A brief video and a story by Elizabeth Ellen.
Adam says, You want all of your relationships to be on your terms.
Which seems like a ridiculous statement, like saying I want to be healthy or I want to not get in a car accident on my drive home.
I call that equality, I say. Progress.
Adam laughs, shakes his head. Adam and I were apart one year. I am used to feelings of guilt and regret. Adam doesn’t understand things like lack of confidence or low self-esteem. Adam’s father gave his sons biblical names. His mother blended vegetables until they were undetectably smooth. As a consequence, Adam has no idea what to do with me. Most of the time I don’t know what to do with me either. We spend a lot of time quoting movies in lieu of attempting any sort of real conversation, which might be too awkward or painful or incriminating.
When I arrived earlier today – unannounced and unexpected – I said, We are David and Ruth Laskin. Which one do you want to be? I prefer to be Ruth, but I’m flexible.
We were standing on Adam’s porch. We were waiting to see if he was going to let me in. I could tell a part of him didn’t want to. Maybe the larger part.
We stood there a long time. I smoked two or three cigarettes. I wasn’t going to be the first to look away. Finally Adam said, If we fuck I’m gonna feel like shit tomorrow.
I smiled. It was a form of competition between us. I had to prove myself superior.
I don’t care, I said. Then I stepped past him, shouldered my way in.
You push people out of your life, Adam says.
We are still having this conversation. We are still walking the dogs. Adam could be talking about any number of people here. I start making a visual lineup of the possibilities in my head. I open my mouth to orate the list but the way Adam is looking at me now, like maybe he made a mistake earlier when he let me into his house, I’m not sure this is the best idea. So instead I tell Adam, There are people in this world who go about demanding to be killed…they humiliate and bully people whose capabilities they do not know.
Godfather, Adam says.
Vito, I say.
I hunch up my shoulders, make a jab at Adam’s arm. I have my Italian movies crossed in my head. I jog in place on the sidewalk, pull an imaginary hood up over my head.
In my defense, sometimes the pushing is justified: Maureen, Kaplan, that nefarious cunt, Colleen. Other times I push as a reaction to standing still: Adam.
What I should be aping is the cocking of an imaginary gun, but it is March and there is frost on the ground. I move to keep from freezing. I imagine Adam driving a car beside me, my feet pounding the pavement, a towel wrapped around my neck. Even jogging in place on the sidewalk I feel overly strong and confident. I imagine cracking an egg into a glass, drinking it down whole.
A month ago Adam would have refused to see me on principle. Pushing works in reverse also. Sometimes I push to be let back in.
Just tonight, Adam says, making a stab at establishing boundaries. I ignore this and keep jogging. My breath is streaming out fast between us. I have packed enough clothes for a week but I don’t mention this, just as I don’t mention the woman’s razor in the medicine cabinet that isn’t mine or how Adam orders Chai tea now when we go out for coffee. Adam and I are competitors. I feel like I could jog in place forever; turn my underwear inside out to last another seven days.
I hate the fuckin’ Eagles, man, I say, for no other reason than that it takes my mind off the influence of others.
You can’t live your life like a character in a movie, Adam says. And for a full minute I’m trying to place the line – Stand By Me? Rushmore? Fight Club? – before I realize it isn’t one.
I don’t say so aloud, but Adam is wrong. Once again, Adam has underestimated me. Back in Adam’s house fifty eggs are cooling on the counter. I have trained in my kitchen for weeks. I am wearing my loosest sweatpants.
Adam is in denial.
I am prepared for bloat.