Free Absorbed by Penelope Crowe Page A

I had nothing to say and he knew I would be more than willing to let it end.
    In all honesty, I am not a moron. Nothing close to a moron. I graduated from The Art Institute of Chicago 3 years ago with a straight-A average, was recruited to work for MoMA while only a junior, and I make enough money to live comfortably in a 3-bedroom brownstone in NYC, take several relatively glamorous vacations a year, and own my own car.
    But we have never spent more than two days together without some type of blow up. Some are rational, most are definitely not. Like the time I leaned over to emphasize a point in my story, and broke the glass that held his wine. We were at my house, drinking my wine, and it spilled on my rug. But he hit the ceiling and yelled for almost five full minutes, reminding me how child-like I am and how I can never take responsibility for anything. And then, click , it was over. He was crooning about how sorry he was. It made me feel terrible, yet I stayed. It made me feel like a moron, yet I stayed.
    So maybe he thought he went too far last time and left this crazy-beautiful package on my front step. I knew I would have to leave him someday, but I wanted the present to be from him.
    I was afraid to open it. I was afraid to open the card. Then the spell would be broken. But for now, the package was delivered by a prince, and the card would read that I am a long-lost descendant of royalty and he will be arriving shortly to retrieve me, and take me away to his castle on a hill in Romania to live with him forever. And please , he will write, wear this 35-karat diamond necklace around your beautiful neck during our trip.
    I was quickly shaken back to reality by my front door swinging open, and Mick walking in.
    “Hey,” he said.
    “Hey back.”
    For the first time I was not thrilled to see him come back to me after one of his long vacations. I felt he was mad at me, and I knew what was coming.
    “So what, no love for the weary sailor?” he asked.
    “What are you talking about?” I said.
    “Sailor, get it? Someone who sails. On the water. Sometimes the ocean.”
    “I know what a sailor is,” I said. “You never told me you were going sailing…”
    “What the FUCK!” he yelled. It happened in record time this go-round. I could see how stupid he thought I was by the look on his face. I knew this was going to be bad, yet I still found myself wanting to somehow make him feel better.
    “Tell you what,” I began, “I’ll go make us some coffee and you can tell me…”
    “A SAILOR! I was on a BOAT sailing. Why can’t you listen to what I am saying and not involve what YOU want in every conversation? GOD, you are self-centered and ridiculous. I’m back to see YOU,” he spat, “and you can’t even figure out what I’m talking about because you are worried about YOURSELF!” The he grabbed me by the arm and kissed me hard. He held me close and I couldn’t pull away. He smelled like cigarettes and an unfamiliar, sweet whiskey. The whole thing was disgusting and I pushed him away.
    “Get out,” I whispered.
    “What?” he said, that sardonic smile playing on his mouth.
    “I want you to leave,” I said.
    “That’s funny!” he said. “You don’t see me for weeks and then you throw me out? I don’t think so…”
    He approached me again and before he could grab me I slapped him in the face, hard. He looked at me with terrible eyes and came at me again, and I punched him in the mouth. I told him if he took one step toward anything but the door, I would call the police. He looked surprised. I had never done anything like that before. Not just to him, but to anyone.
    “Bitch.” he said quietly, and wiped his mouth. He noticed blood on his hand and his anger returned. “I know you,” he said. “You’ll call me by tonight.” With that, he turned on his heel to go, and noticed the box on the window sill. He picked it up and saw my name on the card.
    “Secret admirer?” he asked. “New boyfriend?