mmdcccxcvii

The Performance

One of these things is not like
the other, she sings, putting on
her mismatched pair of socks,
which she thoroughly believes,
thanks to the fact that he had, she
now remembers, just recently been
informed of the fact that she had
recently performed a few spon-
taneous acts that could quite
well be interpreted (or as she
tends to think in such cases,
could be debated) as being
questionable; such as the old
monogamy argument or, as
he would put it, the old marr-
iage-in/appropriate quandary.
As her guilt built within, she
knew this was why she, ob-
sessive compulsive to the
core, had been dealt the
pair of mismatched socks
to begin with. He was the
launderer, after all (to her
credit, she most often did
the cooking and the dog-
walking, while the two of
them “equally shared” the
housecleaning, although
even she knew that the
word “equally,” if not also
the word “shared,” did not
fit justly into the vicinity of
reality. As for the mismatched
sock, and whether this was yet
another example of his passive-
aggressive method of seeking
revenge, which he would always
grinningly call justice, to which she’d
always zing him back with the cliché,
An eye for an eye makes the
whole world blind!! ... Well,
although it was next to imposs-
ible for her to spend her ent-
ire workday wearing socks
that didn’t match (in this par-
ticular case, not even slightly),
she could not help but to titter
a bit and the pair of unmatched
revenge. One might say she
even glowed with obvious
joy during and after her
initial reaction to his joke
(during which there may
have been a swear word
or two involved). it was,
after all, he who’d (just
like every weekday morn-
ing handed her the paper bag
filled with her dinner and her
pair (or un-pair today) of work-
socks, as she walked out the
door and into the day. And
even though it was a funny
little titter, it was also the same
sound she always made when
she laughed in earnest—mean-
ing it was her real laugh; some-
thing her three (or, at times,
four) best friends would
heartily verify (quite often
along with some untittering,
more quantifiably genuine
laughter of their own). This
wacky laugh of hers, which to
her was not wacky at all, of
course, quite often had a way to
make strangers, new acquaint-
ances, quite uncomfortable upon
hearing the first few times (espec-
ially when it was unusually protract-
ed; or multiply repeated within a
relatively short duration). Never-
theless, the tittering had ironically
enough been a significant ingre-
dient of the circumstances of their
very first meeting (the meeting of
her and him, that is). It was in that
cliché of environs in which we
certainly assume a fairly high
percentage of lovebirds wind
up, well, being lovebirds (with
varying durations ranging from
cliché’d—she really loved
that word, she thought—singu-
lar night to the very long-term en-
gagement; a word which had her
tittering again for a moment).
And, these thoughts were, in
actuality, buzzing around in
her skull at the time, she just
could not release her mind
of a bombardment of happy
and nostalgic thoughts from
the past twenty years that
had taken residence in “the
attic’ (his phrase) for a
few days now. For in a matter
of days, roughly equivalent
to the days in which her mind
had been thusly preoccupied,
the two of them would see
the twentieth anniversary of
the night in which they had
their wedding vows, which
transpired deep in the entrails
of a gorgeous cathedral in the
middle of nowhere, Vermont,
where she was now picturing
as if a camera in the cathedral
on that very day, the two of them
and the officiary standing the deep-
est within, in front of a modest-sized
group of their respective family
members and close friends.
They had, in in fact, met only
a few weeks before in a bar
that was somewhat local to the
two of them, although neither
had ever been there before,
and had certainly never met
the other until that day when
she’d barely noticed
(at first) a rather nervous
gentleman take an ex-
tended amount of time
seating himself at the
empty (except for her,
and now him) long bar—
upon the top of a barstool
that was, with respect to her,
directly to her right. She had
already given the bartender
her card to close out the tab,
and the last remnant of the
order for which she was pay-
ing sat at her right elbow,
practically filled, since
it had only as of yet
been given a singular
sip. The man at last
situated his butt some-
what solidly upon the
tall stool, when she
felt him tap at her
(and rather loudly)
upon her elbow. Or
she thought he’d
tapped. She
quickly turned
her head to the
right, head down-
ward, eyes upward,
aiming directly into his,
and with a clear, ready-to-
tell-this-end-of-the-night
rapscallion-what-was-what
look (which had become
a rote performance which
