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thoughts  June 2000 |
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I'll give myself until the end of a cup of coffee to decide whether or not to marry Jay. I've spent a week looking at the pros and cons, I'm tired of this indecision and perhaps applying a deadline will help. I learned this strategy from my childhood friend, Lori. She would say that by the time we walked to the end of Winskill's field we had know what we were going to pick for a treat at Robinson's candy counter - the rosebuds or the macaroons. Then, she'd say that before we could eat one we had to tell which boy we'd best like to kiss in Miss Barclay's fifth grade class. I choose a large mug so as to allow myself some extra time. It is white with blue stencilled, tropical fish. I pour strong coffee into it and add creamo instead of my usual skim milk, in celebration of my impending decision. All that done, I am able to assume my most productive thinking position - slouched at my desk holding my coffee in my left hand and doodling with my right. Jay is tall - over six feet - he never slouches, he bakes cookies, he is the owner/operator of a drug store. He drinks too much at parties, he is inflexible with his staff, he wants to go to Club Med. My first taste of coffee is comforting. I sip noisily, breathing in steam, and hardly have to tip the cup it is so full. It seems endless. I have all the time in the world. He never forgets an anniversary, he can be charming, he'll dance if I ask. He buys me gifts: flowers, chocolates, earrings. He hates to be disturbed when he's in his workshop, he's hinting at buying another store up in Ucluelet. My mother used to tell me to try on my decisions like a new shirt. Make believe like you've already decided, she'd say, and then see how that feels. So, I pretend that I'm going to marry Jay. That the wedding is tomorrow, that I will be walking up the aisle in a matter of hours and facing him in front of all those people, in front of God and myself. I feel nothing. Or, I pretend that Jay is not in my life. That we've been split for a month and that I have the freedom to meet other men, to live alone, to never go into his store again and see him behind the counter in his white pharmacist jacket. Again, I feel nothing. We had sex in the back room at his store once. I sat on some crates of chocolate Easter bunnies and wrapped my legs around his waist. He didn't check around for eavesdropping employees even once. I know this because I watched constantly. My cup is half empty and the coffee is cooling off. Time is running out. He doesn't smoke. He likes to fish. He wears pajamas. He thinks Jackie Chan is better than Bruce Lee ever was. He proposed to me over breakfast. He likes privacy in the bathroom. He doesn't cuddle when he sleeps. He has a beard. He only reads newspapers, never fiction. He drinks his coffee quickly, on the run. Mine, I notice, has cooled enough to finish in one swallow but I drink it steadily, in slow, small mouthfuls. Coffee gone, I set down my cup and pick up the phone to call Jay's apartment.
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