Other Women

A man reflects on the nature of his relationships.

“Sometimes, it gets so I don't think I can stand it any more.” She said.

We were in a small room, in our small apartment. The place was a dive but she had tried to make it beautiful; flowers on the table, framed photographs of Central Park on the walls to hide the peeling wall-paper. We lived there for five years. Monday through to Friday I would wake up at 6 A.M, wash, dress and eat breakfast beneath the loudly ticking kitchen clock. I worked in a job down-town, an hour on the bus each way, typing memos and sending faxes for a lawyer in a bad toupee. The pay was fine and no-one bothered me. In the evenings Evelyn and I would eat dinner in silence, her half-drunk pushing the food around her plate, staring at the kitchen clock as it ticked every second as it slipped away. It wasn't much of a life, but I had thought we were happy. Passion had passed into the realm of the abstract, but I liked the companionship.

“Why don't we ever go out?” She had asked me, dark red lipstick painting her lips into an angry slash across her pale skin. She peered at me through painted lashes, all dressed up with nowhere to go.

“Honey, I've been out there.” I told her. “There's nothing worth seeing.”

She stood, hands on hips, framed in the doorway of our bedroom. Behind her I could see the suitcase open on the bed, the clothes thrown inside in a hurry. I wasn't surprised or hurt. Relationships always ended, it was inevitable. There was something I guess, about two people coming together to share their loneliness. It couldn't last. She wanted more than I could give her and we were still lonely. Maybe even lonelier than we had been before we'd met. It wasn't love, no nothing like that. But still, it made me sad to think I would be alone again. Alone in a small room, in a strange city, aching for the touch of a stranger. Everything falls apart when you get to know somebody. The more honest you are the worse it gets.

We met in a bar when we were young. Younger. She lied about her age and I bought her a drink. I wanted to marry her, she seemed so perfect. Seven years later and she was just another name on the list of girls I've said goodbye to. Standing on the front porch, our hands touch as she says don't be a stranger. I watch her walk out on me, the same scenario that I've been replaying my whole life. The moment I met her I knew she'd leave me sometime.

Light another cigarette, pour another whiskey. There are other women, in other bars. There are other women to come and cook and clean and show you swatches for the curtains while you sit nodding and agreeing and not listening. The whirl of companionship against your static body, slumped in an arm chair half-watching bad television and smoking the cigarettes that she disapproves of. There are other women.