Page 13 of Single-Minded
It’s awful, but it’s a relief. I cry and cry, and Michael cries too. Hearing it all at once makes me number to the details, but at last I feel like the worst is over. He’s gay. I’m not a man. What are you gonna do?
When we get to the airport that morning, I tell Michael I have a migraine, which mercifully keeps him from talking to me anymore. He dotes on me, brings me some ibuprofen and a liter of water from the airport gift shop, and carries my laptop bag onto the plane. The flight home is only an hour and a half, but I’m sleep deprived and wiped out in every sense. We haven’t even taken off yet before I pass out in my seat, and I’m out cold until my own foghorn-quality snores wake me up. So ladylike.
Yesterday felt like an out-of-body experience, or one of those nightmares you wake up from sweating and howling, clutching your vibrator like a samurai sword. Once Michael and I arrive at the Sarasota airport, it hits me all at once—the shame, the devastation, the anger, the betrayal. The fact that I might never be loved, that I’d never really been loved—not all the way, at least. Or have sex again. Or have a baby. It’s almost too much to bear. I’m wrung out and exhausted and I can’t wait to go home and bury myself under my duvet and sleep until it doesn’t hurt anymore.
“So…,” says Michael, as he stands beside my car in short-term parking, fidgeting awkwardly.
“You should go to a hotel,” I say.
Throwing my suitcase in the backseat, I pull out of the space, leaving him just standing there in the parking garage.
12
Thirteen hours later, I wake up pissed as hell and launch myself out of bed. How dare he! The elastic from my purple satin sleep mask is tangled in my hair, and after ten minutes standing in front of the bathroom mirror trying to work it free, I’m exasperated and decide to just leave it hanging there. I can’t be bothered, I’m on a mission.
High on adrenaline and fury, I stuff all of Michael’s suitcases and his stupid sports team duffel bags full of dirty laundry, and grab an old box of condoms we’ve had in the nightstand since college, and dump them in too. Yanking his beautiful designer ties from the rack in his closet, I viciously wad them up into wrinkly little balls and cram them all in the various pockets of the suitcases and duffel bags. Ha! That will make him crazy, he’s always been so freaking meticulous about his clothing. Like a beauty queen. Yes, I just heard myself. Dragging the bags out the front door, I leave the whole mess for him out on the front porch. The sleep mask still stuck in my hair flaps casually in the evening breeze. I debate adding some of Morley’s cat litter to the suitcases for ambiance, but decide against it at the last minute.
But I’m not ruling it out.
I don’t care where he goes, I just want him the hell out of the house.
Jackass.
“Looks like you’re busy this evening,” says my neighbor Zelda from the sidewalk. Her silver hair is pulled up in an elegant chignon as usual, and topped off with a sparkly barrette. Her tiny white Chihuahua, Gabbiano, is tucked under her arm.
I’ve always thought the name Zelda Persimmon sounded like it belonged to a witch, or an old vaudeville star. But Zelda is a formerly world famous circus performer—a beautiful flying trapeze artist who stunned and delighted audiences as the first woman in history to do a triple somersault in midair. There’s even a plaque with her name on it among the other circus luminaries on St. Armands Circle.
“I’m so sorry, dollface,” she says kindly as she approaches my porch. “Your grandmother called me this morning.” She offers up a plate of muffins wrapped in plastic wrap.
“Did you know about Michael too?” I ask, dragging one of the duffels to the far side of the porch so it won’t block my front door.
“Doll, I spent my entire career around men wearing purple satin leotards and sequined velvet capes trimmed with feathers. I’m not exactly the best judge of these things.” She laughs.
Zelda always knows just what to say. I smile at her and she hands me the plate of muffins.
“Leave this for now,” she says, motioning toward the door. “Let’s have a treat.”
“Thank you,” I say.
She follows me inside, and I offer her a drink. “Milk, coffee, water, something stronger?”
She sets Gabbiano down on the floor and he skitters off to find my cat Morley. They’re best friends. It’s weird. Morley doesn’t like anyone except Gabbiano.
“You look like you could use a glass of wine,” she says.
“Probably so,” I admit. Zelda makes herself comfortable on the sofa as I head to the kitchen to grab the wine, corkscrew, glasses, plates, and napkins for the muffins. Suddenly I’m starving; I haven’t eaten anything since the airplane eggs this morning. Returning to the living room, I set down the plates and glasses.
I pour the wine while Zelda places muffins on the plates.
“To a fresh start,” she toasts. I raise my glass and take a slug of the wine, and then bite into the chocolatey muffin. It’s delicious, maybe the best muffin I’ve ever tasted. She reaches over, and gently untangles the sleep mask from my hair. I’d forgotten it was there.
“Thanks. Did you make these?” I ask. “They’re yummy.” I’m already halfway through the oversize muffin. It’s like I’ve never tasted food before.
“You’re welcome. Go easy on the muffins, doll,” she says. “They’re strong.”
“I haven’t eaten all day,” I answer nonchalantly. “This is lunch. And dinner. Wait, what do you mean, strong?”
“You’ve had a rough couple of days. They’re a special recipe,” Zelda says with a mischievous grin.
