Tuesday, April 13, 2010

Going South: Sick of It

I pull into Chili’s Restaurant and find a place to park. I need Tania to keep me sane, talk me down, find a reasonable explanation for all this. Ten minutes later, she joins me, the first time in years she’s not ‘late.’
“What’s going on?” she says before she even makes it across the parking lot.
“Nothing,” I say without thinking then shake my head. “Well, something. I just don’t know what.”
We head inside and choose the bar over waiting for a booth. The place is packed. We squeeze through the tall tables and settle into the only two empty stools. The noise and commotion drown my thoughts for a moment. Then I’m distracted by the drink menu and the smell of frying tortilla.
“So?” she says, eyes on me, ignoring the bartender as he slides our drinks to us. “Speak.”
I sigh and twist my martini glass by the stem, trying to think where to begin and what will be ‘ok’ to tell her.
“What?! Come on,” she says, my time apparently up.
“Alright. Bosley has been acting weird …”
“I know. You already said that this morning.”
“Just let me finish.”
She sits back in her stool and sighs. Patience is not her strong point.
“I told you Bosley was …. in a mood. Well Damian showed up at our house this afternoon.” I pause to consider mentioning the kiss and decide against it. “After I got back from the library, he and Bosley were going at it, yelling.”
“Really? Bosley?”
Chips are served and I take one to nibble on even though the salt will kill me.
“Yes, Bosley. I asked what was going on and he wouldn’t tell me.”
“Well that’s no surprise.” She scoops a chip through the salsa and inhales it.
 “I know. But there’s more.” I hesitate, knowing she will distort what I say. “He shouted at me too, told me to stay out of it.” I can’t look at her, knowing she’s about to blow it out of proportion.
Leaning towards me, she says in a lower voice, “Did he hit you?”
“No! God, no. He just yelled.” Was I stupid to think something was wrong? I hear myself speak and it sounds so lame. He yelled.
“Well, if he hits you, I swear to God I’ll kill him.” She sips her margarita.
“Shhh.” I glance around to see if anyone heard.
“What? I will.” Leaning on her elbows, drink propped up in one hand, chip in the other, she tosses the idea around like it’s nothing.
“Stop. It’s not like that.” I have second thoughts about getting Tania involved. “Look, I think Damian was about to tell me what’s been going on but Bosley told him to shut his mouth before he could.”
“Really? He really said that to Damian?”
 “Yes.”
“Damian has always been ‘in charge.’ I can’t believe Damian would let Bosley speak to him like that. I wouldn’t be surprised if Damian punched him.”
“Well he didn’t. He shut up. And he wouldn’t look at me straight after.”
“Are you serious?” She stops mid- salsa dip to think. Finally she continues. “And you have no idea what it could be?”
“No. I thought at first it was the whole swinging thing like you said because…” Crud. I didn’t want to mention that.
“Because what?”
“Because… I was alone when Damian showed up.”
The waitress comes to take our order and I pray Tania will forget what I just mentioned. Instead, she’s on the edge of her stool, waiting for the good part.
“Why were you alone? Where was Bosley?”
“He went to work.”
“On a Saturday?”
“Yes. Something with inventory. But anyway, I really don’t think Bosley would agree to swing. It’s just not like him. So it must be something else.”
“Yelling is not like him either.”
She’s right. “But swinging? And he told me to stay out of it,” I am glad to remember.
“Oh right. Yes that would be hard to do. Maybe you should just ask Damian.”
The thought hadn’t occurred to me. Ask Damian? Like… call him? He’d just love that.
We are unable to come with any better idea. We stay late, I drink more than I ever have and find Bosley asleep when I get home. I crawl into bed next to him, wanting to cuddle into him but too irritated to make the effort.
I wake up late Sunday morning, my mouth dry, head throbbing. I can’t believe it’s after 11. My body is like dead weight as I roll out of bed and head for the bathroom. My eyes are puffy and dark. I can hardly open them to the light over the mirror. I close them and stand there for a moment then realize the house is quiet. Do I even care where Bosley is? No, I don’t think I do.
While sitting at the kitchen table, nibbling on toast, I spot Bosley in the back yard, picking through the garden. It’s way too early for gardening. I put the toast down and watch him for a minute. He rips out dead plants, loosens up the soil and straightens the stakes. I realize hours later, when he’s still at it, that he’s avoiding me.
Fine. Avoid me. See if I care.
…but I do. It breaks my heart that Bosley is pulling away. What could possibly be so important …and why won’t he tell me? My stomach turns at the thought of it. The remainder of the day is spent apart even when we’re together.
I head to work on Monday feeling defeated. Not a word from Bosley since Saturday afternoon. I greet George and Roseanne with a smile even if I don’t feel it. Roseanne, my work mom, throws her arms around me for a hug I have come to expect. She’s wearing the usual polyester pants and matching cardigan/v-neck.
The work on my desk stares back at me while I try to get my head together.
“Coffee, dear?” Roseanne asks on her way to the kitchenette.
“That would be great.”
She returns, placing my mug on my desk.
“Thanks, hun. You’re a sweetheart,” I say, shifting papers around to appear busy.
She takes her seat at the desk across from me and watches, glasses tipped down.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I look up and smile. “How are you?”
“You look …tired,” she says, avoiding my attempt at diversion.
“Yes. I am. So what do we have today?” I try again.
She hesitates. “The Millers’ payment arrived so send them their package. The tickets and hotel information are in their file. We haven’t heard from Demby in over a week so you need to call him to see if he still wants the cruise.” She goes on with the list which I only half hear. My mind is on Bosley.
By noon I have managed to accomplish two of the long list of things to be done. I just want to sleep. My stomach is unsettled and my hands are shaky.
“You want lunch first today or shall I go?” Roseanne says from her desk across from me.
“Go ahead and eat. I don’t feel much like eating.”
“You didn’t eat breakfast either. What’s wrong?”
“Not sure. My stomach’s bothering me.”
“Well, maybe you should go home then.”
I hadn’t thought of that. But then, I’m not really sick. Getting the afternoon off would be great. …or would it? Sitting home thinking about Bosley could be torturous. But trying to concentrate on work seems just as bad. Maybe I should go home and think about calling Damian.
     
~~ Should Ana go home ‘sick?’ ~~





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