“That’d be great,” I said. “It’s been great stalking you.”
“I’ll bet you say that to all the guys.”
“No. Only the ones I chop into little pieces.”
***
That night, Sean called, and I asked if he wanted to go with me to a seminar to learn about a “business opportunity.” It was a multi-level marketing spiel I didn’t give a shit about. I just wanted an excuse to see him, without putting myself in the vulnerable position of going on a date two days after being dumped. He laughed, though not unkindly, and agreed to go.
We spent an unbearable two hours in a crowded auditorium, pretending to listen to the speaker praise his new job for freeing him from the shackles of his old job. How had I let Chance sell me on this cult? Afterward, Sean suggested we stop for a late night snack at one of his favorite restaurants. It was an Italian place that also happened to be one of my favorites. “I love their breadsticks,” we said in unison. He ordered a margarita and asked if I wanted one.
“No thanks!” I said, more forcefully than I intended. “I’ve decided to stay away from alcohol.”
“Really? Why?”
What to say? “I’ve had some bad experiences with it. I never did like drinking much, anyway. I guess I just don’t like altering my consciousness.”
“It’s just the opposite for me: I’ve had some bad experiences myself recently, and I’ve decided to give altering my consciousness a try.”
“What kind of bad experiences?”
“The usual. A broken heart.”
“Does the lady I saw you with have anything to do with that?”
“Julia? Nooo. She’s just an old friend.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be nosy.”
“No, no. I don’t mind telling you, if you really want to know.” So, while he tossed two margaritas down his throat, he poured his heart on the table. He’d met a married woman and she’d fallen in love with him. Without knowing if Sean would reciprocate, she’d separated from her husband to make herself available, then boldly told Sean how she felt. He was already attracted to her, and his ego could hardly fail to be moved by the lengths to which she’d gone. They soon began a romance disapproved of by all who knew them.
He was surprised to fall in love so hard. “Before her, I spent seven years on-again, off-again with Ann, and Ann never was all that excited about me. I guess I got used to that sort of lukewarm relationship. But Heather was so open. She wanted to share everything with me. And she gave up everything for me: the security of her family life, her home, the approval of her friends and family. She had these two little boys. They were great, and we spent all kinds of time together. We became like this family. Heather even told me she wanted to have another kid, with me. I’d never wanted kids before, but I was ready to do it all.”
It ended with a time-honored cliché: she went back to her husband. Sean was devastated. “The thing is, I never allowed someone so deeply into my life before. Then it was gone, just like that. And to all my friends I was this home wrecker. I mean, they’re still my friends, but . . . I don’t know, I guess I did it to myself, isolated myself, you know? And I haven’t been able to talk to anyone about it.”
“When did all this happen?”
“Just a few weeks ago. Since then I’ve been hiding mostly. In fact, it’s kind of funny you saw me out. If Julia hadn’t dropped into town, I probably wouldn’t have left my apartment.”
Listening to his story, I was again surprised to feel relief. It wasn’t just that my misery loved his company. It was that he’d been so imprudent, that he’d fucked up, and been fucked up, so completely. It was the look on his face that said he thought he’d hit rock bottom before, but he was wrong. Although we’d followed different paths, we’d both fallen into the same pit. It was the world’s oldest story, but both of us were discovering it could still yield new pain.
When he was done spilling his guts, I jumped at the chance to spill mine. I told him the whole sordid story about my misguided obsession with Chance. Sean, too, looked relieved.
There was no judgment at this table, only acceptance—except when he asked me to try his ceviche. The raw, lime-drenched fish was seasoned with cilantro.
“I’m not a cilantro fan,” I said. “I know, I know, it doesn’t make sense—a Mexican girl who doesn’t like cilantro.”
“What don’t you like about it?”
“It has a sharp taste, like soap.”
“Any other foods you don’t like?”
“Raw tomatoes, except on sandwiches or hamburgers.”
“What’s wrong with them?”
“The texture. I don’t like the slimy, gushy seeds.”
“Anything else?”
“Birthday cake, the kind with the butter cream frosting? Too sweet. Blecchhh!”
“Has anyone ever told you, you have a lot of opinions?”
“You asked. What about you? Any foods you don’t like?”
“I’ll have to think about it. I mean, I try to be open to things.”
“Oh, I see. You’re, like, Mr. Enlightenment.”
“Well, I like Buddhist philosophy. But if I was a true Buddhist I’d be a vegetarian. I’m not a vegetarian. Anyway, you say ‘enlightenment’ like it’s a bad thing.”
“I like enlightenment just fine, although I’m not big on the whole sitting still thing. But you’re changing the subject—what don’t you like?”
