I had to stop writing at 6pm. Lover boy came home and he had plans. I was unwilling and unhappy about the whole thing…
He was bossy and arrogant as he prepared the apartment, me,
and his gifts.
I was seething as I tried to obey his commands, without throwing a fit.
I don’t like confrontation at all. Typical for someone who’s experienced abuse.
I had seen dragon wings on a box in one of the bags he carried in. He got pizza for dinner. He tried to get what I like, but he couldn’t remember what that was.
He thought I liked the one kind of pizza I had told him I hated. Pepperoni pizza. It’s spicy and tears my stomach up for days.
He got Napoleon ice cream,
something else I don’t like. I don’t like vanilla ice cream at all. Strawberry is ok. The chocolate barely passes for chocolate.
So far, he has three strikes against him, just in the last hour.
“You don’t know him that well either.” I told myself.
I put the best smile on my face and said, “Thanks, baby.”
It must have passed his cursory glance because he grinned and strutted into the bedroom. That’s where we are all the time because the living room is usually too cluttered to use.
When I finish putting the groceries away, I return to my bedroom and our guests.
Each of them gives me a gift, each is thoughtful and appreciated. Each is a gift that represents the relationship I have with each of them.
I tear up, but managed to keep the tears from falling while I smiled and played hostess.
Within half an hour, every single guest has left. This never, ever happens.
He had to have said something to them that made them leave. The smiles on their faces told me they were happy for me, so he must have let them in on his plans.
After making sure the doors are locked after the last guest, he hands me (interrupting my writing of this post) a bag with a box in it.
I open it to find an item I’ve been drooling over for a month or more. I had only mentioned it once and that was when I showed him a picture of it.
We take the time to set it up and watch it together for a few minutes.
We chat about the fountain for a while. I think he needs reassurance that I really like it and I’m not just saying that I like it. It seems to me that he needs a lot of reassurance.
Is he really that insecure?
Next, he hands me a box of chocolates.
I thought it was going to be one of the ones they sell real cheap around this time of year, but I was wrong
The box was assorted caramel chocolates. He begins to explain why he chose this particular box of chocolates.
I’m confused by my reaction. I still am.
My heart started pounding in my chest and my hands shake. It’s like my insides are boiling while my skin is freezing. I even got goose pimples. My eyes teared up and I couldn’t speak. I just stared at the box trying to keep the tears from falling.
I can’t let anyone see my weakness. No one can know I cry. It’s new to me. The first time I can remember crying was six years ago, when I had my nervous breakdown.
I didn’t cry when I miscarried.
I didn’t cry when my Dad passed.
I didn’t cry during labor.
I didn’t cry when I was cheated on.
I didn’t cry when I got divorced.
I didn’t understand crying.
Is crying normal?
Why do other people cry?
Why didn’t I cry?
I have since learned a great deal about myself and others. I have learned that I am different from other people.
Anyway, after several minutes, I realize he’s looking at me. I look up and he looks worried.
“What?” I force through my constricted throat.
It sounded like a growl.
“Their not just chocolates, they are caramel, too.” He said.
“It’s good,” I said.
My throat was already starting to hurt from forcing air through it.
I must have smiled, because relief flooded his face and he grinned. You’d have thought he won some kind of prize, or something.
Then, he strutted into the kitchen.
I’m not clear how things went from here, but I remember feeling very loved and a comfortable, warm feeling in my chest. I remember being unable to stop smiling.
Is this love? I hope so. I like it, most of the time.
Until next time…