What Have we Become?

What Have we Become?

           “Don’t you remember?”, Michelle asked as she prodded my ribs with her freshly painted toenails.

           In all honesty I don’t even recall a single minute of that night, well not after entering the bar. I had entered “Loco Lobos” hoping to escape any thoughts of my recent breakup and figured some $3 “Happy Hour” margaritas would suffice as my sedation. I suppose a cliché like “life works in mysterious ways” isn’t sprung from some off-handed Tumblr post without inspiration, and the night I met Michelle fit the criteria.

           “Yeah, come on babe, of course I remember. How could I ever forget such a magical moment? I’ve never seen margaritas advertised that cheap since!”.

I’m an undyingly sarcastic asshole, one of my many faults and while I never fail to make myself smirk, typically my comments are met with abrasive frowns and eye rolls. This time is no different.

           Michelle crossed her legs across my lap and furrowed her brow, indicating she wanted to follow down this path of exposing my inability to pay attention to detail. This sequence of questioning has been recurring, especially in the last few months as we’ve entered a particularly tumultuous stretch of our relationship.

           “Ok then smart-ass, what was I wearing?” Michelle asked as she sipped from her Harry Potter themed wine glass.

           “Oh, let’s see….” I trailed off in an attempt to feign ignorance, but I truly did not remember. I hold no ill will towards Michelle, but had she not been so adamant to care about my own self-indulgent pity-party I wouldn’t have been stuck in this relationship for the last two and a half years. Actually, two years and eight months.

           “You were wearing those sexy dark blue jeans you know I like, and a black blouse”. I had my face in the latest edition of the New Yorker, but turned to face Michelle, hoping to be met with her cute, sly smirk.

           Instead, I was met with a cold, aggravated pursing of her lips.           “Do you remember anything that doesn’t pertain to your job? I swear if it wasn’t for Facebook, you wouldn’t remember my birthday!” Michelle emphasized her dramatic shift in tone with a coordinated standing up and raising of her voice, as if she had been rehearsing this speech for a one-woman Broadway show.

           I attempted a rebuttal, but the metaphorical cat grabbed my tongue and instead of digging myself a deeper hole, my vocal cords committed Seppuku.

“Why is it you have to remind me that I’m the only one who puts any effort into this relationship?” Michelle barked at me as she took an exaggerated swig to finish the pinot in her glass.

           “Come one ‘Chelle, you know that’s not true. What about last week when I went to lunch with you and your mom? Someone who doesn’t put work into a relationship wouldn’t have done that. I could’ve been having a good time doing a thousand other things, but I sacrificed, for you.”

           Sometimes, you say something, and it just comes out plain wrong. You hear a joke wrong, or someone’s inflection causes a compliment to sound sarcastic. Perhaps there was no way to phrase my justification in a good light. Maybe I was self-martyring in an attempt to levy the situation into a classic “it’s not you, it’s me”. The saddest part of the recent fighting wasn’t seeing Michelle cry, or the nights spent sleeping alone in the living room, or the calls from her sister asking me why Michelle was refusing to eat for days on end. The saddest part was the lack of remorse I felt for bringing her to the brink of a total meltdown. It actually brought a sense of joy and aspiration that this fight may be the last, and she’d finally decide to leave me.

           I find the idea of waking up at noon, drinking Jim Beam from the bottle, and living a solemn, recluse, lifestyle rather romantic. I’d like to blame my apathetic disposition for remaining in this tiresome relationship, but the truth is I’m scared of pulling the trigger. Even after watching Lucille (my last girlfriend, or as she was so proud to announce, fiancé) kiss her boss goodbye outside her apartment I couldn’t muster the courage to end things. Within weeks of accepting her back, aforementioned boss-man gave her an offer she apparently could not refuse, and they have been living together in Aspen since.

           When I looked back at Michelle, she was in the midst of another exaggerated tirade, rightfully bashing my lack of motivation and picking apart my latest verbal snafu. Her eyes have become extraordinarily sadder. The light they used to reflect, and pierce into my brain have deepened and become a shade I can only liken to the seas before a storm. Her lips used to present a tempting launchpad of desire, but now act as a mail carrier of disappointments.

           I put the magazine down, using the arm of the love seat to get up and follow Michelle into the kitchen.

           “Michelle, what do you want me to say?” “Do you want me to say I’m sorry, or I’ll try better next time? Or maybe once my business picks up and money gets better that I’ll become the happy-go-lucky guy you’ve been trying to mold me in to?”

           “What’re you talking about Damon?” She paused for a moment, a sigh escaping her mouth encapsulating a mixture of disbelief and dejectedness.

           “Have you listened to a thing I’ve said?” “Seriously, when are you going to grow up and realize being too miserable to care for someone that loves you is only viable in Leonard Cohen songs?”

           “Michelle, this isn’t your fault. It’s…”

           “Yeah, no shit it’s you, not me” she interjected as she aimlessly picked up a glass that had been drying on the counter.

           Her body, tired from fighting and trying to carry the burden of keeping the relationship together finally felt the weight and slumped to the floor. She need not cry, for there was no remorse, but finally the first stage of grief settled in.

           Looking up at my catatonic eyes, she could finally accept she had tried all that she could to teach me any sense of operating as a functional human. Whatever synapse was improperly place din my brain to disallow mutual love, must have a sardonic smirk.

           I found my way to the ground next to her and rested my head on her shoulder.

           Together we stared into our reflections in the glass of the oven, wondering what we’d become.