Page 3 of Tap Left
I’d been good with him. By the time I met Tom, I was already in therapy. I worked hard not to be clingy. I established normal relationship boundaries and didn’t allow him to treat me like a doormat. That part was easy since Tom was low maintenance. I never had to worry about him cheating because when he wasn’t with me, he was working. Over the years, I convinced myself that it was a healthy, normal relationship. One that would finally settle me into a comfortable life.
That’s what everybody is supposed to do, right? It’s the dream. The husband and the minivan and the kids.
But thinking about it now, I can’t imagine Tom as a father. Not really. Being a father requires giving up time to help with the kids, and I can’t imagine him doing that at all. That burden would definitely fall on me. And if they were messy, he wouldn’t like that. I’d have to keep the apartment spotless, even though it’s not big enough for a family. But he said he likes it and doesn’t want to move.
I try to imagine him coming home from work and kissing me on the cheek and bringing me flowers just because. I try to imagine a lot of things that I just can’t because it’s an illusion my brain has manufactured. There are no butterflies or fireworks with Tom, and there never have been. But does that really matter?
He’s a normal guy with a great job and exactly what I told myself I needed. My chest is closing in on me, and I can't find a goddamn ladle in any of his drawers.
"What are you looking for?" he snaps, irritated that I'm moving things around and displacing them.
"A ladle."
"I don't have a ladle," he says. "You'll just have to use a regular spoon."
I stop what I’m doing and turn towards him, slowly.
His eyes are pinched together, and I wonder how I never noticed that before. Has he always been so condescending? Who is this guy that wears nothing but khakis and white button downs? This guy who doesn’t own standard everyday kitchen items because he never has anyone over. He’s so neutral that you can barely distinguish him from the counter. Tones of beige swallow him up and make me want to scream.
I’m anxious. Irritated. And he’s looking at me all wrong, and this isn’t how it was supposed to be. I can feel it happening. The glue that’s held me together for so long is coming apart at the seams, and my crazy is about to spill out. I need to get a grip. But I can’t contain it. I can’t be rational right now.
“What kind of person doesn't own a fucking ladle?" I shout.
He blinks, startled, and retrieves a spoon from the drawer himself, handing it over like this will solve all of our problems.
He doesn't get it.
"This doesn't fix anything," I say. "You can't use a regular spoon for spaghetti sauce. How don't you know this by now, Tom? HOW?"
He blinks again, and he doesn’t know how to handle my crazy because he’s never seen it before. I’m wielding the metal spoon in the air while I yell, and Tom’s speechless. Something inside of me has finally snapped. I can feel it in the unfamiliar power surging through me. The truth is about to spill free from my lips.
"You can't even commit to a ladle. How are you going to commit to a lifetime together?"
"A lifetime..." he sputters.
And that's it. The fear on his face is my answer.
“I’m so stupid,” I mutter. “Everyone could see it but me. All this time I’ve put in. It means nothing to you because it’s just been convenient. It’s convenient for me to come to you whenever you want, for the allotted amount of time that you deem acceptable. You’re just like Mr. Big. And I’m Carrie.”
Halfway through my rant, I tear off my apron and toss it on the counter.
“You’re being irrational,” Tom tells me. “It’s just a ladle.”
“It’s not just a ladle, Tom. It’s the fact that I don’t even have a drawer here. And I come and go like a prostitute, even after five years together. You’ve never spent one night at my place. Not one single night.”
He gives me a half-hearted shrug. “Why change a good thing?”
I blink at him. And blink again. And the thing that broke inside of me is filling up with molten hot lava.
“I don’t even love you,” I admit. “I’m numb, Tom. I’m broken and fucked up and numb. I don’t even know if I’m capable of love anymore, but I wanted to pretend with you. And that meant something. I held all of those broken pieces together and kept them in place. I was sane for you.”
By the look on his face, I can tell he doesn’t agree. My admission hasn’t caused him pain, but relief. He wants me to leave now, but he doesn’t want to have to ask. I’ve made everything so goddamn easy for him, but I’m done with that now. I’m done being nice. I’m done being the whole freaking world’s girl Friday.
“I refuse to make this easy on you anymore,” I tell him. “So just say it.”
“I think it’s probably best that you leave,” he mumbles.
I turn the sauce on high and remove the lid, taking way too much satisfaction when it splatters all over the counter.
