Another Red Light

Jan. 5th 2006

Damn, another red light. With her car idling, she recalls the events of half an hour ago, of laying on their bed, alone in the lamplight, hearing the sound of their front door closing behind him. She recalls how heavily she sighed and resigned herself to the idea that he has failed her again in yet another test. That was when she decided that she felt like going for a drive.

The light is green now. She continues to drive. Her mind wanders back to her previous thought. Testing: it is a stupid idea, and she reminds herself ruefully that he was the one who came up with that system in the first place.

It’s his fault, and yet she’s the one who feels guilty. They didn’t even fight this time, tonight, and yet she feels so guilty. Her guilt turns to resentment as her thoughts turn towards the apartment downstairs. If only they had not invited him to join them. If only he hadn’t been given that choice just then: to “hang out” or go to bed with his partner. His lonely, hurting, and insecure partner. If only he hadn’t made the wrong choice. If only he had joined her in that bed, it would have been enough. It would have comforted her just enough that she could have slept then, in spite of the recent nightmares. Should have, could have, and would have.

She reminds herself that it is only a week or two until she can feel better again without having to try so hard not to feel so miserable. She then rationalizes to herself that he made his own decision tonight. It was his choice to play rather than join his lover in their bed. However, there is a larger issue. It has been a constant frustration for her; to see him make irresponsible choices, over and over again. Common themes with him seem to be always staying up late and waking up on time, messiness and disorder, inattentiveness and misunderstanding. All of these things are his problems. So why does she feel so guilty?

She sighs and signals with her blinker. At three o’clock in the morning, there are no other drivers, but it is a habit. She slows the car and makes the left-hand turn into the parking area. She pulls to a stop, opens the door, and steps out. Her dejection turns to anger. The gravel crunching under her feet seems strangely quiet compared to the raging of her mind. She knows that he will not call her, to ask her if she is okay. He will never understand, she thinks. She is not okay and he will not ever know why. Her hand reaches into her pocket, feels for her Zippo, and pulls it out.

With it, she lights a cigarette and walks calmly over to the bridge.