See

This week I’ll mostly watch Him from the shore. I’ll sit on the sand as He surfs in the sea.

The drive down had taken nearly eight hours, mostly driven by me. He slept beside me, soundly snoring, simply waiting for us to arrive.

When we did, the house was up on stilts beneath the darken sky that began to show more and more stars the longer I stared.

The house was a little tired, 70s vintage (just like Him, and here I am smug from the 80s). It was perhaps a little rundown, nothing crazy, still very charming, fully functional.

We dropped our bags in one room. Well, I did. He struggled with His surfboards – the ones I did not know how to ride, that I had learned when we departed were His plan for this week, this week I thought was ours.

It was, once again, instead, just His.

The agenda was already planned without my knowledge. I was more an accessory or perhaps a vehicle for achieving whatever dream vacation He wanted next.

I didn’t see that then, but I see it now.

The bag safely in one room, we set up another as our bedroom. It had a slightly lumpy queen bed with a fraying quilt. The main room offered worn sofas, a bulbous old TV – functional but dated just like the kitchen, and a rectangular table with seating for eight; we’d only need two.

I insisted we go to the grocery store.

Though He was being paid handsomely by a soon-to-be-sold tech company, I was a grad student earning a stipend in the low teens of thousands, staying afloat mostly through the good graces of my parents.

I had thought through what I might cook each night, thinking this would yet again demonstrate that I was good enough for His attention, perhaps permanently. But I needed to go to Food Lion, and I wanted Him to want to help. He begrudgingly helped, making clear to do so was unwanted.

The Food Lion was a few miles further down, and He was not thrilled with us inching it along it. The store itself was overrun, all of us checking in on the same day of the week and eventually departing en masse a week later like some great migratory flock of SUVs and sunburnt skins.

Here in the Food Lion, I relished that we looked like a team. He and I we were clearly together; we could be mistaken for a family already.

We bought everything I needed to make His week complete and headed back to our house on stilts. The first night went all right: we both launched quickly into our domestic performances, fueled by alcohol. M,e with my sophisticated white wine. He, trying every kind of beer He thought looks “interesting,” which meant whatever had the highest ABV.

Sufficiently loaded into an ability to approach one another, breaking the thick stillness between us whenever we were both sober, He would might twirl me around the kitchen for a few minutes and then go back outside to the grill. I might playfully pinch Him or try to sit in His lap, but I was always wary of Him. It felt more like a performance or maybe an audition. I knew that I couldn’t fit the part, but I wanted it.

I didn’t see that then, but I see it now.

I wanted what I thought He could give me: a perfect little life in a very expensive suburb with children whose last name would be recognized by dozens of others I had yet to meet, families who lived there for generations, gone to the same country clubs, the same high schools, the same weddings, so many that an Uncle had warned me that if I ever married one of these people, I need a blood test since my mom had grown up there, too. It felt like legacy for me, a place where based on my background and selection as His partner I could never be excluded.

Or maybe it felt like a challenge, maybe the ultimate way to prove I was good enough or worth something, which to date I hadn’t felt. He had shown an interest in me first. He had pursued me.

And then I’d spent the next many months, well towards two years, bracing myself. Waiting for the moment He would acknowledge that I was not good enough, held not the qualities He had assumed I must when we met, based on my background. Make clear my best efforts were not enough. That day would come.

But back then not yet: instead I’d try clinging to the edges, making myself as small as possible, as perfect as possible, going on His vacations.

I didn’t see that then, but I see it now.

He burnt the steak. I insisted on mac & cheese from scratch when He wanted the Craft, and let me know it was a disappointment. It wasn’t a perfect dinner, but we got through to playing backgammon on the deck. I thought things were going so well until it became clear He was too drunk to continue, and I knew I was close to that myself.

We decided to go to bed, but this was always the most awkward moment for us: no excitement, no contentment, no chatter, no safety. He seemed anxious to avoid having to touch me, his body would tense into hugging me. I would tense back, unsure of myself and bearing unresolved baggage about bodies.

Yet, He seemed to have some use for me; I fulfilled some need, mostly emotional and maybe performative. And He did for me too, and I wanted this. I was scared of Him, too. Back home we’d sometimes sleep in His king bed as far apart as possible. I’d wake in the middle of the night and notice that I couldn’t even sense Him near me, as if I was by myself.

It was lonely, but I was used to loneliness.

I didn’t see that then, but I see it now.

This week at shore will bump along each day. I’ll cry in frustration, ostensibly over the cream. Heavy fettuccine with shrimp, specifically, served to me at some stupid tourist trap. Really I’m upset because He preferred this to what I plan to make Him at home. But I say it’s because there’s far too much cream and for some reason this terribly matters. He will try to prove His valiance by flagging down the waitress and berataing her. She will stand up to Him, used to this kind of nonsense from people like Him, and refuse a refund.

