said, sounding wounded.
“It wasn't what you thought,” I said.
“Oh? Then what was it, Mona?” My eyes were still moist from my bout of hysteria, and I wiped them on my sleeve.
“I don't even know you anymore, Tom,” I admitted, and he winced.
“I don't know you, either.”
“I don't know what you think about, because you never tell me. I don't know what you think of me, or our life, because you don't say anything. I know how you feel about the world, because you read the newspaper out loud, and you gripe about everything you don't agree with, but that's not communicating, Tom. Talking about the living room rug isn't communicating, Tom.”
“I know.”
“So, what do we do?”
“I suppose fixing it will be similar to how it went bad,” Tom said.
“How do you figure?” I asked.
“Well, I can't remember the day it started, but there must have been that one moment, that one day, when we stopped talking, when we stopped trying. One day stretched into two, then three, then weeks, then years. If we make today good, and carry it into tomorrow, and the next day, maybe we can fix it, Mona. I want to fix it. I still love you.”
“I still love you, too. I just don't really know you anymore.”
“I know, and that makes me sad,” Tom said softly.
“I don't even know me anymore,” I admitted.
He reached for my hand again. “Then we'll figure it out. We'll figure out who we are.”
“When I look in the mirror, I don't know the person looking back at me,” I said.
“Oh, honey.”
“That scares the shit out of me, Tom.”
“I understand. But, that girl I fell in love with, I know she's in there somewhere. And I'm still that guy you met in the park. We're still the same people who fell in love.”
“Maybe we slipped into a wormhole. Maybe we're not those people.”
Tom laughed. “I don't think that happened, Mona.”
“It could. How much do you know about wormholes?”
“Not much, but I think they only exist in the movies.”
“Okay, so that's out,” I said sullenly, and Tom chuckled.
“Come here,” Tom said. He stood, and pulled me to his chest. I remembered him, the feel of his embrace, how he held me whenever I was sad, or frightened. I'd stopped letting him do that, and somewhere along the way, my connection with him had broken. “I've missed this, Mona. I've missed this so much.”
“Me, too,” I said, stifling a sob into my husband's shoulder.
A car door slammed outside, and Tom released me.
“That might be the Bathman & Robin people,” Tom said, as I held on to the table to keep from keeling over. The intensity of our conversation had left me feeling more drained.
“Mona, come here. Look at this!” Tom called from the foyer.
I shuffled to the door and stared out the window. “Well, I'll be damned,” I whispered.
The Bathman & Robin car was jet black and decorated with bathing superheroes in colorful capes. It was the second most ridiculous car I'd ever seen, and it looked absurd next to the Bucks County Auto Super Store car. My front yard looked like the car lot from hell.
Tom and I stood laughing. The humorous sounds blended together into one. Struck by this, I stopped and stared at my husband.
“What?” he said.
“We used to laugh together,” I whispered, and he took my hand.
“I know.”
I followed him onto the porch which, I couldn't help but notice, smelled like a frat house.
“Mr. Siggs?” I wasn't sure if the guy was Bathman or Robin, but I waved and Tom spoke.
“That's me,” Tom replied.
“Be right with ya,” the man said, flashing a smile at us. I tried to smile, but I had cottonmouth and my lips wouldn't move.
“No problem,” my husband said, and I stepped back inside the foyer. “We should have cleaned this porch,” Tom said, with a wrinkled nose.
“Yeah. I guess.” I returned to the kitchen to wait, and poured myself another cup of coffee. My stomach was churning, and I rifled through the cupboard for the Tums.
“This is my
“It wasn't what you thought,” I said.
“Oh? Then what was it, Mona?” My eyes were still moist from my bout of hysteria, and I wiped them on my sleeve.
“I don't even know you anymore, Tom,” I admitted, and he winced.
“I don't know you, either.”
“I don't know what you think about, because you never tell me. I don't know what you think of me, or our life, because you don't say anything. I know how you feel about the world, because you read the newspaper out loud, and you gripe about everything you don't agree with, but that's not communicating, Tom. Talking about the living room rug isn't communicating, Tom.”
“I know.”
“So, what do we do?”
“I suppose fixing it will be similar to how it went bad,” Tom said.
“How do you figure?” I asked.
“Well, I can't remember the day it started, but there must have been that one moment, that one day, when we stopped talking, when we stopped trying. One day stretched into two, then three, then weeks, then years. If we make today good, and carry it into tomorrow, and the next day, maybe we can fix it, Mona. I want to fix it. I still love you.”
“I still love you, too. I just don't really know you anymore.”
“I know, and that makes me sad,” Tom said softly.
“I don't even know me anymore,” I admitted.
He reached for my hand again. “Then we'll figure it out. We'll figure out who we are.”
“When I look in the mirror, I don't know the person looking back at me,” I said.
“Oh, honey.”
“That scares the shit out of me, Tom.”
“I understand. But, that girl I fell in love with, I know she's in there somewhere. And I'm still that guy you met in the park. We're still the same people who fell in love.”
“Maybe we slipped into a wormhole. Maybe we're not those people.”
Tom laughed. “I don't think that happened, Mona.”
“It could. How much do you know about wormholes?”
“Not much, but I think they only exist in the movies.”
“Okay, so that's out,” I said sullenly, and Tom chuckled.
“Come here,” Tom said. He stood, and pulled me to his chest. I remembered him, the feel of his embrace, how he held me whenever I was sad, or frightened. I'd stopped letting him do that, and somewhere along the way, my connection with him had broken. “I've missed this, Mona. I've missed this so much.”
“Me, too,” I said, stifling a sob into my husband's shoulder.
A car door slammed outside, and Tom released me.
“That might be the Bathman & Robin people,” Tom said, as I held on to the table to keep from keeling over. The intensity of our conversation had left me feeling more drained.
“Mona, come here. Look at this!” Tom called from the foyer.
I shuffled to the door and stared out the window. “Well, I'll be damned,” I whispered.
The Bathman & Robin car was jet black and decorated with bathing superheroes in colorful capes. It was the second most ridiculous car I'd ever seen, and it looked absurd next to the Bucks County Auto Super Store car. My front yard looked like the car lot from hell.
Tom and I stood laughing. The humorous sounds blended together into one. Struck by this, I stopped and stared at my husband.
“What?” he said.
“We used to laugh together,” I whispered, and he took my hand.
“I know.”
I followed him onto the porch which, I couldn't help but notice, smelled like a frat house.
“Mr. Siggs?” I wasn't sure if the guy was Bathman or Robin, but I waved and Tom spoke.
“That's me,” Tom replied.
“Be right with ya,” the man said, flashing a smile at us. I tried to smile, but I had cottonmouth and my lips wouldn't move.
“No problem,” my husband said, and I stepped back inside the foyer. “We should have cleaned this porch,” Tom said, with a wrinkled nose.
“Yeah. I guess.” I returned to the kitchen to wait, and poured myself another cup of coffee. My stomach was churning, and I rifled through the cupboard for the Tums.
“This is my
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