the little we can see

when my dog was still alive, one of our habits was long late-night walks. we lived in a beautiful federalist neighborhood, where by philosophy and design the houses were quite close to the sidewalk. residents in those days faced the world and their neighbors in it. in an an even older part of the town, homes dating back to the 1600s practically muscled themselves onto the street.

our pace was brisk, but one of my guilty pleasures was peeking in windows. mostly seen was the mundane of the end of the day: washing dishes, reading the paper, or watching tv. but some snippets stuck. the spouse who tenderly embraced his mate from behind, the woman kissing her man good night while he remained in his armchair, salon-type gatherings of studious looking so-and-so's sitting bolt upright, or raucous holiday parties, where the music and lights spilled out the window too. there was the also the horrible. seeing people fight. faces torn with rage and hands whirling in the air, trying to catch the despair. or just one, alone, crying.

blogs are like that. i meander through lots randomly, and most are accounts of meeting friends for pizza or a hike. shopping for school clothes and posting baby pictures. they bore me to no end and i have no idea why even the writer feels the need to preserve the oh-so-ordinary.

still imprisoned by my heart, i'm unable to stop reading the g.c.'s blog. i got trapped in the beginning of it because he was in such turmoil, and that electronic outlet was all he had. he was careful to correct me that internet outbursts aside, he was managing. we were still in contact then, so he helpfully moderated what i read. now i'm left to my own devices to translate, but it seems clear she cannot let go of me. she wanted it then and still bristles with rage at not having had a confrontation with me. apparently his prostration at the altar of their marriage, his confessions in therapy and his crawling penitence aren't enough. her once-removed knowledge of the difficulties of both my heart and my finances don't pay her pound of flesh.

only just recently do i not quiver with tears when asked about him. at last i went an entire day (yesterday) without crying. what would happen if she did actively seek me? she *joked* more than once to him about showing up at my work. would she have the audacity? it is a public place, but it is my JOB. a reservation one night, which matched her maiden name (she kept it), nearly made me faint. i'm certain she knows my home address, and could knock on my door any day. does she just want to see me, or must words be exchanged? she's won. that's clear. he will do everything possible to be taken back. i'm in solitary confinement with useless devotion and meaningless endless love.

i can't help but think there is a mean streak within her that aches for a fiery denouement. that she longs to see the whore bereft and vanquished. to wave her marital sword of victory in the air and crush my face in the mud of my past with her husband. a mountain of "i'm sorry", from him isn't enough.

he never spoke disparagingly of her. but i can't help think someone who wore an emotional coat of solid ice all those years has deep coldness in her heart. my wound remains so raw, my financial problems so profound, i don't know if i would collapse or strangle her if she dared invade my privacy in any way. and what says this of him? bound to a woman who holds a hard spiteful need to smote me personally...