LJ Idol - Open Topic
It had been about two years since our friend Richard passed away, and John never really seemed to recover from that. He had gotten into an argument with Richard before it happened, and I’m convinced on some level that he blames himself for the way things had gone. I remember at Richard’s funeral, John made an attempt to make amends with Richard’s family. It came off with him just trying to hold his composure for 20 minutes. I don’t know what it is with that man, but he refused to actually emote anymore. What changed while I was away at college that turned him into man that was sitting in the booth opposite me in the diner? I almost didn’t recognize him.
He seemed to be a lot more withdrawn in recent months. Talking with him was almost like talking to a wall of nothing but small talk that reflected back at me a void of feelings. He was always “fine”, but that never changed that I heard him crying in the bathroom one night, against the door, about a week after Richard’s funeral. I tried to reach out to him sometimes, telling him it was okay for him to do this in front of me. He wouldn’t say anything about it, just push his glasses up his nose and ask what we wanted to do for dinner that night. Which is, that last time, how we ended up in the diner.
Maybe we came here out of social obligation. This is where we met up with Erin and her husband after the funeral, and where Erin, Richard, John, and I always hung out in high school. There was a kind of comfort here-- even the staff remembered us from all of those years when we weren’t visiting. It was refreshing, and maybe the kind of stability and safety that John was needing to be in during these rather rough times with himself. All the same, there we were, on opposite sides of the table. I don’t think he looked up at me for the first 10 minutes of our being there.
He was tapping, noiselessly, on his new phone. He said he bought it for his company, to keep in touch with his contacts better. Maybe that’s true, but he seemed to be almost deliberately focusing on that instead of talking to me. He looked up long enough to order a glass of water, but I don’t think he actually made eye contact.
“John,” I started, “I think it’s time for us to talk.”
He looked up at me, over his glasses, and cocked an eyebrow at me. “Talk?” He pressed a button somewhere on his phone and set it down face down. “We can talk, Vicki. What’s up?”
I don’t know what it was, but I just wanted to hit him in that moment. The way he spoke so nonchalantly, as though we hadn’t been eating meals in silence for what had to have been months. As though he hadn’t slowly turned himself into a stranger to me just to keep himself alleviated from his guilt. He needed to not avoid these things any longer, and I figured that I would have to be the one to make sure he knew about it.
“Now,” I said, “You know I love you...”
“Oh god, we’re going on Maury, aren’t we?” Did I mention I wanted to hit him?
“Be serious. We really need to talk. There’s something on my mind, something that’s been on my mind for a while now and I want to get it out there before something happens that makes me regret not telling you. We’re all about honesty, yeah?”
“Right.”
“Do you love me anymore? I look at you and I don’t see it.”
“W-what kind of question is that?” He took of his glasses and there was something in his eyes that, for the first time in weeks, actually resembled an emotion. He fumbled for a moment as he put his glasses and phone away and reached forward like it would grab my hand but put it back in front of him. “Of course I love you! Why wouldn’t I?”
“We barely exist together, John. You come home and you sometimes don’t even acknowledge me--”
“Well, I want to get my stuff put away.”
“Don’t give me that. You know what I mean. You won’t talk to me for days, and sometimes when you do, it’s just to ask me to open a window. We live together, we sleep in the same bed, and you can’t even bother to recognize that I’m a person some days. Ever since Richard offed himself you’ve just been nothing but a robot.”
His eyes narrowed, and he chewed on a dry part of his lower lip, “Don’t bring Richard into this,” he said, “don’t. T-this doesn’t have anything to do with what he did. Sometimes I just get overworked, I guess. Especially the past week--”
“John this has been going on for at least a year. I don’t know who you are anymore. I come home and find you sitting on the couch, looking like you’ve been sobbing, and you brush me off like I just asked if you enjoyed your salad. You never tell me anything, I just have tear stains on couch cushions and your clear avoidance of these things to suggest that there’s something going on. I love you more than I can even put into words, and I am here for you if you need me for anything, but I can’t be with you if you’re going to just shut me out all the time. We’re supposed to support each other, assist each other, comfort each other, but all that happens with us is I get pissed off and you shut down and won’t talk to me about it.”
He started picking a dried ketchup stain off of the tabletop. He started, and stopped, to try to say something a few times. He looked up at me, his eyes looking slightly more moist, and sniffed softly. “I’m so sorry,” he managed after a stammer, and brushed off the dust from the stain he picked off onto the floor. He went to say something else, but his voice broke and he hid himself in his hands. He whispered something.
“What?”
“It was my fault, Vicki.” he said, cracking his knuckles and sniffing again, “You weren’t there with me and Richard, before he... He was drunk, I know he was. I could smell it on him. He had been depressed already. I... fought with him. I said some things I probably shouldn’t have... I know I shouldn’t have. Then I found him a couple of hours later...” He stopped again.
I reached out to him, and watched as he curled into himself physically and emotionally. There was something in him, I could almost see as he tried to swallow his emotions. His eyes were closed tight and he was hiding his mouth and nose behind his hands. I could barely hear him breathe, even, and when I did there was the quiver of his trying not to cry with every breath. It was a few moments before he spoke again. He put on his glasses and cleared his throat.
“I can’t handle this,” he said.
“I’m here for you,” I said, “I love you, don’t forget that.”
“I know. I know. Just... I don’t want to burden you with anything about this. You’ve got enough on your plate you don’t need me to bring everything down.”
I grabbed his hand and squeezed. “Trust me. You’re anything but a burden.”