“Um . . . Okay, normally I don’t like liver. But this one time I was at a friend’s house and they made this liver, and I don’t know if it was just that it was prepared in a different way, or if my taste had changed, but it was fantastic. So, you never know . . . ”
***
Sean and I started spending most of our spare time together: meeting in coffee shops, going on hikes, and replaying our broken hearts like broken records. Winter came and buried the stink of death that loitered in the deep, damp piles of mulchy fall leaves. As the days grew shorter, the shadows of our carefully nurtured depressions grew longer. I worried when it seemed Sean grew more depressed than I.
“I’ve always known I’d die young,” he said.
“If you think like that, you probably will.”
“It’s not necessarily a bad thing. Why is everyone so attached to the idea of living forever?”
“Doesn’t the idea of not existing ever bother you?” I asked.
“I thought you believed in heaven,” he said.
“I do. But you don’t. Besides, what if I’m wrong? Doesn’t it seem weird? I mean, here I am, this whole world unto myself, this consciousness full of thoughts and feelings and memories. Then all of a sudden, poof, one day it’s gone.”
“Sounds fine to me. My brain drives me nuts. I’m just a melancholy guy, Cara, always dwelling on the past or worrying about the future. It’s in the genes, man. My dad’s suffered from depression for years. Once, when I was in high school, he went to API (the state mental hospital). At least I’m not that bad. I mostly feel this way in the winter, when it’s dark.”
I suggested he might have Seasonal Affective Disorder, or SAD, a kind of depression brought on by light deprivation—very common in Alaska. Sean had already accepted that possibility. He sometimes used a special lamp to simulate sunlight, often prescribed for SAD patients.
“Simulated sunlight,” I said. “Now that is sad.”
In spite of Sean’s dark philosophical moods, or perhaps because of them, I was beginning to think I could fall for him.
Then one day, Chance came to my apartment to tell me he still wanted to be friends.
“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “You screw around on me, you break up with me, you call me a psycho, and now you want to be friends?”
“I’m sorry about all that. But we’ve shared a lot, and we’ve always been able to talk. I miss telling you what’s
going on in my life.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I said. “The relationship will be totally uneven. I’ll always want something you can’t give me.”
“You mean sex?” he asked. “Is that all this relationship was about for you? You’ve always told me the most important part of any relationship is friendship.”
“It’s not about sex, it’s about love. I want to join my life with yours, to be partners. You don’t. And if we spend time together, I have less chance to find someone who does.”
“You’re friends with Kaitlin. That doesn’t stop you from meeting people, does it?”
“What if I do fall in love with someone new? Will we still be friends?” I asked.
“I guess I’d have a hard time with that. But yeah, I think we’d still be friends.”
As usual, I let him convince me. It must have been that voice, with its hypnotic Bene Gesserit spell. At first we just talked on the phone. Then, as time went by, we went out sometimes—platonically, of course. Yet I began to hope that by spending time with me he’d come to realize he was still in love with me.
When I started making less subtle sexual passes at him, like, “Wanna climb in the back seat with me?” he would say things like, “You should get out with other people, start dating.”
“I do go out with other people,” I said. I didn’t specifically mention my platonic relationship with Sean. Two men, zero sex; I wondered how long I could keep it up.
Each time Chance and I spoke he said it again, as if he didn’t hear me, or didn’t believe me: “You should start seeing other people.”
Each time, I replied: “Like I keep telling you, I am seeing someone. Would you like to hear about it?”
“No. I’d rather not. I just want to make sure you’re not alone. It makes me feel guilty.”
His condescension rankled, and it was only because I feared his jealous nature that I didn’t scream, “I have someone else who gives me everything I need, so get over yourself!”
Strangely, my greatest ally in my efforts to win back Chance was Sean. I both appreciated and resented this. My ego couldn’t help but wonder why Sean was so eager to get rid of me. Whether it was the kindness of a friend, or the self-preservation of another commitment-phobe, he regularly offered me relationship advice. Since he was a guy, I followed his pointers. But it seems all men are not alike; most of his advice never worked.
“What do you want from this guy?” Sean asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean bottom line: what do you want him to do?”
“I want him to marry me.”
“Have you told him that?”
“Not in those words.”
“I think you should tell him.”
“But I wanted him to ask me.”
“Has he?”
“No . . . ”
“It seems to me that you know what you want. The only way you’re going to find out if he wants the same thing is if you ask him.”
“I think if he wanted the same thing he would have asked by now.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Sean said. “Asking someone to marry you is a pretty big step. Maybe he’s just scared.”
Once I decided to go for it, I felt an impending sense of release. Unhappy results seemed a foregone conclusion, but it would be good to get it over with and give up my hopeless fantasy. The next time I saw Chance, he made me lunch at his place, and I popped the question.
