Couples Therapy

It's magic hour in Brooklyn on a muggy Friday night and I can feel the month of May settling in. I sit stationary on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a bath towel, eating fruit from a glass bowl as the room's silence washes over me like a cold wave. I stare at the bouquet of flowers Paul bought me two weeks ago. They look wilted and dry and several petals have fallen off the stems. Considering they've been dead for several days, I'm surprised neither one of us has thrown them out. I walk to the desk and toss the flowers in the garbage, placing the empty vase onto the bookshelf. It now sits hollow, except for a few dry petals, reminiscent of a water line and a musty, dull odour.

My phone vibrates and before looking at the text, I know it's Paul telling me he won't be home before the party.

I pick up my phone to read - Willow, I'm at Max's having a drink, so I won't be home before the party. Are you coming or not? It would mean a lot to me if you could make it.

I feel a twinge of guilt as I detect a sort of desperation in his plea. He likely wants to avoid another excuse on my behalf, masking whatever marital dysfunction he can to his co-workers and friends.   

I text back - Fine. I'll come but I'm not staying long. 

He replies within seconds. 

K, thx.

I look in the mirror and I have no concept of what I look like anymore. Small changes have intensified because of anxiety, like the wrinkles forming around my green eyes and grey hair that multiples at lightning speed. I pull my hair into a high ponytail and put on pair of black, high-waisted jeans that Paul said reminded him of his Aunt Linda in the 90s. I button up a crisp white shirt, tuck it into the jeans, apply red lipstick and slide on a pair of leather sandals. This is as much as I can give. Paul will be annoyed that I didn't try harder but knows, at this point, I defiantly refuse. 

After debating with myself for an hour about whether I should cancel, I leave the quiet darkness of the house and venture four blocks west toward the party. As I walk, I develop deep, stinging blisters on the back of my heels, leaving a dry blood mark running down to the bottom of my foot. A precursor for the evening's events, I'm sure. 

I approach the large brownstone where the party is being held and recognize a group of Paul's co-workers gathered on the sidewalk, smoking and speaking loudly. I proceed with nauseating anxiety as I can feel multiple sets of eyes follow me up the stairs. I head indoors and I'm hit with a blast of bodily heat and voices that sound like they're competing to win a conversational race. 

I search for Paul as I make my way through the crowd, passing strong scents of alcohol and expensive perfumes that linger notes of cedar and pine throughout the air. I find him in the living room, standing next to a pink neon sign that reads 'Maybe In My Next Life.'

I tap him on his shoulder as he pours a glass of red wine while talking to a tall blonde man with a German accent. He turns around and glances up and down my body impassively before kissing me.

He runs his hands through his straight brown hair before rolling up the sleeves of his dark navy button-up shirt. His light blue eyes dart around the room as he gives a half smile. These small movements tell me that he's nervous I'm here. Anxious that I won't live up to the image he portrays of me. Of us. 

“You look nice,” he says. 

I stand awkwardly as the German man looks at me as if waiting for Paul to return to the conversation. 

“Oh, there's food over on that table and a cocktail bar in the kitchen,” he says as he passes me a large glass of wine. 

As Paul engages with the German man, I watch as Paul's co-worker, Orna, approaches. Even in a buzzing room this crowded, her chaotic and overpowering energy can be felt ever so sharply. 

“Hi, Willow. I didn't think you were going to come,” she says as she removes a piece of lint from my shoulder. 

She pours herself a glass of white wine, which flows over the edge of the cup and removes a large marijuana joint from behind her ear. She examines me with a judgmental side eye while flicking a lighter. Her dour expression triggers me like a lightning bolt cracking a tree.

As I look at her tangled, unwashed blonde hair and oversized wrinkled blazer, I remember what Paul once said, Orna is the opposite of me; I'm a beautiful car without gas, and she's a wreck that can drive forever. 

“You always look so... Parisian. Has anyone ever told you that?” she says as she passes me the joint. 

I smile politely before hesitantly inhaling the weed.

"So, how's that book coming? Is it out yet?" she asks in a meddling tone.

"No. The deal fell through." 

 "I'll set you up with my guy Max. He'll help you out." 

"Thanks, but I'm not sure I want to publish it anymore. I'm beginning to doubt anyone's interested." I say as the weed smoke fills my lungs like fire in a hot air balloon. 

"Well, at least you've got that vintage online clothing business to fall on if that's still your thing," she says before coughing loudly like a truck driver. 

“By the way, this weed is potent. I bought it off some Burner in Santa Fe last week. Sorry for mentioning this après smoke.” 

