but—”
“Like when a track and field athlete hits the bar during a vault . . . or a quarterback tries to throw the ball to a teammate only to miss his mark and have it intercepted . . . that kind of misjudgment?”
“We’re not arguing semantics while we stomp on one another’s hearts.”
“No, we’re not arguing; I’m asking you a question. I’m giving you an opportunity to explain yourself.”
“I’ve already done that.”
“Have you?” He turns to me. The traffic has stopped . . . an accident perhaps. Someone’s carelessness has destroyed property and lives.
“I had wedding jitters . . . I got scared—”
“So you slept with someone else. You fucked a security blanket? Rubbed it between your legs, that made you feel . . . safe?”
“Dave—”
“Because I can do that, if that’s what you need.” With a jerk of his hand he plunges it between my thighs, roughly rubs the fabric against my vagina. The man driving the SUV in the next lane, bored and weary, looks over at the wrong moment. He sees where Dave’s hand is, makes eye contact with me, lifts his eyebrows.
I grab Dave’s hand and pull it away. “Knock it off.”
“Ah, so whereas when he fingers your pussy, it makes you feel safe, but when I do it, you find it repulsive.”
“When you do it in hate, yes, it’s repulsive.”
“You want to be touched in love?”
“Yes.”
“Then make me feel love.”
Perhaps it’s the accidental sincerity of his tone. I turn in my seat, try to study his expression, but his eyes stay stubbornly on the road. There’s something tragic in what he’s said.
“I don’t know if I can make you feel that.”
“Does he love you?”
I hesitate before answering. “I don’t know. I don’t even know if it matters.”
“And you?”
“You’re asking if I love him?”
“Yes . . . no . . . I . . .” His voice trails off and he blushes slightly, embarrassed by his own fumbling response.
The traffic in our lane starts to move. The witness to Dave’s brief assault falls behind us, making the memory nothing but a shrinking image in my side mirror. “What do you want to know, Dave?”
“I don’t think love can just disappear,” he says, as much to himself as to me. “And yet what you did . . . we had something . . . it was big. How can you be so cavalier with something that had so much substance?”
I don’t have an answer.
“You think I’m trying to torture you,” he says quietly. “Maybe I am. Maybe I want you to experience a tenth of the pain you’ve caused me. But I don’t believe the love we had just disappeared. I don’t believe that the woman I love has evaporated.”
“I’m here, Dave. I didn’t evaporate.”
“No, it’s not you. A whore in sheep’s clothing . . . in her clothing. It’s like a split personality or . . . or a mental breakdown.”
“You think I’ve gone crazy?”
“I think you need to be saved.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m going to do that. I’m going to be your hero whether you want one or not.”
And like that, he’s going from tragic to insane. He’s still the captor asking his prisoner to sing his praises, but maybe all captors are a little insane. What does it matter if someone is fanatical about religion, politics, or love? Fanaticism is what it is: crazy, misguided, and, in a weird way, honest. Fanatics believe their own bullshit.
“I understand now,” he continues. “You have . . . needs . . . things you have to get out of your system. I’m going to help you do that. We’re going to use the depravity that’s infecting you to our advantage. I’m going to bring you back to the woman you were, the one I want to marry. By the time I’m done, that’s who you’ll want to be. You’ll see how your current path only leads to degradation. You’ll crave purity.”
I shake my head. I didn’t know an affair could push someone over the edge like this. It’s like he thinks he can
“Like when a track and field athlete hits the bar during a vault . . . or a quarterback tries to throw the ball to a teammate only to miss his mark and have it intercepted . . . that kind of misjudgment?”
“We’re not arguing semantics while we stomp on one another’s hearts.”
“No, we’re not arguing; I’m asking you a question. I’m giving you an opportunity to explain yourself.”
“I’ve already done that.”
“Have you?” He turns to me. The traffic has stopped . . . an accident perhaps. Someone’s carelessness has destroyed property and lives.
“I had wedding jitters . . . I got scared—”
“So you slept with someone else. You fucked a security blanket? Rubbed it between your legs, that made you feel . . . safe?”
“Dave—”
“Because I can do that, if that’s what you need.” With a jerk of his hand he plunges it between my thighs, roughly rubs the fabric against my vagina. The man driving the SUV in the next lane, bored and weary, looks over at the wrong moment. He sees where Dave’s hand is, makes eye contact with me, lifts his eyebrows.
I grab Dave’s hand and pull it away. “Knock it off.”
“Ah, so whereas when he fingers your pussy, it makes you feel safe, but when I do it, you find it repulsive.”
“When you do it in hate, yes, it’s repulsive.”
“You want to be touched in love?”
“Yes.”
“Then make me feel love.”
Perhaps it’s the accidental sincerity of his tone. I turn in my seat, try to study his expression, but his eyes stay stubbornly on the road. There’s something tragic in what he’s said.
“I don’t know if I can make you feel that.”
“Does he love you?”
I hesitate before answering. “I don’t know. I don’t even know if it matters.”
“And you?”
“You’re asking if I love him?”
“Yes . . . no . . . I . . .” His voice trails off and he blushes slightly, embarrassed by his own fumbling response.
The traffic in our lane starts to move. The witness to Dave’s brief assault falls behind us, making the memory nothing but a shrinking image in my side mirror. “What do you want to know, Dave?”
“I don’t think love can just disappear,” he says, as much to himself as to me. “And yet what you did . . . we had something . . . it was big. How can you be so cavalier with something that had so much substance?”
I don’t have an answer.
“You think I’m trying to torture you,” he says quietly. “Maybe I am. Maybe I want you to experience a tenth of the pain you’ve caused me. But I don’t believe the love we had just disappeared. I don’t believe that the woman I love has evaporated.”
“I’m here, Dave. I didn’t evaporate.”
“No, it’s not you. A whore in sheep’s clothing . . . in her clothing. It’s like a split personality or . . . or a mental breakdown.”
“You think I’ve gone crazy?”
“I think you need to be saved.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m going to do that. I’m going to be your hero whether you want one or not.”
And like that, he’s going from tragic to insane. He’s still the captor asking his prisoner to sing his praises, but maybe all captors are a little insane. What does it matter if someone is fanatical about religion, politics, or love? Fanaticism is what it is: crazy, misguided, and, in a weird way, honest. Fanatics believe their own bullshit.
“I understand now,” he continues. “You have . . . needs . . . things you have to get out of your system. I’m going to help you do that. We’re going to use the depravity that’s infecting you to our advantage. I’m going to bring you back to the woman you were, the one I want to marry. By the time I’m done, that’s who you’ll want to be. You’ll see how your current path only leads to degradation. You’ll crave purity.”
I shake my head. I didn’t know an affair could push someone over the edge like this. It’s like he thinks he can
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