A Short Story I Wish I'd Finished
Maybe one day I will...
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I'm truly not a fan of nature. The last two weeks have confirmed this to me. The itch and sting of swelling bites and blisters on my skin have confirmed this to me. The crack of dawn chorus of distressed howler monkeys, plummeting coconuts on my thatched roof and the roar of jungle rain each and every morning have confirmed this. Yet here I am surrounded by trees on all sides in a bungalow without air conditioning and flimsy mosquito nets feeling my skin become oily with sweat and humidity, sticking to the pillows of this bed, and Ted isn't even here. He's the whole reason I flew down here to Puerto Viejo. "Sam, let's take a different kind of vacation, you and me. Less party, more peaceful." We don't need a trip, we need a counselor, I'd thought at the time, but instead I nodded wearily and headed back to the bedroom to await details on the trip he just KNEW I'd love, because there's no "no" for Ted. And of course, I hate it here.
We've been here for five days already, and Ted's been out on the town for four of them, filling his soon to be beer belly with fish tacos and cervesas at Salsa Brava. Coming back smelling like salty ocean and "outside." My nana used that term often for us when we were little and used to visit her in Kingston. Scrunching up her nose as we sat on her good sofa (you know, the plastic covered one). "Get off my couch smelling like outside!" she'd say. She would've hated Ted if she lived long enough to meet him. He carried that smell with him always. Sweat and stink of 85 degrees but not quite enough deodorant. When he hops in bed with me, I pretend to be asleep. He snuggles under the sheets —without showering, a habit I wish would die a slow and painful death—and kisses my nose sweetly as if he loves me. I hold my breath in increments for as long as I can, then once I hear his breath slow down, I flip over as if struck by a fit of jitters mid sleep, haphazardly as if experiencing a bad dream. And I exhale.
I wish I believed that I still loved him. I'm not sure if he realizes that in my heart of hearts, I don't. Sometimes he could be painfully oblivious to things. Like the drawn out way I packed my suitcase to come here, disinterested, throwing random pieces into the bag. A red shirt here, striped tank there, some camo shorts, a white boho skirt, winter socks, a dusty pair of Chucks. No order. I usually pack my bags according to daily activities and a planned itinerary, cross referencing Accuweather forecasts for the week with the right article of clothing, the fit, the style. Makeup for dolled up nights. Multiple swimsuits for lazy days on the beach. Not this trip. There was no spark in my eyes, and Ted didn't so much bat an eyelash at my sluggishness and disinterest. So unaware. Or perhaps he simply doesn't care. Didn't know about my habits from the get go. As far as he knows, all of the tickets were bought and he'd fulfilled his "good boyfriend" quota. Jewelry every major holiday. Check. Just enough sex so that he doesn't seem needy. Check. Whisk girl away on tropical trip. Check.
Ted doesn't know me and doesn't want to admit it. He just knows that we look good together. It's not an untruth. I agree. We do. On paper, in pictures, in theory. The entrepreneurial son of a lawyer and investment banker with top graduate honors from the prestigious Westbrook Uni meets the writer daughter of two accomplished fine artists in a bookstore near her alma mater Hartsbrew, one of the nation's top black colleges. Beautiful and brown and successful, match made in social heaven. Two years later, the beauty of our union is fading and I'm the only one who acts like I can see it.
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I'm truly not a fan of nature. The last two weeks have confirmed this to me. The itch and sting of swelling bites and blisters on my skin have confirmed this to me. The crack of dawn chorus of distressed howler monkeys, plummeting coconuts on my thatched roof and the roar of jungle rain each and every morning have confirmed this. Yet here I am surrounded by trees on all sides in a bungalow without air conditioning and flimsy mosquito nets feeling my skin become oily with sweat and humidity, sticking to the pillows of this bed, and Ted isn't even here. He's the whole reason I flew down here to Puerto Viejo. "Sam, let's take a different kind of vacation, you and me. Less party, more peaceful." We don't need a trip, we need a counselor, I'd thought at the time, but instead I nodded wearily and headed back to the bedroom to await details on the trip he just KNEW I'd love, because there's no "no" for Ted. And of course, I hate it here.
We've been here for five days already, and Ted's been out on the town for four of them, filling his soon to be beer belly with fish tacos and cervesas at Salsa Brava. Coming back smelling like salty ocean and "outside." My nana used that term often for us when we were little and used to visit her in Kingston. Scrunching up her nose as we sat on her good sofa (you know, the plastic covered one). "Get off my couch smelling like outside!" she'd say. She would've hated Ted if she lived long enough to meet him. He carried that smell with him always. Sweat and stink of 85 degrees but not quite enough deodorant. When he hops in bed with me, I pretend to be asleep. He snuggles under the sheets —without showering, a habit I wish would die a slow and painful death—and kisses my nose sweetly as if he loves me. I hold my breath in increments for as long as I can, then once I hear his breath slow down, I flip over as if struck by a fit of jitters mid sleep, haphazardly as if experiencing a bad dream. And I exhale.
I wish I believed that I still loved him. I'm not sure if he realizes that in my heart of hearts, I don't. Sometimes he could be painfully oblivious to things. Like the drawn out way I packed my suitcase to come here, disinterested, throwing random pieces into the bag. A red shirt here, striped tank there, some camo shorts, a white boho skirt, winter socks, a dusty pair of Chucks. No order. I usually pack my bags according to daily activities and a planned itinerary, cross referencing Accuweather forecasts for the week with the right article of clothing, the fit, the style. Makeup for dolled up nights. Multiple swimsuits for lazy days on the beach. Not this trip. There was no spark in my eyes, and Ted didn't so much bat an eyelash at my sluggishness and disinterest. So unaware. Or perhaps he simply doesn't care. Didn't know about my habits from the get go. As far as he knows, all of the tickets were bought and he'd fulfilled his "good boyfriend" quota. Jewelry every major holiday. Check. Just enough sex so that he doesn't seem needy. Check. Whisk girl away on tropical trip. Check.
Ted doesn't know me and doesn't want to admit it. He just knows that we look good together. It's not an untruth. I agree. We do. On paper, in pictures, in theory. The entrepreneurial son of a lawyer and investment banker with top graduate honors from the prestigious Westbrook Uni meets the writer daughter of two accomplished fine artists in a bookstore near her alma mater Hartsbrew, one of the nation's top black colleges. Beautiful and brown and successful, match made in social heaven. Two years later, the beauty of our union is fading and I'm the only one who acts like I can see it.
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