He squeezed back quickly before wriggling his hand back out of my grasp. He waited for a few seconds, then looked around, “Can we get something to eat? I mean, part of the reason I went here was to get some food.” He smiled, his eyes glistening with tears he was desperately trying to keep from shedding.
“Sure, John. Sure.”
He seemed to be a lot more withdrawn in recent months. Talking with him was almost like talking to a wall of nothing but small talk that reflected back at me a void of feelings. He was always “fine”, but that never changed that I heard him crying in the bathroom one night, against the door, about a week after Richard’s funeral. I tried to reach out to him sometimes, telling him it was okay for him to do this in front of me. He wouldn’t say anything about it, just push his glasses up his nose and ask what we wanted to do for dinner that night. Which is, that last time, how we ended up in the diner.
Maybe we came here out of social obligation. This is where we met up with Erin and her husband after the funeral, and where Erin, Richard, John, and I always hung out in high school. There was a kind of comfort here-- even the staff remembered us from all of those years when we weren’t visiting. It was refreshing, and maybe the kind of stability and safety that John was needing to be in during these rather rough times with himself. All the same, there we were, on opposite sides of the table. I don’t think he looked up at me for the first 10 minutes of our being there.
He was tapping, noiselessly, on his new phone. He said he bought it for his company, to keep in touch with his contacts better. Maybe that’s true, but he seemed to be almost deliberately focusing on that instead of talking to me. He looked up long enough to order a glass of water, but I don’t think he actually made eye contact.
“John,” I started, “I think it’s time for us to talk.”
He looked up at me, over his glasses, and cocked an eyebrow at me. “Talk?” He pressed a button somewhere on his phone and set it down face down. “We can talk, Vicki. What’s up?”
I don’t know what it was, but I just wanted to hit him in that moment. The way he spoke so nonchalantly, as though we hadn’t been eating meals in silence for what had to have been months. As though he hadn’t slowly turned himself into a stranger to me just to keep himself alleviated from his guilt. He needed to not avoid these things any longer, and I figured that I would have to be the one to make sure he knew about it.
“Now,” I said, “You know I love you...”
“Oh god, we’re going on Maury, aren’t we?” Did I mention I wanted to hit him?
“Be serious. We really need to talk. There’s something on my mind, something that’s been on my mind for a while now and I want to get it out there before something happens that makes me regret not telling you. We’re all about honesty, yeah?”
“Right.”
“Do you love me anymore? I look at you and I don’t see it.”
“W-what kind of question is that?” He took of his glasses and there was something in his eyes that, for the first time in weeks, actually resembled an emotion. He fumbled for a moment as he put his glasses and phone away and reached forward like it would grab my hand but put it back in front of him. “Of course I love you! Why wouldn’t I?”
“We barely exist together, John. You come home and you sometimes don’t even acknowledge me--”
“Well, I want to get my stuff put away.”
“Don’t give me that. You know what I mean. You won’t talk to me for days, and sometimes when you do, it’s just to ask me to open a window. We live together, we sleep in the same bed, and you can’t even bother to recognize that I’m a person some days. Ever since Richard offed himself you’ve just been nothing but a robot.”
His eyes narrowed, and he chewed on a dry part of his lower lip, “Don’t bring Richard into this,” he said, “don’t. T-this doesn’t have anything to do with what he did. Sometimes I just get overworked, I guess. Especially the past week--”
“John this has been going on for at least a year. I don’t know who you are anymore. I come home and find you sitting on the couch, looking like you’ve been sobbing, and you brush me off like I just asked if you enjoyed your salad. You never tell me anything, I just have tear stains on couch cushions and your clear avoidance of these things to suggest that there’s something going on. I love you more than I can even put into words, and I am here for you if you need me for anything, but I can’t be with you if you’re going to just shut me out all the time. We’re supposed to support each other, assist each other, comfort each other, but all that happens with us is I get pissed off and you shut down and won’t talk to me about it.”
He started picking a dried ketchup stain off of the tabletop. He started, and stopped, to try to say something a few times. He looked up at me, his eyes looking slightly more moist, and sniffed softly. “I’m so sorry,” he managed after a stammer, and brushed off the dust from the stain he picked off onto the floor. He went to say something else, but his voice broke and he hid himself in his hands. He whispered something.
“What?”
“It was my fault, Vicki.” he said, cracking his knuckles and sniffing again, “You weren’t there with me and Richard, before he... He was drunk, I know he was. I could smell it on him. He had been depressed already. I... fought with him. I said some things I probably shouldn’t have... I know I shouldn’t have. Then I found him a couple of hours later...” He stopped again.
I reached out to him, and watched as he curled into himself physically and emotionally. There was something in him, I could almost see as he tried to swallow his emotions. His eyes were closed tight and he was hiding his mouth and nose behind his hands. I could barely hear him breathe, even, and when I did there was the quiver of his trying not to cry with every breath. It was a few moments before he spoke again. He put on his glasses and cleared his throat.
“I can’t handle this,” he said.
“I’m here for you,” I said, “I love you, don’t forget that.”
“I know. I know. Just... I don’t want to burden you with anything about this. You’ve got enough on your plate you don’t need me to bring everything down.”
I grabbed his hand and squeezed. “Trust me. You’re anything but a burden.”
He squeezed back quickly before wriggling his hand back out of my grasp. He waited for a few seconds, then looked around, “Can we get something to eat? I mean, part of the reason I went here was to get some food.” He smiled, his eyes glistening with tears he was desperately trying to keep from shedding.
“Sure, John. Sure.”