In The Interest Of Clearing This Out Of My Head

My Engagement, 2001

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On a Friday evening, we're drinking margaritas in his sister's small kitchen, looking out at gray skies and trying to summon excitement for the upcoming Memorial Day Weekend. His brother-in-law is ducking out into the drizzle to check the progress of our dinner on the grill.

At one point, he interrupts the silence to ask if he is too old for me, and I feel everyone's head swivel, anticipating my answer. This is an unexpected question, asked lightly, but with layers. There are always layers. I look up at him, trying to gauge his mood. I finally shake my head and smile a little bit, but it doesn't break the tension. Maybe I'm not trying hard enough. I reach out and awkwardly take his hand.

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Earlier in the day, at lunch, my co-worker asks about my relationship. She wonders if I love my boyfriend, if we have a future together. I don't trust her, so I order another drink and change the subject. When we get back to work, I realize that I am slightly drunk.

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The blender is whirring, preparing another round of drinks. He is unusually attentive - refilling my glass, asking if I have enough to eat. He talks about his temporary job with a landscaper. He is content. I notice that he has showered and shaved in between work and here, and the knowledge of this effort creates a slight rush of affection. Still, I look at his movements and feel like I'm watching from behind a glass wall, completely disconnected.

Saying goodbye is going to be easy.

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On Tuesday night, I leave work and travel down the highway toward home. His home, his house, not mine. Never mine. I can't stand the thought of being there, so I pass the exit and continue south, heading toward the ocean.

The awfulness of the day before has brought me to this point. I sit in the parking lot, in my car with the radio off, staring at the waves. This is rock bottom, I think. I care about nothing. For the first time in a long time, I know what I need to do.

When I walk into the house several hours later, I am unconcerned about being late. He meets me in the front hallway. Strangely, he is not angry. He tells me that he was worried, and tries to kiss me. When I walk past him into the kitchen, I see that he has made dinner. There are flowers and a greeting card, demonstrating his apology.

That night, I lie awake in the dark, listening to him snore beside me, planning my escape.

__________

We open champagne, pouring a bit into each plastic cup. Before we drink, he asks everyone to name something they are grateful for. When my turn comes, I know the right answer to give: for my amazing boyfriend, who loves me so much. My delivery is flat. No-one cares.

We toast, and his brother-in-law notices that my boyfriend hasn't said anything.

"Me?", he says, happy to be the center of attention. He draws out the moment. Inwardly, I roll my eyes.

"I'm grateful for this." He takes a jewelers box from his pocket, holding it out to me. I am frozen. I am panicking. All I can think about is the absurdity of getting engaged while wearing baggy carpenter jeans and a ratty t-shirt. I take the box and open it. A perfect diamond, the one I've always wanted. Without knowing why, I slip the ring on my finger. (After, when I can be private with my thoughts again, I will remember that he had to be prompted to ask The Question. I'd been obedient for so long. Why would he even need to ask to be mine?) His family erupts in celebration.

I am not present. No-one cares.

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The ring feels foreign to me. Heavy. I am afraid. We are linked, he and I, in some kind of awful dance, playing itself out over and over again.