On yet another yesterday, I sat on my sofa, suitcases with clothes scattered across the floor, a pile of too-small and too-old clothes behind me where I could easily add more.
The walls were almost bare, bright patches that the sun could not naturally dull created sceneless windows across the walls, the wall decorations missing because she had already packed them away. Hers was a one-sided decision to take what she wanted, as she always had, with no thought for my wants or what I valued. Admittedly, there were few works and pieces I wanted; however, she failed to consider that someone other than her lived in the house and shared in the beautification of the home, so she took no care to leave me any of those things that I might have liked. For instance, I particularly wanted the ceramic vase I bought from a hand-craftsman market we stumbled upon in Florence, South Carolina. It was painted with fine metallic paint, a burnished silver look that I remembered being so taken with because up until the moment I picked it up and felt its weight, I would have sworn it was ironwork. She never liked it, and said it was just a vase with nothing endearing or unique about it. She called it bland and tasteless up until the point that it disappeared from the mantel and reappeared in the boxes labeled with her name.
Conversely, I did not care much for the African-themed paintings she had taken, not because I don’t value the artistry of the culture but because they were wedding presents given by Carl, the chemical engineer she would have married had I not been conveniently present while he was working on his master’s degree. I recall his detached look when he presented them to us, that giving gesture that makes the receiver think what was given was an afterthought and obligation, not a heartfelt gift. I never liked him, but she claimed they were great friends. In the end, he should have been the one friend of hers with whom I should have encouraged her to remain in touch because no matter how wide she opened her legs and how diligently she flirted, he was more interested in his sex, not hers. In a way, I saved her from great humiliation and heartbreak, which is ironic when I consider that I saved her from exactly what she gave me. There is no doubt that had they married he would either have been a down-low brother or he would have completely crushed her with the brutal reality that no matter how hard she tried, in his mind, she could not compete with the loving a man could give him.
The idea that I wasted so many years with her, unintentionally saving her from what her life would have been had she married Carl was too much for me. Though the house was in great condition, I saw things around me through the filter of anger and disappointment, so the scene was one of dilapidation and ruin. The bright, true lighting was gone, and instead it was replaced by a depressing dimness as the sun failed to pass through the blood red curtains that we hung up to prevent scavenging eyes from gaining even a glimpse of what was inside. The Turkish rugs meant very little to me. They could have been strips of urine-soaked carpet put together piecemeal for all I cared. I was living in a boxing ring, my opponent a woman who first befriended me and then loved me, only to reject me by delivering well-timed and precise blows to my heart. But again, the house was in great condition. In fact, it was not the condition of the house that reminded me of the projects from which I had come; it was the defeated, ghetto mentality that had become a part of me. Deep inside, I knew I was acting like a little bitch, some punk from the streets, but heartache defeats even the toughest men.
The sofa on which I sat held many memories and what-ifs, most of them painful and forgettable. I wondered how many times my wife had been laid across that sofa, her nails digging into the fabric of the camelback as some other man used her to masturbate himself to ecstasy. I loathed the sofa for the same reasons I despised my bed and most other flat surfaces in the house. Too much uncertainty resided in them. That was why I was packing clothes only, no pictures from the past five years and nothing to remind me why I took a teaching position halfway across the world when there were so many positions open in my city. I knew I was running away, but I needed to escape. I needed to get away from the ugly marriage that was destroying me. I needed to find the beautiful and leave the ugly in my life far behind.