Can I Live in a Fantasy?

"I can't sleep," he mumbled.

I rolled my eyes. This was his routine whenever he wanted something.

"What do you need?" I asked, cutting to the chase.

Mal cleared his throat, a habit he had whenever he needed a favor.

"I really can't sleep," he admitted, taking a seat across from me at our small kitchen table. "I wouldn't mind some company."

I rarely slept early like him. Poor Mal, always needing to turn in early.

"Okay, let me finish my tea, hon," I replied, sipping on my tea with honey, a nightly ritual I cherished all day. "I need to go to the store tomorrow."

"I know, we need toilet paper," Mal reminded me, tapping his knuckles against the table as he patiently waited for me to finish my tea. I glanced down at the amber-brown liquid, feeling like he wanted to pass judgment for not always going along with his plans.

"Did you take the shift for tomorrow night?" I inquired. He sighed, and I hated having to ask him about these things. Taking a sip of the tea, its warmth and sweetness coating my throat, I waited for his response.

"No, I told them to offer it to Johnny. He needs the money," Mal explained with a casual shrug. I hesitated, not wanting to say anything, but sometimes there was no choice. I spoke up, "We needed that money. Why do you give away shifts?"

"Look," he began, hesitant to continue, his expression giving away his reluctance. "I-I."

"What?" I pressed, finishing my tea. "I'm going to bed now." I stood up, feeling the frustration build. Some nights, I wanted to shake some sense into him. Of course, I would never do such a thing. My love for him was too strong.

"I don't want to spend every day and every night at that damn shop!" Mal finally opened up, his frustration evident.

"Well, I don't want to spend every day at my job!" I retorted, realizing the absurdity of my statement since I hadn't been to work in two days. Placing the mug in the sink, our clean sink, I ran my hands under the water, relishing the sensation.

"When we die, it's just nothing but goddamn darkness. As if nothing truly existed or exists!" Mal's anger flared, a frustrating and sad spectacle. He often spiraled like this when he couldn't grasp the true reality of existence. Begging him to stop was futile; it only fueled his frustration. So, I sighed and kissed him on the cheek. He sat there, momentarily stunned, wanting to rant more but unable to do so.

I walked to the bedroom first, following our tradition. I grabbed my pajamas, worn-out cotton ones that held cherished memories. I received them for Christmas six years ago, a time when I still lived at home, long before Andrew went to the US, a distant past. It's a time so distant I try not to think about it, as it only brings misery. Turning to the mirror, I start undressing, confronting my imperfections. We all pretend they don't exist. The stretch marks on my legs and belly, despite never being obese, still make their presence known. Then there's the cellulite on my legs—every woman knows cellulite well, as does every man. Mal's obliviousness is one of his admirable traits. He refrains from passing judgment on me or anyone else, choosing instead to scrutinize himself, sometimes to a fault. I sigh, shutting my eyes, reflecting on a time prior to the present. I stood on the beach with my former fiancé, the sun casting its brilliance. However, in the distance, a looming storm of black and grey edged closer. The wind intensified, yet the allure of the water persisted.

Mal strides into the room, making a beeline for the bed and promptly concealing himself beneath the covers. It sparks a recurring thought: does he truly appreciate my physique, or is he indifferent to romance altogether?

"What time are your parents arriving this weekend, hon?" I inquire, disrobing. As I glance into the mirror, the question lingers: does he ever truly appreciate my naked body? Occasionally, he does, but not tonight. I catch a mumble emanating from beneath the comforter. "Hon, I can't hear you."

His head emerges from the cocoon of comfort, and he responds, "One o'clock on Saturday."

Contemplating dinner plans, I inquire, "What are we making for dinner?"

"Shrimp tacos. We can order them from the store."

"Order them?" I question.

"Indeed." And with that, his head disappears once again.

Slipping into my pajamas, I make my way to our petite apartment bathroom. The aging tiles and peeling walls tell a tale of time's passage. An old, white heater occupies a corner, positioned in front of the window that offers a view of our balcony. Our aged grill occupies the balcony, a relic in the process of rusting. A hand-me-down from Mal’s older brother Darren, it has been idle for months.

