Almost

“It’s just like the tea set they use in Downton Abbey,” he says.

“Is it?” Maria asks, “There are a lot of tea sets they use in Downtown Abbey.”

“I know,” he huffs, “But this is the one that Mrs. Hughes uses. She always uses the same one.”

“And you want this one?” she asks, staring at the fancier sets nearby.

When he doesn’t respond she looks at him and sees that he’s staring lovingly at the Mrs. Hughes set.

“Why do you want this one?” she asks.

“Because…it’s used to comfort. Whenever Mrs. Hughes uses it, it’s always when someone needs a helping hand or to get through a tough conversation. It’s…It’s simple, but sweet…you know?”

“Then let’s get this one,” she says to his glowing face.

Years Later

How could Maria say it?

“You love me,” her husband repeated, his hands grasping hers, squeezing tightly.

She stared at him and let her tears fall.

She shook her head.

“You love me,” he said again, “You love me, you love me, you love me!”

He got up and began to pace.

“You love me,” he whispered.

She stood. She faced him. Her body shook. She felt like she might vomit.

“I don’t,” she whispered back, “I don’t love you. Not anymore.”

And despite her queasiness and her shakiness and the fact that she was watching her husband’s face fall, his body crumble, his heart break, she suddenly felt lighter.

She felt free.

The whole complicated truth was that she did still love him. She loved him so deeply and completely that sometimes it felt like he was part of her heart. Like little pieces of him were floating in her veins.

But.

And there it was.

The But.

The But she still couldn’t quite articulate.

The But that faked her orgasms, that made her watch porn in silence once he was snoring, that constantly made excuses as to why she wasn’t going to be home for dinner (lady dates, work meetings, family obligations). The But that made her create obstacles to them spending time together. The But that gnawed in her brain like a splinter.

Not her brain.

Her heart.

Her heart where, even though he lived, she felt so much pain.

And why was she feeling pain when she loved him so very much?

She didn’t know.

Or maybe she did know, and she was too afraid to say.

Maria sat on the toilet as he threw things into boxes and slammed doors.

“You’ll regret this,” he said loudly, “You will. I know you.”

You don’t, she thought.

Not anymore.

There were so many things he didn’t know and maybe it would be easier if she told him.

She slowly got up and opened the bathroom door.

She watched him throw a copy of The Godfather into a box that she knew belonged to her.

He turned toward her, his eyes daring her to claim the book.

“I don’t like Roscoe’s chicken and waffles,” she said, “I haven’t liked it for years.”

He stared in response.

“When you’re at work,” she continued, “Sometimes I don’t go into the office. I stay here just so I can have some peace and quiet. Just so I can have some time to myself. I go to a Starbucks or a Jamba Juice an hour before you’re supposed to get home.”

His mouth began to open in reply.

“I haven’t enjoyed sex with you for…I honestly don’t know how long,” she gasped, wanting to get it out before he said anything, knowing it would shut him up.

And it did.

His mouth snapped shut at her words, his eyes growing big and round and filling with hurt and anger and still, she couldn’t stop herself.

“I hate the way your brush your teeth and the way you chew,” she continued, spitting her words like venom, “I can’t stand the way you eat chips. I can hear your crunching from the other room. I tune out when you try to tell me about your day. I don’t care about your day. I don’t care what Llyod did or what Cindy did or what the asshole Brandon did. I don’t care. I stopped caring years ago. I hate going to dive bars. I hate that our date nights have consisted of cheap drinks and bad karaoke and even worse sex. I hate the way you smack your lips. I hate the way you don’t flush the toilet after you pee. I hate-

Maria stopped when she saw him crumpled on the floor. His hands over his head.

“Stop,” he pleaded, “Please stop.”

She knelt next to him and put her mouth to his ear.

She wanted to stop herself, but she couldn’t.

It was too late.

“I love you,” she said.

He barked a laugh, finally looking at her.

His face was covered with tears and snot and she fought the impulse to grimace.

“I love you,” she repeated, “I love you more than anyone. More than anything. But I can’t stand being around you anymore. I…I don’t think I’m attracted to you, and I don’t think I ever was.”

His eyes looked into hers, searching for the lie he wouldn’t find.

She took his hand as she said, “You are my best friend and always have been. You are the nicest person I know. You’re my…you’re my family.”

“But I’m not…?” he started, unable to finish the sentence, looking at the ceiling instead of her face.

I’m not your husband.

I’m not your lover.

She rose to her feet instead of responding.

She had said enough and to say anything else would just be repetitive.

She looked to the kitchen and saw the Mrs. Hughes’ tea set sitting on the table. There was a single cup turned over onto its side. As if it was placed roughly and he decided to fix the rest except for that one. As if he was subconsciously (or consciously) trying to make a statement about their relationship. An almost perfect tea set. Almost. Not quite.

She had almost made him tea before their fateful conversation but that wasn’t fair, was it? How could she use the tea set that brought him so much comfort. That was used for the difficult conversations. That she hadn’t used this time because she didn’t see the point. Because this conversation didn’t have a happy ending.

“Do you…would you like some tea?” she asked softly

He looked at her and sighed and it was filled with so much hurt and resignation that she almost started to cry.

“Sure,” he said.

He watched her start the water and place the tea bags in the cups. Chamomile. Always chamomile for the toughest moments.

“How…why haven’t you told me any of this before?” he asked staring at the floor.

“How do you tell the one person you love so completely that you can’t love them the way they deserve?” she responded, looking at her hands.

She continued to prepare the tea in silence and pretended not to notice his tears continuing to fall.

She sat and poured the tea.

They sipped in silence.

And, almost at the same time, sighed with pleasure at the taste.

And they smiled at each other, and it was almost enough.

Almost.

Not quite.