody else could possibly lay a claim to him. I had been so offended by the Rachel disaster, but the very same thing could have happened sooner, and much more banally, with some girl from his class. It’s actually surprising that nothing like that
had
ever happened. Now I finally realize what I had been depriving him of that whole time. I’ve been so self-centered! Not once had I considered things from Paul’s point of view. He had just always been there, and I never expected him to budge. Even now, when I picked up and left in order to sort things out for myself and take the opportunity to quit my teaching job, I never even stopped to wonder how Paul was handling things.

I finally know for sure that I love him. Just as he is: not ideal, not a prince, not a saint. I rise from the bed and stand in front of Paul. I wrap my arms around his neck, and bring his head to my chest. I need to explain to him what I’m feeling, and make him understand how much I love him. Right now, though, I can’t do it. I am just too exhausted, I might not find the right words. My eyes are drooping shut. I need a good rest, and I’ll tell him everything tomorrow.

“Ready to sleep?” I ask, pleadingly, and pull him down onto the bed. We don’t bother undressing. He wraps his arms around me, and I fall asleep right away.

When I wake up in the morning, Paul is not in bed. He isn’t anywhere. He’s gone. I find a note on the table: “Sorry about last night. I guess I better go away somewhere and start over, too. Good luck. Paul.”

I’m horrified. Can that really be it? Are we done for good? I love him, and him alone, but I didn’t tell him! Emmy, you idiot! You couldn’t have just said those three words, and
then
gone to sleep? You absolutely had to have a clear head and the right setting? This isn’t a movie, it’s real life! You deliver your most important lines when the person needs to hear them the most, not when the lights and the music are just right!

I don’t want to declare my love by text message or over the phone. I need to see his face. One more problem: Paul doesn’t even have a wedding ring. The silver band that I always wear is the sole symbol of our marriage. We decided not to get one for Paul, to save some money. The plan was to wait till better days, till we could afford one. Better days, my ass – things couldn’t be worse. I decide the first thing I need to do is to buy my husband a wedding ring. Then, plane tickets. That takes up almost my whole Monday, my only day off.

The next day, Tom shows up at the gallery, completely out of the blue. I hear the bell that jingles when somebody walks in the door, look up from my computer screen, and there is Tom standing before me. I’m so glad to see him! Tom is as lean and lanky as ever, with hair that same Pepto Bismol shade of pink, and his kind green eyes smile out at me through his glasses. I leap up to give him a hug, and he squeezes me back hard.

“Hello, girlfriend! I know, I know, you can’t help but rejoice in my radiant presence!”

Lorna emerges from her office, and she gives Tom a hug, too. I go to put on some coffee. Tom tells us about the deal that Rachel has sent him to Vancouver to take care of. He and Lorna discuss the details for a while, deciding when and where Tom will meet the clients he needs to see. Then Lorna gives me a wink, and asks, “Don’t you want to show Tom your latest work?”

Oh! How could I have forgotten? I clasp my hands nervously. I really have been painting a lot over the past few days, with all these new ideas swarming in my head. Tom’s opinion matters to me, too. After all, he knows what and how I used to paint, in my pre-John-and-Rachel period. Now he’ll be able to see the changes my work has gone through since those memorable two weeks in the cottage by the lake. I run upstairs to my place and pull out a couple of my recent paintings, ones that Lorna had praised. I like them, too. Tom takes a good, careful look, moving up close and then back a few steps.

“Well!” he finally declares, turning to me. “You are growing, not just by the day, but by the hour! There is so much passion in your work now. It’s just spilling over.”

Lorna laughs. She likes Tom’s assessment. She had also told me that the paintings are bursting with feeling, even though they’re abstract with no actual subject.

“No, really, what are you calling this series?” Tom asks me.

“Nothing, yet. I haven’t had too much spare time. I’ve just been painting what I feel.”

“I’d call them ‘Life is Beautiful,’ if that weren’t already such a cliché. But we can think up something more original. What about Sampling the Forbidden Fruit? Like it?”

That’s what I love about Tom – he always sees right to the heart of things. Of course I like it!

“You know, we’re opening a new exhibit at the gallery in a couple of weeks,” Tom says. “Young, promising artists. We’ve already got a couple of your paintings ready to show. Now I think we ought to show these, too, along with the older ones. You’ll have a much greater chance of finding a buyer.”