Free Going in Circles by Pamela Ribon Page B

hand right there, as Matthew was too light a sleeper.
    I tried to go back to sleep, but my body was ready to go. In the dream I’d been touching myself, which is disappointingas far as fantasies go.
The one place where I’m allowed to fool around with anybody, and I’m choosing to play with myself? My dream brain is useless!
    I was left with only one choice: covert masturbation, teenage-style.
    I tiptoed to the bathroom, the tiles cold under my feet. There’s a fan that whirs when you turn on the light, so I left the switch alone. I grabbed a washcloth and jammed it into my mouth. I didn’t want to make a sound that he could hear.
This is how prisoners must do it
, I thought to myself.
    Easing myself to the floor, panties around my ankles, my back mashed hard against the cool porcelain of the tub, I concentrated on the feeling between my legs. Still, no matter how good it felt to rub up against myself, I was fully aware of where I was: hiding in the dark, on the floor, trying to get some kind of pleasure in the middle of this mess I was in.
    No wonder I couldn’t stop the sadness from creeping in, soaking from my heart to my lungs, down to my belly, getting closer to where my fingers were desperately trying to get a job done.
    No. He doesn’t get to have this part of you. This is all yours. Don’t let him take it. This is your body. Claim it.
    There, in the dark, during the weirdest masturbation session of all time, I heard those words. I don’t know if it was my voice or the opening statement from my narrator. And I’m thankful I didn’t stop to think about whether or not I was hearing the voice of John Goodman as I had my hand between my legs. I rocked, keeping my breath steady and low, until I felt far away. My teeth ached from clenching terrycloth. My tongue was bone-dry.
    Afterward, I stayed in a ball on the floor, waiting for my heartbeat to return to normal, trying to keep my breath quiet.But when the peace settled within me, it left room for more sadness. I saw myself on the floor of my dark bathroom, saw what I’d go through to get away from my husband, and I broke open again. The washcloth fell from my mouth as I silently wept and wondered what I needed to do.
    The saddest thing about hitting some kind of emotional breaking point, about having a moment when you are reduced to an animal state—rubbing yourself and crying, naked and fetal and feral—is that eventually that moment ends. Reality sets in. Now you’re just a woman with her underwear tangled around her ankles, huddled on the floor of her pitch-black bathroom. In order to cope with this tragedy, you start having very normal thoughts about this rather un-normal place you’ve put yourself in. Like:
    I wonder how long it’s been since I cleaned this floor.
    Even being quite kind to myself it had to have been at least a month. This meant I’d just had the dirtiest orgasm of my life. I instantly felt germs crawling all over me, around me. This is why Matthew found me at three in the morning in the bathroom, wearing only my underwear, scrubbing the floor with a bucket of bleach.
    No telling what must have gone through his head when he discovered me. Regardless, it was still better than if he’d known the whole truth. After he left the bathroom, shaking his head and muttering, I wondered what I looked like. I stood up to check myself in the mirror, and that’s when I saw the burst blood vessel. It looked like I had Ebola in my right eye, blood pooling from one corner toward the dark brown curve of my iris, the other side bloodshot. Half-naked, reeking of cleanser, hemorrhaging from the skull—I had turned into a zombie.
“I am sad zombie crazy wife-lady. Why won’t you love me?!”
    If only Matthew had known what I was going through, the things I didn’t tell him. Would that have made him reach for me? Could that have broken through his pride?
    I’m in my car now