On Posture

I can tell by his walk. He’ll arrive home late to count steps in his head. One, two, three, one two, one. He smells like Crest and tonic.


I can also tell by the pattern of his feet. He almost shuffles and he’ll be singing rock. Sometimes he says nothing, and sometimes too much. He gets angry when I purse my lips. He’ll scream and I’ll scream and soon he’s saying ‘you don’t know who I am, you made me this way you bitch, you fucking bitch, you stupid fucking bitch!’ I cry, I kick, and I especially yell back. Get away from me! I’m leaving, I’m leaving right now! I’ll pull on sweat pants and run from room to room looking for my shoes.


Sometimes he’ll follow me, stamping his feet. ‘Go! Go! You’ll never go! You’ll never leave!’ And when I leave, he pulls his arms out- big massive arms, gorilla’s hands. I duck and sprint. Most times he’ll push me against the wall so hard that I’ll bruise. He’ll leave me there to run and block the doorway. Sometimes he laughs, a sad, low laugh, and how I scream! ‘I’ll call the police. I’ll call them on you. I’ll tell them to take you away!’ If my roommates hear, and they always hear, they’ll look at the doorway, me on the floor, and return to their room. The next day they’ll tell me how horrible he is, and why am I with him, and there has to be something better for you out there?


Mostly, I don’t know how to quiet him. How to sit him still so that I can take a drive- a long one smoking cigarette after cigarette. He insists he won’t go to bed without me. I decide to wait until he falls asleep so that I can make my escape. I’ll sit upright in bed while he makes spitting noises in his sleep.


Sometimes I’ll fall asleep, curled tight, as far away from him as that small bed will allow. I’ll sleep for three hours, sometimes four. Then I wake to run.


Oh and how I run! There’s a trail that expands 80 miles to St. Louis and I always think I can make the trip. But I’ll run six or eight or ten miles. When I’m out of breath I think, crap… now what?


But then I dress for work and by this time he’s already moving in the bed. He sits up straight and mumbles ‘sorry, sorry, I’m such an idiot. I’m really sorry.’ I’ll bit my lip and look to the floor. Don’t answer him, don’t answer... ‘I’m going to work’, and I always curse myself for saying that. He jumps up and buttons his jeans. ‘I’ll drive you’. He’ll run around the house, picking up my uniform, brushing his teeth, singing some song.


We drive in silence. I ask him for a cigarette and ash, ash, ash without really inhaling. When we stop he’ll breath deeply. ‘I love you. I love you so much.‘. I turn to face him to tell him that I’ll walk home. I wish I hadn’t because I see him blow me a kiss and know I’ll return.