Day 6
Give your partner a massage.
His fingers spread wide over my shoulder blades and push into the muscle at the base of my neck. They are deliciously warm. He intended as much when he rubbed his palms together to generate heat, a byproduct of friction.
It’s funny, isn’t it? But true:
So often, we butt heads. We grate against each other. It builds into simmering frustration that sometimes, inexplicably, becomes sexual tension that spills over.
Friction, then heat. The first law of thermodynamics and the working principle behind make-up sex.
Friction. The word may be gentler than what’s accurate to describe the state of affairs between Daniel and I.
I needed two things from him today: to pick up eczema cream on his way home from work, and to get his golf bag out of the front hall.
I have a crystal clear image of holding Violet on my hip, balancing a diaper bag on one shoulder with the car seat hanging from my opposite hand, a few pieces of mail stuffed between my teeth because I’m out of available fingers, and then launching Violet headfirst toward the floor when I slip on the golf towel hanging from the side of his clubs.
The police would investigate us for abuse when I take her to the hospital for a skull fracture, not knowing the real crime would be the plot against my husband I’d undoubtedly be crafting.
I told him yesterday about both requests: the cream and the clubs. I asked for five minutes of his time to ease my nerves. To save me the effort of going to the store, since he could run in without having to unbuckle and re-buckle the baby.
Now it’s 7:30pm and neither thing happened.
He’ll get to it tomorrow, I’m sure. But every time I attempt to squeeze the last rations of cream onto my fingers for Violet’s scaly legs or see the green-smeared sides of his golf shoes on the floor, I’m filled with unbridled rage.
They might as well be screaming at me, “I hear your needs and I don’t care.
” Maybe, “My time is worth more than yours.” Like I said, rage.
As such, dinner was silent. Even Violet seemed to get the hint, and Daniel brought her to bed without my prompting or instructions. With tension thick in the air, I wondered if tonight might be the first night we skip the day’s card.
Instead, he caught me in the bathroom brushing my teeth, already wearing my pjs, and suggested we keep the commitment. He’d be waiting on the couch, he said. Take your time.
And now we’re here, that same silence crackling around us but now with his hands on my skin as he sits behind me. Words don’t seem to be working, so maybe we can communicate this way.
He takes a thumb and presses it along the ridge of my spine, kneading slow circles with increasing pressure, trying to get the muscle to soften. When he’s pleased with the effort, he moves down a vertebra and continues the pattern.
The slow drag of his thumb is remarkably intimate.
The splay of his palm between my shoulders prompts a shiver, a memory of him pressing right there as he holds me against the mattress, my knees hiked up and legs open for him to enter me from behind.
The weight of that hand grounding me, when my body was his and my mind was outside its usual confines.
I shiver again.
“You cold?” he asks as he continues working my back.
“Not really,” I reply, but it would be more convincing if the thin fabric of my tank didn’t show my nipples at attention.
Without further discussion, Daniel peels off his hoodie and, after sweeping my hair to one side with a brush of fingertips against my neck, places it over my head. I thread my arms through the sleeves.
“Better?” He asks.
“Warmer,” I reply. Because is it better? This sweatshirt smells like him and feels like home. How does one stay angry when confronted with tactile memories and wrapped in fleece? Maybe that was his goal all along. I can't help but question, “But aren’t you cold now?”
“Nah, I’m fine.”
“Are we fine?” I ask.
He pushes air from his nose, the barest hint of a laugh within the huff. “You tell me, Molls. You seem upset.”
“I wonder why,” I reply, with more petulance than necessary.
“I’m not a mind reader, babe. I can’t meet your expectations if you haven’t shared them.”
“I did share them! I told you what I needed! I’m always going on about this, Dan. We’ve had this conversation fifteen times.”
“About the chores? Like I’ve said, I can do more if you make me a list. I’m happy to help.”
“It’s not about chores!” I say, louder than I should with a sleeping baby down the hall.
The volume startles Daniel’s hands from my body.
I turn to face him. “I don’t need your help.
Help implies that you’re doing me a favor.
You live here and are an equal member of this household.
I need you to see what needs to be done, Dan.
Making you a list is another job on my plate.
Take a look around, use your eyes, and then act.
I want to be your partner, not your manager. Not your mother.”
It’s a low blow, a petty but intentional push against the hurt of his poor relationship with his parents, for whom he’s never been good enough. I regret it as soon as I say it, because the unspoken part landed loud and oppressive: you’re not good enough for me either.
“Sorry, that’s not, I didn’t…” I scramble to say.
“Don’t say you didn’t mean it.”
“I shouldn’t have said it.”
With a furrowed brow and downcast eyes, Daniel slips from behind me to sit at my side. The silence hangs in the air like a storm cloud, dark and heavy.
“Whether or not you should’ve said it, you feel it,” he says, “and God, if that isn’t worse.
I’m really trying, Molls. I don’t want to let you down.
I’m trying to be there for you and be attentive to work and be present for Violet, and I’m pretty sure I’m failing at two of the three every day.
What they say about dropping balls—about making sure the ones you drop are plastic and not glass?
In my head, rash cream is plastic. My golf bag is plastic.
What’s one more day, so I can keep the important stuff in the air, you know? ”
“But that’s…” A stinging pressure builds behind my nose, starts to bind in my throat. I breathe in deeply before I continue. “If the important stuff is in the air, and the stuff I need from you is not, then my needs don’t feel important to you. That’s what I’m trying to say.”
“Molly, no. Shit. I’m so sorry.” He scrunches his face tightly before releasing it with a blink. “I understand why you might feel like that, but it’s not true. You’re more important than anything else,” he replies, grabbing my hand and linking his fingers with mine.
“Then make me feel like it. Please, even if what I’m asking from you seems small or silly, spend the time and follow through. That’s the best way you can love me, and the best way I can trust you.”
“I want you to trust me. And I know I won’t always get it right, but I can do better. Let me get my stuff out of the front hall now and then I’ll run the store. I’m sorry,” he says.
“How about you clean up your golf stuff, and I’ll go to the store. I haven’t been out of the house all day and could use the break. Thank you. For listening to me and trying to do better and for not acting like I’m crazy.”
“You’re not crazy. You’re holding our family together and dealing with my shit on top of it. Thank you for telling me.” He leans in to kiss me and there’s a promise in the tender brush of his lips against mine.
“Now go sit in your car and scroll or listen to music or drive through McDonalds for a milkshake on the way to the store,” he says. “Whatever you want to do. When you get back, the entry will be clear.”
“Thanks. And we’ll do a rain check on the massage,” I say as I stand up from the couch and smooth my hands over my thighs. “Next time I’ll start with you.”
“You’ll have to fight me on that,” he replies as he makes his way to the front hall, eyebrows raised.
“I’ll give in then. No more fighting.”
“No more fighting,” he says with a nod. “I can get behind that.”