When Tana came home, Mike was still awake, waiting for her. His disappointment, his frustration, had kept him awake. He had no idea how long she would be out. She had gone straight from work, apparently, and had not even bothered to let him know. She had not answered his texts, and he knew what that meant. It was not the first time, and he hoped in vain it would be the last. Each time she was late, his mind swirled in a mix of emotion--concern for her safety, anger at her betrayal, jealousy over shared love. Part of him was curious about the whole affair. His curiosity was muffled, however, in the rage that he felt that he could not keep Tana from embarking on her little trysts. Who was he really angry at? Perhaps he was angry with her because she could not be trusted; perhaps himself because he was not strong enough to keep her; perhaps her lovers for their simple amoral possession of her. He had given her his friendship and trust; and while she embraced the friendship with sincere thanks, trust was a gift that she seemed incapable of giving or receiving. Perhaps it was not a concept that she understood.
Mike's patience was worn thin on that day, having been sanded and shaved from the demands of work and bills and traffic and the bustle of the city. After work he poured himself a bourbon neat and tried to read Hemingway. A few pages in to “The Short and Happy Life of Francis Macomber,” right at the part where Margot returns to her tent after having an affair with the ruddy faced guide, Mike began to doze. The empty glass of bourbon fell to the floor. When he awoke, it was dusk, and Tana was not at home. He sent her a text and made himself some dinner by reheating some chicken that was leftover. While he was eating his dried-out chicken, he texted again. Still no answer.
When Tana finally arrived home, it was nearly midnight. Mike was washing dishes in the kitchen. “You could have at least sent me a text to let me know,” he said.
“Why? You knew what I was doing.”
“It's polite. I was worried.”
“It's nothing,” she said, going to the fridge. She looked around, moving the sour cream and butter. “Where is that chicken from Tuesday?” she asked.
“I just finished it,” said Mike.
Tana looked annoyed and grunted like a bull. “You don't need to worry about me. I can take care of myself. Is there anything else in here?” she asked as she rooted around the fridge.
“We can order something if you like. It's late but there are still places open.”
Tana opened the bread box and pulled two bread ends out of a plastic bag. “We need bread,” she said, leaving the empty bag on the counter. She spread some mayonnaise on either slice, then thickly sliced a tomato and put it in the center of the sandwich. She topped it with a single congealed piece of cold bacon she found wrapped in a piece of paper towel.
“Was it the same guy,” Mike asked.
“Does it matter?”
“I think so. Is it a relationship or just another tryst?”
“It's nothing,” Tana assured him. “But if you really want to know, it was someone different. But I haven't stopped seeing Brian.”
Mike watched her eat her tomato sandwich. He could not help but notice that even with a smear of mayonnaise on the corner of her mouth, she looked quite beautiful. As she chewed, her smooth jaw was accentuated. Her lips were smooth and pink--her lipstick had presumably been kissed away, transferred to the lips and neck and chest of another man. It remained a discarded souvenir, a short-lived memory. Although she was beautiful, Mike maintained a sense of disgust for Tana. She did not even have the decency to clean herself up and look presentable to the man she lived with. She had no shame and seemed to have no regrets about how she treated him. He had hoped to take her bed that evening, but she was soiled now and he could not bring himself to even try.
Tana finished her sandwich and poured herself some sherry in a juice glass. She preferred sweet liquors to the more abrasive bourbon or scotch that Mike preferred. Now she is drinking too much, Mike thought. Tana always drank a lot. When Mike mentioned once that he thought she was drinking in excess, she replied, “it's nothing” and laughed it off. He noticed, however, that she seemed to drink fewer glasses. What he failed to notice right away was that the fewer glasses were larger.
“You told me that you stopped seeing Brian,” Mike said.
“I tell you lots of things,” Tana replied.
“You lied.”
“I changed my mind. I am allowed to do that.”
“Not when it involves sleeping with other men,” Mike said, his voice beginning to get loud.
“I can see who I want.” Tana took a drink.
“Perhaps I should cheat on you,” Mike said spitefully.
Tana laughed out loud, spitting some of her sherry on her chin. “You would never.”
“And why do you say that?” he asked. He already knew the answer.
“Because you lack the moral courage to go through with it. You're half a man at best.”
The first part was true. The insult stung. Mike was a moral man, and thus lacked any conviction. He could not elevate himself enough to cast off everything he was taught about what was right and what was wrong. His adherence to civilization was his weakness as a man. Tana, on the other hand, had no such upbringing, or she had rejected such an upbringing. Mike was not sure. He knew very little about her childhood. Her history seems to begin when they met outside of the restaurant on Third Street. Tana ran under the awning to escape the rain and bumped into Mike, who had anticipated the coming rain. As the rain intensified, the two talked, which quickly turned into Tana flirting with her shy companion. When the rain finally stopped, the two exchanged numbers. Two days later, after a late dinner, Tana went to bed with Mike.