He will spend most morning surfing, wanting to get out early before summer sunrise. Most days I’ll come along, sitting in the beach chair I’ve purchased unexpectedly at an overpriced beach shop when I finally realize this was the actual plan, often under the tiny umbrella, the cheapest I could find, that gives my pale limbs some modicum of protection beyond the hefty dose of sunscreen that I try to apply as often as I can though I wince at its cost.

I watch Him for hours. He come back; He goes out. I thought it was fun. Well, I told myself it was fun.

I was sort of proud to be doing it. I was proud that He wanted me there, desperate to convince myself that it mattered to Him that the person there watching be me, specifically. Anxious to conform to what mattered to Him. He didn’t ask me to do this, He didn’t demand I sit on the beach, would likely not have minded if I was off elsewhere all day or slept in the luggage bedroom.

I didn’t see that then, but I see it now.

In the evenings we play backgammon, maybe cards, I don’t remember what else. One night I overhear Him telling His friends that I’ve rented us a “beach shack,” and knowing that the house was not as nice as what He might’ve picked on His own, I’m  hurt. It was a really stupid phrase. We’ve again had quite a lot to drink, and so that stupid phrase feels like a damning of my efforts to give Him what he wants. I’m distraught.

I must’ve seemed confusing, always scared of Him. I bet it was like living with some shelter cat, timid and always skulking away.

One day, He’ll volunteer to teach me to surf. Trying to be brave, but then still scared of the vastness of the ocean, I’ll waiver until He insists.

Having to that date spent nearly all my time in landlocked cities, I acquiesce because I want to be who He wants me to be more than I want to stand up for myself.

I’m nervous as we swim out. The water is choppy. Small swells seen from shore are so much larger when it’s just your head next to them.

He didn’t give me much of a tutorial on land; we both see that was an awful mistake. Maybe a little bit but certainly not enough, because out here we realize we didn’t address how to get onto the board in between waves. He’s yelling to me over the water. I’m scared; I’m clinging to the surfboard. I’m waiting for the first shark bite. I’m trying to look relaxed, and I’m wondering if I have the upper body strength to heave myself onto this board.

The answer is sort of, but it’s exhausting. I lay there as He rides me back in after a few minutes of pretending to try to get up to a kneeling position.

It’s, I guess, pathetic.

No, at least I tried. And I’d succeeded on the prior surprise sports excursion. So now the score was only even.

He had sprung the same scenario on me under the guise of a  romantic ski week out West. This was a combination of Christmas and Valentine’s Day gift, given to me at Christmas. I’d focused on it as a happy indication that, over a year into our relationship, he was now willing to plan things a couple of months in advance. We’d still be together then.

However, I’d never skied before. I was the only pupil in the ‘adult beginners’ class. He’d stayed long enough to ensure I found the ski school before darting off for more interesting options.

Fearful, I flung into it anyway and learned to ski on West greens and blues that are East double blacks, imagining if I tried hard enough I could join Him on his days. But trying hard cannot overcome his decades of experience.

 I had picked it up enough for His entertainment and willingness to spend at least an hour with me a few days out of the many that we seem to stay there. But within two days His friend arrived ‘unexpectedly’ to join us, and then so did His boss, the owner of the home where we were staying. I spent most hours of most days alone, increasingly aware that I was the girl on the boys’ trip. Their arrivals weren’t impromptu, I imagine that was a well crafted plan. I wince to imagine His planning, telling them not to tell me.

I didn’t see that then, but I see it now.

Anyway, back at the beach, we get back to the sand. He starts to drink. He starts to tickle me. He wants to teach me more. He’s in a good mood, and I feel a sigh of relief. I feel proud that He would bother to spend His time with me even if it’s not the way I wanted.

We’ll drive back north to home soon. An uneventful ride, I’m satisfied that He’ll say we had a good trip. I’m relieved it has ended, but I’m anxious that His attention will shift far away from me again. He’ll take turns with me on driving this time, and I’ll think how lovely instead of how reasonable

I didn’t see that then, but I see it now.  

The last time things will end will be in the doorway of His apartment when I’ve just returned back from a hometown visit for the funeral of a friend‘s father. He’ll barely let me in and tell me in the hallway.

I will cross the street to my apartment building (catty corner from His and I’d moved to this intersection first) go into my room, lay down, and wait for time to pass so that I could begin to feel again.

I didn’t see it then, but I see now that through that time with Him there was a part of me that yet resisted. A sense that knew that this was not the end for me, that winning this would be a long-term loss for Him and me. He seemed to know it, too, keeping a safe distance allowing me to live around His life but not in it. Our real emotions up on stilts.

I didn’t see that then, but I see it now.