Maxine
It was after the fourth failed attempt to phone Josh again that I threw my cell at my living room wall, narrowly missing a painting given to me by Danny for my last birthday. Danny told me then that it reminded him of me: abstract and full of black and red with the occasional silver lining. Possibly it was a compliment, but I can’t imagine too many people taking it that way.
Unfortunately, I didn’t miss the wall and on impact my phone separated into five pieces, one of which managed to find safety by catapulting through the kitchen door and lodging itself under the fridge. Those are always fun to fish out.
I knew I was being a child, but I couldn’t help finding the crash and shatter of plastic particularly satisfying. I like throwing things. It makes me hit people less.
“What a fucking idiot!” I hate it when I get angry like this. The passionate desire to blow someone’s head off with a shotgun sends adrenalin coursing through my veins at ridiculous speeds and leaves me feeling uncontrollable and rather vicious. If I could channel it some other way I imagine I’d make my god-fearing live-in lover a lot happier. I’ve considered taking up boxing many times, but Danny would kill me if I ever came to work with a black eye or a busted lip.
Breathing fast but steadily in an attempt to diffuse my own anger, I found myself glossing over my Fight Club fantasy for the third time that day. While Edward Norton’s character longs to fight the Dali Llama, I clearly see myself in the ring kicking bloody Joshua’s ass while a bunch of sweaty shirtless boys point and laugh from the sides.
In the fantasy he bleeds. A lot.
“My angel…”
Shut up Peter. I am not an angel. Why he calls me this ever is beyond my imagination. Somewhere along the line this man assigned me a personality and has since remained in denial about the inaccuracy of it. And me? Well, I let him. Because if I don’t then he starts to cry which mostly makes me want to puke but also makes me feel guilty as hell because he is good to me. And consistent. And always there. Something I would not say about too many people. None in fact. Except for this one.
Now of course I couldn’t tell him that I was furious with my ex-boyfriend because for no longer being the sexy woman-magnet that I used to date, but had instead heartbreakingly transformed into some sort of castrated puppy dog, for a woman I had met once and instinctively hated. So I let him believe that my anger stemmed from the loss of my friend. It sure as hell was easier that way. If I told him the truth, he’d either get jealous or be all shame-my-poor-angel understanding about it and then I’d have to kill him. I can just imagine what a therapist would say about these kinds of fantasies. It’s quite possible that I should start seeing one.
Peter came up behind me and started rubbing my shoulders. He does this all the time. It’s something I should be grateful for but he treats me like I’m going to break so a massage just ends up feeling like the kind of maneuver used to stroke the cat into calming down. In fact, his cat’s name actually is Angel. She’s a Persian and she hates me. I’m not particularly fond of her either because her fluffy white hairs seem to constantly find a way onto my clothing.
“Peter, I’m fine.” I lifted his hands off my shoulders and moved away, desperately resisting the urge launch myself at him and watch his head hit the hardwood floors, and knowing that behind me he would no doubt be giving me one of his patented why won’t you let me help you looks.
“You want me to come with you?”
“No,” I need to be nice. “Thanks but I think I need to go by myself.”
“I could hold your hand…” Oh boy…
“It’ll just be weird ok? You won’t know anyone and everyone will be talking about Phillip and you’ll just feel left out. You won’t fit in.”
He sighed and gave me the look again.
“But I wanna be there for you.”
My patience is not my strongest feature.
“Dammit Peter just drop it ok?”
His puppy eyed gaze locked on me for a moment and he shook his head sadly. He never ever gets angry. Just sad.
“Fine, I’ll get this fixed.” Of course you will…
He bent down and started picking up the pieces of my phone and again I had to consciously stop myself from hating him for it. And from jumping on his back and beating him with my fists.
The problem is that I actually do like Peter, but only when I’m not feeling anything in particular. As soon as I get happy I have no desire to share it with him. Same thing goes for sad or angry. Any extreme emotion I suppose. Then I hate him.
If I was on anti-depressants we’d have the perfect life, because really he is the perfect man. Not bad looking for one. He’s got sandy blonde hair and olive skin. The matching blue eyes are a bit of a cliché but he hates it when I say that (ugh – he gets all sad and pathetic) so I try not to joke about that anymore.
He’s not overly well built but he’s not at all chubby either. A bit of muscle definition here and there helps to keep him interesting to look at.
He has a great job and we live in an amazing apartment which he’s pretty much let me decorate entirely. His tastes being of the beanbag-chair/lava-lamp kind meant that I had my work cut out for me when I moved in.
He always brings me flowers (granted I hate getting flowers but that’s not the point). Sometimes he even picks them.
He bought me an olive green Citroen C2 for our one year anniversary. And the only reason he hasn’t presented me with a giant ring is that I’ve made it perfectly clear that I don’t believe in the constitution of marriage and I have no intention of ever having children. He’s waiting for me to come around. In the meantime he rents and takes me to see as many sappy romantic comedies as he can find in the hope that somehow I’ll be bitten by the Hollywood love bug. He sickeningly thinks that he is Noah to my Allie, and he keeps telling people this while I grimace and bite my tongue. I fucking hate that movie!
He cooks.
He cleans.
He makes the bed.
He rubs my feet.
He plans activities and getaways.
He pays for everything.
On paper, he’s perfect. In reality, I’ve almost forgotten what it’s like to breathe…
“Here.” He handed me my sim card. “Your old phone is in the office.”
“Thank you.” I could hardly meet his eyes so instead I walked towards his office and found my old phone on the bookshelf that is otherwise filled with car manuals and books on how to program a computer. Every time I come in here I’m struck by the complete absence of culture. Well, maybe that’s not fair. Maybe cars and computers are cultural; they’re just not my kind of cultural.
“I love you.” I looked up to see Peter standing in the doorway, the stark whiteness of the room behind him almost illuminating him angelically, and I couldn’t help thinking that he’d ironically assigned me a nickname more suited to him. He likes to tell me that I bring out the niceness in him. That he wasn’t always such a good guy. It’s just more irony though. I’m not the same with other people either.
“I know…” How many times have I wondered if he’s noticed the lack of I love yous? Probably he has. He’s not exactly stupid.
“You need help packing?” He never gives up.
“No thanks babe. It’s only a weekend.”
“Ok.”
He really is just a good guy. And he’s good to me. And kind. And nice. Isn’t nice what parents want for their kids? Dad always told me to marry someone who was nice to me. So did Gran. And probably my mother too. As long as I married someone entirely not like my father.
“Babe?” He looked up hopefully as my voice cut through the charged silence. “I’m sorry. It’s been a crap day.”
“Yeah. Don’t worry about it. I know.”
Thing is though that he really doesn’t. He should know. But I screwed any possibility of that up by introducing him to the wrong person. He understands her. She’s nice and sweet and vulnerable. She responded well to the nice because she needed the nice. Now I’m stuck being the wrong person, because how do you tell the one person who would do absolutely anything for you that you’re just dying to be your irrational, cynical, all-round bitchy self? That you don’t believe in sunshine and daisies and that all those things he thinks he gets so well are as far off as the concepts of Heaven and Hades. How do you tell someone that the person they’re in love with doesn’t technically exist?
He walked over to me and placed a couple of soft butterfly kisses on my forehead. Soft and fragile. Making sure I don’t break.
“Babe,” I said pulling away from him, “I need to call my dad and let him know about Phil.”
“Okay,” he answered, “I’ll get the laundry.”
Oh yes… He does laundry too…