Their relationship consisted
“I
don’t want to talk about it,” she said.
“What?”
he said. “You always want to talk about it.”
“Not
now,” she said.
“Why
not now?” he said. “Because I want to. Talk about it. Now.”
“No,”
she said. “Not now.” She didn’t say “because I’m busy,” but she busied herself
with the nail file, smoothing and shaping her long pinkie nail that caught on
everything: his sweater, the cushions on the sofa, even on the dish towels so
she couldn’t dry the dishes. He once suggested she cut it, but she didn’t seem
to hear him—a better explanation than that she ignored his perfectly
reasonable, sensible, and practical request.
“It’s
just common sense,” he had said.
“Yes,
common,” she had said and continued curating the nail. It was the only one she
painted. My mark of distinction and she turned to it in times of stress.
Like now. He didn’t really want to talk about it, it being their relationship, not the damnable fingernail, but he
knew that was what adults did—talk about it—that’s what she always said—how mature; let’s talk about it.
So
there he was, exposed, ready to talk and she wasn’t—couldn’t? Wouldn’t? Who
knew? He thought she was always ready to talk. There were times—so many
times—when the words poured out of her, geysered out, and covered him with
their heat and stench, words, words, words, and he had to close his eyes and
cover his ears. Hiding, she said.
Yes,
that was right. But no more. No more hiding. He was ready. “Let’s just talk.”
Emphasis on “just.”
Her
head bobbed as he said that, so she heard him, so he said it again and her head
bent over the one damn nail (his private name for it), bobbed again, and he saw
that the file was wet, her hands were wet, and when he touched her chin and
turned her face towards his, her face was wet, silent tears falling across that
incredible skin, that beautiful face that he did, in fact, love.
Nothing
to talk about there.
“I
love you,” he said and took her face in his two hands so she had to look at
him, wet face, eyes cupping those tears that rose so easily. “I love you,” he
said again, “and we don't have to talk about it.”
“What! What happened to this story?” she said. “I thought you were going to break my nail
and make me talk.”
“I
meant to,” he said. “I really did, but then . . ." He shrugged, mute.
“But then I cried," she said and went back to sharpening the damn nail.
©2013
Kathleen Coskran
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