She ashes the joint while responding to a text message at a rapid speed. She then glances up and smiles.

“You look pale and tired. You need more sun, Willow. Get outside - it's Spring.” 

I nod listlessly as I strategize an exit from the conversation. Paul then grabs my hand and moves my body into the corner of the room. He leans in and speaks directly into my ear. 

“Can your eyes roll any further back in your head? Is that physically possible?” he asks. 

“I'm sorry, do you ever actually listen to that woman talk? Her go-to topics of conversation seem to be my tanking career and pale skin. Every time.”  

He smiles. 

“You need to get over yourself. You know that, right?” 

“And you don't?” I say.

“Not really. That and I'm closing in on a deal with Orna next week and I need you to understand that sometimes not everything is about you.” 

Like a father maneuvering their child through a line at Disneyland, Paul places his hand on my shoulder and moves me towards the centre of the living room before he returns to Orna and the German man.  

I take a seat on the white sofa and feel myself sink into warm leather that sticks to my skin. As I continue to sit, a bland, stale taste fills my mouth like grenade smoke. I run my tongue along my dry teeth as Paul approaches me. 

“Why are you doing that with your mouth?” He asks. 

“It feels unusually dry. Is there water anywhere?”

“Try the sink,” he responds.

I stand up and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror hanging above the fireplace and as if there's a person on the outside looking at someone who lives on the inside. That's when I realize I'm stoned.  

I begin to push myself through the crowd toward the kitchen. Individual sounds are amplified, like the thud of a heavy glass placed on a table or heels clicking on the wooden floor. I find the sink and a water glass I'm not entirely sure is clean and drink as much water as my body can physically consume without vomiting. 

The high continues to grow, carrying with it a string of jumbled and vicious worries, circling my consciousness like vultures waiting to land on a carcass. I find a chair in the kitchen, take a seat, and sit motionless like a doll with my dead eyes fixed on the ceiling. Within seconds the self-antagonization begins and it feels like waking up from a coma to realize I lost my legs in the accident. I'm a 35-year-old unhappy, broken woman stoned at a house party. My book deal fell through, my mental health is fading and my husband and I treat each other like siblings, stuck in the back seat of a hot car on a family road trip. 

Feeling like I'm sitting in a hotboxed sauna, I stand up and tell my body what to do, praying it listens. I find my way to the staircase and proceed with the steep climb toward the second floor. Once there, I open the door to an empty bedroom.

I centre myself on the king-sized bed and inch my body towards the pillows while my hands rest on my stomach. I lose track of time as I close my eyes and lie in a state of numbness for what seems like an hour. Anxious thoughts flood my subconscious about what Paul is thinking and doing and if he's even remotely concerned that I'm disconcertingly quiet or if he's happy that I've vanished.  

This anxiety prompts me to head to the bathroom off of the bedroom and lock the door. My skin sweats as the muffled sounds of music and chatter echo below me. I reapply lipstick to look halfway normal and open the door, relieved to find the room still vacant. I take a seat on the edge of the bed when Paul walks in. 

“I was looking everywhere for you. Why are you up here?” he asks while closing the door.

“I'm not feeling well. I should go,” I tell him.

“What do you mean you're not feeling well? You were fine an hour ago.” 

“Orna gave me some weed that's making me feel dead inside. I have to go home.” 

“Seriously, Wil, this is my work party. Could you at least fake interest for more than an hour? Try for a record-breaking two.”

“I didn't want to come and now you're upset with me for wanting to go home early?” 

“Oh, I know, Willow. It's torture, isn't it? The wine and food, and music. God, why were you cursed with such a life?”

“See, I can't talk to you about anything. You'll mock me.” 

“Because you're acting like a child.” 

I stand up from the bed and walk to the window. 

“I'm sorry, I got stoned and it's making me feel sick. That and this is the opposite of a good time for me. It's just not my scene, Paul.”

“What is your scene, Willow? Really, where is it? Is it the dive bar on Myrtle Ave with the bleached blonde 70-year-old widowers who sit for hours while smoking and scratching lottery tickets? Is that your scene because they're honest about their miserable lives?” 

“You know there are people in this world who talk to each other, not because of their job or how much money they make but because they're genuinely interested in who that person is, Paul. Imagine that? I know it's a far-fetched concept for someone like you.” 

“Please, educate me, Willow. I beg you to.”

I fold my arms, turn my back, and walk toward the bookshelf. 

“There's nothing for me here and I'm tired of pretending like this is what I want. I want to live in the county, have a family and not feel trapped in this toxic, fake New York bubble,” I say.