“You said that I was the best. You said that you loved me.”
“I say lots of things,” Tana said. “I lie a lot. It's nothing, really.”
“Are you saying that you do not love me?”
“I don't know that I do. I don't know that I don't.,” Tana said. “You are definitely not the best I ever had.” For the first time in the conversation, Tana told the truth. She really was unsure if she loved Mike and if so how much. She could not deny that he was good to her. He listened intently when Tana told him of her abuse, of her habits, and he loved her anyway, and accepted her for who she was. He loved her enough to ask her to move in. Perhaps that was the problem, Tana thought. She did not feel worthy of such uncritical acceptance and unqualified love. Love like that—unconditional, worshipful love—was common only in pets. The abused puppy revered the abuser and threatened weak saviors.
Tana's words stung Mike like little barbs. Mike was reminded of an old parable about a man in a village who had been accused of wronging those in his village. Though he could think of nothing that he had done to any of them, at his trial his neighbors recounted a myriad of minor slights and insignificant acts of rudeness. The man was sentenced to death by a thousand pinpricks. And so, Mike suffered from Tana's thousand petty insults and discourtesies--a slow killing.
“Why the insults? Can you ever stop insulting me?”
“It's nothing, really,” Tana replied, refilling her drink.
“Says you! I find them in poor taste and rather rude. I have never been anything but loving and supporting and kind to you, and you respond with jabs and barbs. Can't you just be nice?”
“I'm damaged goods,” Tana confessed.
“I bet you don't talk like that to Brian and the other men you carouse with,” Mike said.
“You would lose that bet,” Tana insisted. She took a big swig of sherry. “I'm a bitch to them too. Only difference is that they are men enough to do something about it.”
Mike did not ask for details. He was sure that Tana would give them if he asked. That was the one thing she was honest about, for no other reason than to hurt him. “But they are not men enough to keep you there. You always come back here to me.”
“It's nothing,” Tana said. “This is where I live.”
“Let's go to bed,” Mike suggested.
“I haven't finished my drink yet. You go ahead and I'll be in soon.”
Mike did not want to let her out of his sight. If he did, he feared she might wander off again and not come home. Would that be such a bad thing, he wondered. Where would she go? Probably to Brian, although Brian would not endure her for very long. “I’m not tired,” Mike lied.
“Then why do you want to go to bed?” asked Tana.
“I thought we could be together,” Mike said.
“I’m soiled,” Tana replied.
“Not that. Just to cuddle, just to be close.”
“What's the point?” Tana asked, taking another drink. She was facing away from Mike so that she could not make eye contact. Mike moved around to the other side of the counter so that he could see her face. As soon as he made eye contact, Tana turned away.
“Don't look away from me,” Mike demanded. “You can't keep turning away from your problems.”
“So you are the problem?” Tana quipped.
“It's a metaphor. You need to figure out what is wrong. You need some stability.”
“Stability is what I fear most.”
Mike thought about that for a moment. His temple throbbed and his head ached. He eyed Tana's disappearing drink, and he wanted one. He could not deny that Tana thrived on the chaos of her pathological infidelity. She thrived in the absolute power of honesty that emerged from lies. Mike thrived in the weakness of lies that came from absolute honesty and pathological morality. He prospered as a milquetoast. They were two different people, two completely opposite people, crossed poles in a universe struggling against entropy. Mike could not deny his shame for Tana's action. He could not justify them in his mind, but neither could he act on them.
“Tana, let's just go to bed. All is forgiven.”
Tana wrinkled her brow in anger. “There is nothing to forgive,” she barked. “I don't answer to you!”
“You're drunk,” Mike said.
“Forgiveness implies sin,” Tana continued. Her world was not a sin. Her actions, her body, her morality was not a sin. Her honesty was not a sin.
“Bad choice of words,” said Mike. “Look, I just want you to know--need you to know--that I love you. I can't help it. I don't want to, but I do. I can't pretend that I don't care what you do, but I can't stop you from doing it.” Mike began to cry. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. Tana took a deep drink from her glass and stared at him.
“Let's go to bed,” she said.
As the two lay in bed, Tana in a fetal position with her back to Mike, and he with his arm around her and his face buried in the back of shoulders, Tana said “I do love you.”
“I know,” Mike whispered.
“Besides that, what do we have?” Tana asked..
“Nothing,” Mike said, crying.
