How could Carver know?
I felt thrown off. I felt naked--and uncomfortably so. She wouldn't make eye contact with me as she busied herself around the small room, shoving clothes and tiny motel room toiletries into her bag. "Claire," I started to say. "Don't even," she said, lifting an accusatory finger at me. If looks could kill, I'd be found, probably weeks later, half naked in a cheap motel wearing a Bangals t-shirt, not the way any man wants to be caught--dead or alive.
I felt like a young boy, being disowned by his mother. And I couldn't help but wonder why seeking her approval mattered so much. "Claire you can't just," I said, trying to start again. "I can, I will, I am, watch me." She said, and whirled around lifting the bag off the bed, and hitching it over her shoulder. She stomped off toward the door. "This is ridiculous," I muttered to myself. She didn't take the bait. This was serious, Claire always lit into me when I muttered argumentative little comments. That's why I'd come so fond of making them. But this time, she didn't say a word. "Fuck." I said and jumped up off the vinyl motel room chair. The type of chair that was the height of fashion--for the year 1970. It took only three long strides before I was across the room, I caught Claire by the elbow before she could blow out the door.
Claire wheeled on me, arms flailing, the bag hit the ground and Claire came at me, all teeth, "Who the hell do you think you are anyways, Carver? Since when do you think you know all about me? You don't! What you really know about me couldn't fill a tablespoon. You think you know, but you don't. There are so many things you just don't get!" She said, her raised voice growing shaky by the end of her harangue.
This was a side of Claire I wasn't used to. Angry and nuts? No, I'm used to that. Defensive. Claire was never defensive with me because she didn't want to appear weak or timid. Claire always had to be bold, strong and straight forward. This was an unlikely crack in her personality, and you're damn right I was going to work it for all it was worth.
I felt like a young boy, being disowned by his mother. And I couldn't help but wonder why seeking her approval mattered so much. "Claire you can't just," I said, trying to start again. "I can, I will, I am, watch me." She said, and whirled around lifting the bag off the bed, and hitching it over her shoulder. She stomped off toward the door. "This is ridiculous," I muttered to myself. She didn't take the bait. This was serious, Claire always lit into me when I muttered argumentative little comments. That's why I'd come so fond of making them. But this time, she didn't say a word. "Fuck." I said and jumped up off the vinyl motel room chair. The type of chair that was the height of fashion--for the year 1970. It took only three long strides before I was across the room, I caught Claire by the elbow before she could blow out the door.
Claire wheeled on me, arms flailing, the bag hit the ground and Claire came at me, all teeth, "Who the hell do you think you are anyways, Carver? Since when do you think you know all about me? You don't! What you really know about me couldn't fill a tablespoon. You think you know, but you don't. There are so many things you just don't get!" She said, her raised voice growing shaky by the end of her harangue.
This was a side of Claire I wasn't used to. Angry and nuts? No, I'm used to that. Defensive. Claire was never defensive with me because she didn't want to appear weak or timid. Claire always had to be bold, strong and straight forward. This was an unlikely crack in her personality, and you're damn right I was going to work it for all it was worth.