In my heart—for lack of a better word—I ducked. Head down, I slipped past the pharmacy, skirted the cafe, and swung behind a display counter illuminating, of all things, fresh cod. I felt sick. I blushed. Afraid wasn’t the right word, but I was afraid to look up. There would be one moment – just the one – when I learned if Mira had, or had not, caught me. Perhaps I really did love her. My mind quickly made a coarse sound. I shook my head, desperate to erase anything by way of sentiment.
I wasn’t practicing sobriety, but I appreciated the drunk’s serenity prayer. Catholic, in a social sense, I didn’t believe that prayer changed God, but I was confident prayer changed those who prayed. I wasn’t convinced I wanted to change. Also: This didn’t mean one should go prancing away their days praying for just anything. That sort of behavior would change you all right, but in all of the wrong ways. In other words, prayer, in this particular situation, was not an option. Mira – my wife – had or had not seen me. Praying for the past was like eating for world peace. So whatever. Get it over with. I turned and looked up, expecting to feel the full weight of that particular shame accompanying eye contact.
Well alright then! She hadn’t seen me. I exhaled through my nose. A sort of sigh. Of release. But no. Not calm. Not happiness. Thank God she hadn’t, though. Seen me. Can you imagine the scene? (Rhetorical. Don’t bother. Ugly. Horribly Ugly. Trust me.)
It is better, then, to consider where we stood, presently. Given Mira’s current position in line, I was concealed. Hidden, really. She would have to give up her spot – which, given the obscene number of customers, had taken at least twenty minutes to attain – to spot me. I had the upper hand. Of what I wasn’t sure, but as my blush bled free from my face, and my body cooled, what had risen as a rush of concern had puddled by my feet and there I was, cool as ice, certain I was winning.
No.
More accurately, I felt that whatever was taking place was, in the first place, a contest. That there was something worth winning.
That I wanted Mira to change, and that she should take this personally, was absurd. My thoughts, I can assure you, consisted of nothing by way of affront. These ideas were nothing that I lightly entered. If anything, thoughts, ideas – if you could even call them that – well, those, like a virulent and malicious sort of ‘mind’ malware, entered me! Of course she did, though. Take everything personally. And in classic Mira fashion, not only ideas, not mere thoughts (which were the afterbirth of suggestion’s abortions, were you to ask me) everything I did she consumed like a sort of bitter tonic, every action vitriolic virtue signaling deemed an overture suggesting that she, not I—
Well, you get the point.
If she would just back off a bit was all! Act her age. Get a life. Then I could see where we stood. Ah, but you can wish in one hand ….
Quickly, hiding there behind the cod, I viewed the situation figuratively. Mira would have to move from her unstated position (It was not her, it was me) to see. And she would no more give up her coveted position in line than entertain the notion, let alone examine the fact, that I was a good man, a person who could be trusted, and that if our marriage was to move forward – and at a much faster pace than her place in that dreaded line comprised of geriatrics and drug addicts – she must, must, give an inch. Sadly, and I pulled my phone from my pocket, Mira’s intent was to provide a length of rope long enough by which to hang myself.
I wrote what I always wrote: Have a great day— Love you. (This followed by your basic heart emoji.)
You won’t believe me, but I assure you what followed is true. You see, I appreciate the plight of the person in line, waiting for their medicine. Big Pharma? Big deal! I reup on my klonopin and my oxycontin once a month. I do not abuse my prescriptions. I have a good reason. I have nothing to hide. (Other than my pills from Mira who will, if able, swallow them without mercy.) And so it is necessary. It is vital for me to conceal. To, on those evenings when I run through my prescriptions and have no medication to get through the following work day, responsibly request the morning off, pick up my refills, and arrive to teach as soon as I’m able.
So yes.
I texted my wife as cover.
But I wasn’t even looking in her direction when, phone buzzing (my phone is always silenced), I looked down to check my texts! I was unaware of who messaged me, and why.
You too. Mira had typed. And then: At home reading, about to get up soon. (Yellow emoji with heart eyes.)
To say I immediately understood the importance of her response (if only she had stopped at ‘too’!) would not be overstatement. That would constitute a lie. Watching – natch, studying – my wife approaching the counter, receiving and then paying for any number of prescriptions (to this day I cannot say the number, offering only that she needed a bag), I realized she was lying.
To me!
Mira had lied to me!
Heart thudding, I prayed (not literally) that she was going to leave. That she was not going to do anything by way of shopping.
And she did not go shopping.
She left.
And in leaving she passed by close enough so that, had I called her name, she would have turned.
Mira did not turn, though. For I did not call her name.
Alone, at last, I didn’t know where that left me.