In keeping with tradition, I scrutinize my facial imperfections in the mirror. The persistent acne and lines on my face are a source of annoyance. The mirror itself harbors imperfections, with cloudy blotches and spots marring its glass. An ancient piece, I anticipate the eventual formation of bubbles. I open the medicine cabinet concealed behind the mirror, revealing our array of medications and over-the-counter items. Selecting my toothbrush, acne cream, and a small tube of toothpaste, I notice my deodorant, prompting me to grab it as well.

Engaging in my customary exaggerated toothbrushing routine, a sense of someone approaching grips me. Continuing, I turn my head to find Mal in the doorway, wearing a look of sadness and confusion.

"Are you okay, hon?" I inquire, expelling the toothpaste and saliva mix into the running sink.

"I'm sorry for how I acted earlier," he admits, drawing me into the customary embrace he employs when expressing remorse for his behavior. I love the man.

"It's okay!" I respond, closing my eyes. I divert my thoughts to a trip Mal and I embarked on last year, traversing the Midwest along the Oregon Trail and culminating in the grand forests of Oregon State. It's a far more cherished memory than the beach one, simply because Mal wasn't a part of the beach memory.

In bed together, his breath hangs heavy tonight, a departure from the usual lightness. My thoughts drift to him; my gaze meets his, but he doesn't reciprocate. Instead, his eyes are fixed on the ceiling above us, the comforter below.

"Mal?" I whisper. His head turns, meeting my gaze. "I want a dog or something."

"Okay. What kind of dog?" he responds.

"I want another Italian Greyhound." I shift towards him, catching a hint of sadness and confusion in his eyes once again.

"Is everything okay?" I ask, my palm resting gently on his cheek. "Honey, talk to me."

"I want more than a dog, Karen-Ann," he yawns, as if downplaying the weight of his words. "Something my mother wants... something I want." He shakes his head. "I'm thirty, Karen-Ann. Mom's nearly sixty. My dad, he's very impatient, and..."

I dislike these conversations, where he intertwines his desires with mine. I turn to gaze upward, letting out a sigh. "I'm not sure. We would need to work for at least a year to afford a child. I mean, we need a new apartment or home."

"We need to have a child before I lose my mind, Karen," he says, omitting my full name, a sign of his frustration. He's always yearned for a child, a desire he's harbored since he was sixteen. His longing for a child matches my desire to escape this conversation. I would plead for him to stop, but any resistance only intensifies his persistence. So, I allow him to vent.

"I mean, Jesus, Karen-Ann. I just want a family with you because I know you would be a great mother," Mal huffs and puffs for a moment. "I mean, Christ!"

"Calm down, Mal. We will have a family one day," I reassure him. Mal embraces me, expressing his apologies. I hold him in return, sensing his breathing gradually slowing.

My eyes begin to droop, vision blurring, memories of better times playing in my head. Soon, my eyes are closed, and the soothing embrace of relaxation envelops my muscles. Memories flicker in my mind like a hazy cable television. I land on a beach, seagulls soaring above. A sense of sadness lingers in this memory, a feeling of abandonment. There's no impending storm, no one in sight.

A tap on my shoulder startles me, and I turn to face a man with blonde hair, illuminated by the light. He carries a handsome demeanor as he inquires if I'd like some company, noting my apparent loneliness.

"I'm Mal."

"Hi, I'm Karen-Ann."

He takes a seat beside me. I avoid eye contact until he speaks again. The warm air serves as a reminder of the blaring sun, cooking the Earth with its rays of shine and love.

"Karen-Ann?" Mal speaks, not from the fading memory but from reality. I turn to look at him; his eyes are closed, but his mouth is moving. "Do you love me?"

"Of course, I love you," I replied, sensing his warm breath against my shoulder. "Why ask such a thing?"

"Sometimes I worry. You know, lately I’ve been questioning my life." Mal turned onto his back and gazed upward. "Is it a bad thing to live in a fantasy?"

I sighed, my belly rising and lowering. I hesitated to respond. I didn't want to shatter his coping mechanisms, but I could sense that he sought advice.

“Sometimes, it can be. Can I live in a fantasy?”

“If you want to Karen-Ann. I do, sometimes…” His voice drifted into the night.

I closed my eyes, envisioning myself a decade from now. My thoughts wandered to images of children and a spacious house. No words were exchanged about this potential reality; it remained a silent dream. Naturally.