May nothing come between us

May Nothing Come Between Us

 

- Nothing.

Said with a momentary raising of the eyebrows, a slight tightening of the muscles around the mouth, an almost imperceptible tilt away from him. A facial shrug.  She tucked her hair behind her ear in an attempt at nonchalance.

 

The rising, open-ended intonation suggested that his question had come too late.  Perhaps if he had been more attentive. Maybe if he hadn’t been so absorbed in himself. If he were only a little less condescending. Unstated reproaches hovered over her like a halo.

He had picked up on it earlier, during the meal. She had been building up to this moment: it was difficult to say exactly when, but there had been a straightening of the back, an over-exaggerated display of table manners, brusque gestures, clipped words, almost formal politeness. Now it had come to a head.

What could have set her off? He knew she would never say, she never did; this was not an invitation to a discussion, there would be no debate. He was supposed to know, and know only too well. To her it was obvious, and therefore it had to be obvious to him too. And if it was not obvious to him, well…

It could be any one of a thousand details that had occurred over dinner. Was it the food, the way he had prepared the table? Had he ignored her while he ate? Had he unwittingly maligned her friends or family in any way? Had he, or could he be interpreted as having, criticised her look, her diet, her attitude towards something or other? Her emotional stability? And if so, why hadn’t she picked up on it at the time, thrashed it out, got it all out into the open? Why bottle it up until the cork flies?

 

He had asked the question with that virtual sigh, the here-we-go-again sound in his voice as if talking to a tiresome child. How he managed to get into those few words his sense of calm, his infinite patience, his poorly disguised disdain for what he no doubt considered to be over emotional women. Then the paternalistic spreading of his hands. What is it now? What is it this time?

How he undermined her self esteem, questioned her worth, smugly and insidiously highlighted her insecurities. Constantly, over and over again, with that air of superiority and infallibility that she was only too accustomed to. It lingered in his tone, in his gestures, in the way he expressed himself. They had had this argument before, so many times, but once more he would refuse to accept it.

He would cling to facts now, like a lawyer. She would be asked to pinpoint where exactly his flaw was supposed lie. That gave him the chance of cross-interrogation. There would be mitigating circumstances, claims of misinterpretation, appeals to context and intent. But he knew, he knew full well. He did not fool her. Yet still he pretended to have no idea of why she was upset. Why? To avoid the discomfort of the admission of guilt, of the recognition that between them there was an issue that needed to be confronted, that required honesty, sincerity, a little soul searching. On his part too, on his part especially. And he expected her to believe that he had no idea of what she was talking about. After all those years together? Seriously? Innocence personified. And denial, always denial. He preferred to sweep it under the carpet. Let it pass, look the other way. In the hope that eventually it would all go away, evaporate. Such a childish attitude.

 

He knew she thought he was well aware of why she had fallen into that dark mood, and he suspected that she also thought, for some inexplicable reason, that he consciously ignored the cause of her concern. Why would he do that? After all that they had in common, after all the time they had voluntarily shared together, why would he do something like that?

He tried to avoid thinking in generalisations, deliberately suppressing thoughts like ‘women are more emotional’. That was not acceptable. He must not judge humanity on the few personal examples he had experienced in his own life. Suffice to say that in this particular case she was over-reacting, as well as being extremely incommunicative.

 

She adopted a nothing’s-up, I’m-ok, not-at-all-bothered face. Resigned, in fact. Unfortunately. Did he imagine she enjoyed feeling hurt? Did he believe it was all the result of her fertile imagination, or some kind of inner desire for self harm? If he were not such an insensitive man. There were, she knew, others who would respond with more understanding, more empathy. Men who were not afraid to open themselves up, to accept their short fallings, men who really cared.

As always he would attempt to brush it all off as just another storm in a teacup, another little tantrum. Leave her alone and it’ll pass. Anything rather than talk about it, face up to the truth and admit it. He’d hold up his hands and say ‘what is it?’ in a pathetic attempt to deny his responsibility. As he always did. It was frustrating to say the least.

 

There was no eye contact. She tried to behave as if everything were fine with the world, but her jerky movements gave her away.

 

He was tired of this game by now. It was pointless, repetitive, so typical, verging on the comical. He had learnt over the years that there was no remedy, no possibility of a speedy reconciliation; he had tried so many different approaches without success. Any number of witty comments sprang to mind, but they would all have to be silenced if peace was to reign. Once again he decided, given the situation, to refrain from attempting humour or irony.

Still, he had to try something, at least make an effort to return to normality.

 

She realised that tradition and ritual demanded that he ask her again, as if it were something that could simply disappear, as if it were merely one of her little moods and she could just snap out of it at will. There would be a hint of anger and exasperation in his voice, thinly veiled under a guise of affection. But it would not come accompanied by an apology or a real desire to talk. It would just be going through the motions.

 

 

Said like a door closing. Not slammed, but firmly shut, followed by the click of the lock.

- Nothing.