generally began with how
happily single she presently
was—how much, in fact,
that she absolutely adored
being single—and which
ended with something
akin to ...so ya might as
well give it up now, fella!).
But. Just as she caught
his eyes in the gaze
of hers, she understood
that this guy had decid-
edly NOT been vying for
her attention, at least not
in any way that seemed
(she had suddenly deemed)
inappropriate (and she was
very perceptive). She was
momentarily mystified,
and remained frozen in
that missile-precise gaze
of hers for what would’ve
been, from any objective
perspective within the
nearly empty bar, an
awkwardly long time.
So, rather than pay at-
tention to what he had
actually done (which was
an extension of the awk-
ward duration of situating
himself on the barstool, ex-
cept but slightly more potent-
ially catastrophic): which
was that he had managed to
tip her last drink, which had
been a tumbler almost entirely
filled with Bloody Mary, which
was (and still is; she is one
of those rare folks who
understand the drink to
be undeniably non-spec-
ific with respect to the app-
ropriate time of day to im-
bibe) her favorite cocktail
(and, it had to be admitted,
she got a very specific
kind of joy from ordering
one at one—or even half-
past one—right before a
local bar or restaurant stopped
serving any alcohol-instilled drink
whatsoever, the law being the
law, as it were). So, not
only was the thin sleeve
of her blouse drenched by
the veritable blood of Mary,
but so was the general vicinity
(or, more truthfully, the entire
vicinity) of the section of
that same thin blouse which
covered her right breast. In
fact, there were even a
few splashes that made
their individual ways upon
her slightly-rounded, and
completely unadulterated
(until now, of course, but
in particular without even
a swath of make-up)
and by now giddily-
flushed cheeks; glimmer-
ing red splotches on both
the left and the right, thanks
to her swift turn of intended
reproach. This hap-
pened in a much
more drawn out
time in the minds
of the both of them
than could have
literaly been pos-
sible, as they would
later, and often, recount
it. It would be told in the
company of friends, per-
haps after a long and
hearty meal or in front
of a Christmas tree. It
would sometimes occur
as what would seem an
anecdotal segue from
whatever came directly be-
fore it, or as an almost comed-
ically staged performance that
would seem to spontaneously
erupt. And their audience was
always rapt, amused, admiring
and envious (often all at once),
even though most had already
heard it, had seen its half-
reenactment/half fantastical-
performance-piece, at least
once or twice before. This
bit would also occur routinely
with no one else present, just
the two of them, sometimes
in quite the intimate manner,
and just as often at a seeming-
ly random time as it happened
at times that might seem less
arbitrary, such as after watching
a particularly sweet sitcom at home
on the living room sofa together, or
while driving (which would
most often occur with her
behind the wheel, him in
the passenger seat—unless
they were in a group of some
sort, in which case he
would usually drive while
she sat in the middle of
the back seat, the “life of
the party,” as always,
their somewhat dinged
Pontiac either up or
down the Pacific Coast
Highway). On some occ-
asions their performance
came out in sultry
whispers, filled with
innuendo, as they
were lying, side-by-
side at bedtime,
both of them in an
almost dream-state
trance, directly before
the two fell deeply and
almost simultaneously
into sleep for the night
(or it might begin in the
same type of dream-state,
before they decidely did
not fall asleep for the
night), after the lights
were finally turned out.
Sometimes it began
early of a morning, one
of them trying to wake
the other so as not to
have either of them
oversleep for work,
or whatever the day
held in store for each
of them, whether it would
transpire with them together 

or whether they’d go
their separate ways for
the duration of the day.
This routine of theirs
might take on new
and exaggerated
changes, or witty,
more subtle ones,
but it always ended,
in that infinitely-
envied way wherein
not one soul would
have ever disbelieved
that a fragment of what
they told was the least
bit untrue and, whether
cognizant or not by
either member of this
dynamic duo, spoke
in absolute unison, with:
And it was love at first sight.
To which she would add
that she had never even
paused, not for one tiny
moment, until well after
they walked out of that
bar (emptying it together
newly emboldened, their
insides buzzing with
the giddiness of youth)
to see the mess he and the
Bloody Mary had made
of her and her blouse.
After which he’d add
something like how he
had been such an
awkward fellow
until he had met her.