“Sure, and while you're busy shooting your black and white Sally Mann portraits and organic gardening, there's something called the real world, Willow. In the real world, you have to make money, not just live off someone else's money. Far out concept, isn't it?”

Paul sits on the bed, picks up a book from the bedside table and flips through the pages. 

“I know, Paul; money is the most important thing to you and everyone else at this party and God forbid we live in a world where making money isn't the number one reason to get up in the morning,” I say.

“I know, Wil. You're so much more enlightened than the successful people at this party,” he sarcastically replies while holding the book close to his face to examine a photo. 

“I hate you, Paul. Do you know that? Hate.”

He throws the book onto the bed, stands directly in front of me and places his hands on my shoulders while looking me in the eyes.  

“You hate me because you hate your father and you're insecure because you're lost and feel like a failure, so you insult anyone who has achieved what you want so badly in life, which is notoriety.”  

“Thanks for the psychoanalysis, you prick,” I respond. 

He falls onto the bed and begins rubbing his eyes before running his hands through his hair.

“Please, do me a favour and go home. Okay? Leave.” 

"Gladly," I say as I look in the mirror and fix my hair. 

He stands up and begins to straighten the bedspread and arrange the pillows.

“I'm ordering you an Uber,” he says as a knock is heard at the door. 

I open it to find Paul's co-worker Jessie and his girlfriend standing awkwardly in the doorframe. 

“Sorry, are you two in the middle of something?” Jessie asks cautiously, knowing fully well that acrimonious debates are commonplace for Paul and I. 

I hesitate on what to say as Paul remains quiet. 

“Oooo-kay, well, if you two need the room a bit longer, we'll head back downstairs,” he says. 

“It's okay. I'm heading home,” I tell him.    

“Gone so soon?” he asks.

“Yeah, you know me and human interaction. Always a challenge. Anyway, thanks for having me,” I say. 

Paul grabs me by the hand and escorts me out of the room and down the stairs. He pushes through the crowd and ignores friends trying to talk to us as we pass. We head outside and I'm met with an immediate moment of relief as my lungs breathe in the fresh air. The Uber arrives and Paul opens the door and motions my body into it. 

“She's headed to President street,” Paul tells the driver. 

“He knows. It's on the app!” I say.

“Go to bed,” he says while slamming the door shut. 

I watch Paul return to the crowd of party-goers standing outside. He removes a cigarette from a man's hand and places his arm around Robyn, the receptionist. 

The car ride home feels like travelling backward in a tunnel as I sit in a dissociative state. The streets are quiet and I watch as the warm wind rustles flower petals from the branches of newly blossomed trees. A soft rain begins to fall. 

I enter our house, remove my clothes, and take my second shower of the day.

When and how can I get out of this? What do I have to do? Who am I kidding anymore? This isn't love. We don't even like each other. We're just too different. 

This internal conversation rages on for several minutes before I notice my skin is pruning. I exit the shower, dry myself off, place an oversized t-shirt over my head and crawl into bed. 

After three sleepless hours of listening to rain and doom scrolling on my phone, I hear the front door open. I can tell Paul's drunk as he clumsily walks up the stairs, and I oscillate on what I should say to him when he arrives. I turn on the bedside light as he enters the room, and he looks at me with a glazed over expression and then sits in the chair next to the closet. He kicks off his damp sneakers onto the floor. 

“You're annoying, Willow.”

“What?”

“You're beautiful. And annoying as fuck.” 

“Okay?” 

Paul sits in the chair, staring at me as if waiting for a revelation. 

“So what do we do now?” Paul asks. 

I sit up on the bed and adjust the bedspread in front of me as I fiddle with the stitching on the embroidery.

“I think we have to admit the truth. We're not happy, Paul. Let's accept this and move on?”

Paul undresses and makes his way under the covers. I turn off the light as we lie next to each other under the dim glow of outdoor street lamps. The rain continues to fall. 

“Hey, you know what someone suggested at the party tonight?” Paul says. 

“What's that?”

“Couples therapy.”

I roll over, close my eyes and think about why we choose this torture rather than fessing up. We deny our truths for the same old comfort and routine that no longer serves us, yet I don't stop it. I'm just as guilty as he is. I'm fighting for dear life, knowing damn well there's a lifeboat around the bend and if I could just swim a bit harder, I might see it. But no, I stay here and drown. 

"Yeah. Couples therapy. That might help," I say. 

"You know I love you, Willow. Night."

I close my eyes and do what I've done for the past several weeks. I imagine the cute flirty British guy who works at the coffee shop and calls me Willa. Today, we're making out in the park.  

"Yeah. I love you too, Paul. Night."