Crazy Love, Vol. 1
He was sitting on the sofa with his guitar, strumming. A notebook was open on the desk and a fountain pen, lid off, lay on the blackened page. A key scratched at the door, searching for the lock. Scratch, scratch, a soft kick at to the bottom of the door. Key in lock, turning. The door swung open, hit the wall. He could see her, through the archway, standing in the foyer, searching for the light switch with her empty hand. The other hand was holding her high heels by the straps, swinging about.
She slammed the door with the key still in it.
“Hi, honey,” he said. “I thought you were going to dinner.”
“I did go to dinner, and then a little party, babe. It was great, everyone was there. You should have come.”
She walked into the sitting room and took the guitar away from him. She sat in his lap, stroked his face.
“Honey,” he said, “I was worried about you.”
“About me? That was sweet of you.”
She looked him in the eyes. A red smile slashed across her face, pupils two eight balls. He was sitting awkwardly but didn’t move to get comfortable. His face was impassive.
“Babe don’t start with that. I went out for dinner with some friends, I went to a party, I had a few drinks-”
“That’s not all you had.”
She looked away from him now.
“And who are you to judge?”
“I’m not judging. I’m worried.”
She stood up and walked into the bathroom. He listened to her run the tap, turn it off. She was in there for a few minutes and he closed his notebook, sat still. She walked out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, not looking at him through the open door. He followed her in. She was brushing her hair, make-up removed, sitting in front of her dressing table. She faced the park, thousands of feet beneath them, but he could see the tears in her eyes in the window’s reflection.
“You need to relax babe. Take a stool softener, shit doesn’t have to be this hard.”
“Did you think of that in the bathroom?”
She spun round to face him.
“Maybe I did. Maybe I thought about it a minute ago. You’re not the only one who knows how to think in words. Some of us don’t need to sit in front of a notebook for hours to think something up.”
“A quick bathroom trip is enough for you. Anyway, I don’t need to take a stool softener or anything else.”
“Oh, because that’s my job.”
“Maybe. Even if it isn’t, you’re so good at it.”
The night’s stillness set in around them. The bedroom, blue in the darkness, was lit up by the streetlamps in the park and the apartment buildings surrounding it. She was looking at him now, lips pushed out, pouting. Her mouth, he told her once, when he was being romantic, always looked ready to smile. Her eyes, he didn’t tell her, always looked a little disbelieving. She seemed as though she was always on set, ready to break and return to her normal life. They didn’t have arguments: they had scenes.
She slammed the hairbrush on the dressing table, shaking the lipsticks lined up against the mirror. One fell; she put it back in its place, stood up and walked out of the room. Then she turned around and walked back in.
“People were asking about you tonight, what you were doing. I told them that you were at home playing with your guitar. And do you know what most of them said? They said, oh, but it’s so nice to see you by yourself for once, you used to be so funny and fun in the old days. And I thought, yeah, you’re right, I did used to be a hell of a lot more fun before I started going around with my little prude prom date.” She put on the movie-nerd voice that she said was his, “Oh, don’t do that honey. Honey are you sure you want to go to that party. Honey why don’t we just go home after dinner. I’m fun, babe, people like me. I don’t want to spend all my time sitting around listening to the fucking guitar and you humming some tune that gets in my head for days and then you stop humming and I can’t even fucking remember it. Just bits of it. I must have more of your fucking songs in your head than you do. And I can’t even remember most of them, they’re just in there, in parts, and sometimes I want to scream because I can’t ask you. Remember when I did, that time? And you just said, oh that old piece of crap, I don’t want to even think about that. Well I do think about it, all the time. Hmm-hmm-hm-hmmmmm-hm.”
She began humming a song that he half remembered. She was looking at him, crazed, humming. He smiled and she stopped.
“That’s not my song.”
“What?”
“Honey, that’s a Carly Simon song. I was going to cover it, but I decided not to.”
Her smile, always just a second away, made its appearance.
“You asshole.”
“You coming to bed.”
“No. Yes.”
“Well, when you make your mind up, I’ll be here.”
He took off his trousers and shirt and put them in the laundry hamper, reached under the pillow for his pyjamas and put them on. She stood in the doorway watching. He slid under the covers and patted her side of the bed. Standing in the doorway she unzipped her dress. It fell to the floor. She stepped over it and walked into her wardrobe, coming back out with a nightdress on and her hair up. She slipped into bed next to him and kissed him.
“You spoilt bitch.”
He got out of bed, walked over to her dress and put it into the laundry hamper. She was laughing at him. He got back into bed and they lay facing each other, smiling. Stalemate.
“Babe,” she said, “could you get my keys?”