Maybe popped is the wrong word. As we cleared dishes, I looked across the counter at him and delivered what may be the stupidest proposal ever conceived: “Chance, I have this picture in my mind, of you as an old man. I can see you fixing stuff in the garage, and yelling at the neighborhood kids, ‘Hey, you bums, get outta here!’ Anyway, I kind of like that picture. What I’m getting at is, I’d like to get married. And I was wondering would you marry me?”
As if I’d sprung a hidden latch on a box, his face spontaneously opened into a broad smile. I grew hopeful, until he laughed and said, “Let me think about that for a minute . . . in the place where I do my best thinking.” With that, he turned away, walked into the bathroom, and closed the door. It was a long time before he came out. He never answered the question.
When I told Sean the story, I started to laugh. He didn’t laugh. Instead, he hugged me and said, “I’m sorry. That must’ve really hurt.” My spastic laughter splintered into brittle tears.
“I wish someone loved me the way you love Chance,” he said. “He has no idea how lucky he is to have someone like you care about him. I’ve never known anyone who was more honest than you are about your feelings, or more willing to take a risk.”
“Maybe that’s not such a good thing,” I said. “It never gets me anywhere.”
They Only Eat Their Husbands
thirty-five years old—ao nang, thailand
Maybe I was wrong, about risk-taking getting me nowhere. It brought me to Ao Nang, where I now sit staring at my freaky new roommate.
Each morning, I say hello to her, but she never replies. She just stares at me every time I enter or leave the bungalow, her head craning to follow my movements with her bulbous eyes. Until now, I’d never seen a praying mantis, except in a National Geographic special. The only thing I remembered from that show was a female biting the head off a male after sex. While I’ve been privy to such urges myself on occasion, this struck me as a serious lack of boundaries.
Being ignorant of the praying mantis’s disposition toward humans, I wasn’t entirely comfortable falling asleep while my new companion clung to the light fixture next to my bed. Her obvious interest in my every move did little to put me at ease. So I did what I usually do when facing an unfamiliar situation: I asked a complete stranger for his opinion.
I ambled over to my neighbor’s bungalow and called out:
“Hello? Hello?”
“Yes?” A young German man with an affable case of bed-head appeared on the porch.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but I was hoping you could answer a question.”
“I will try.”
“There’s a praying mantis in my room, and it’s probably no big deal. But I don’t know much about them, and I’d hate to go to sleep and find out they’re dangerous or poisonous or something. Do you know if they’re safe?”
“You say something is in your room?”
“A praying mantis.”
“I’m sorry, I do not know this word.”
“It’s an insect. I’m sure you’d know it if you saw it. Would you mind taking a look?”
“Yeah, sure. No problem. Now you’re making me curious.” As I expected, the moment he saw the creature, he recognized it. “Ah, yes. We call this one ‘Gottesanbeterin.’ In English I think this would be something like ‘praying to God insect.’”
“That’s almost the same thing we call it: praying mantis.”
“Praying mantis . . . ” he repeated, studying the tiny kung fu warrior. “Wow. It is very interesting, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it’s really cool. But do you know if they bite people?”
“I’m not sure, but I don’t think so. They only eat their husbands.” I’m not sure if this struck him as funny as it struck me, or if he only laughed because I was laughing so hard.
A moment later he took his leave, saying, “I think you only need to close your mosquito net and she will not bother you.”
I followed his advice and the mantis let me be. Nonetheless, I wasn’t alone in my bed. Completely missing the purpose of a mosquito net, the resort’s cleaning staff leaves a polite opening in my net each day to make it easier for me to climb into bed each night. This allows any number of tiny, unwanted, unidentifiable guests to crawl or fly into my bed every day while I’m gone. I scratched a lot and slept little.
Occasionally I stared up at the gauzy image of
the praying mantis staring back at me through the mosquito net and chuckled, “They only eat their husbands.” I wondered what this one would think if she knew how much time I’d wasted trying to catch one. She tilted her head at me and said nothing. A single female with no regrets, she was my new instructor in the art of silent observation.
***
With no one to talk to, I’m learning to listen. The sounds are what I’ll remember most about Ao Nang: the croak of the geckos that live in the bungalows, calling their own names, “Geck-oh! Geck-oh!”; the vibrating crescendo of cicadas, like a space ship landing in a fifties sci-fi flick; the screech of the baby owl who lives at our resort, a sound more like the sad wail of a small child; thunder like the crack of doom and roaring waterfalls of rain, heralding yet another lightning show and power outage; the angry-bee drone of long-tail boats ferrying passengers to and from Railay Beach; the shouts of the touts and boat pilots pacing up and down Ao Nang Beach singing out for passengers, “Rai-lay-rai-lay-rai-lay!”
I shouted back, “Railay!” and a tout pointed me toward one of the boats bobbing in the surf. I took off my sandals, hitched my sarong up to my thighs, waded through the water, and tried to climb in. This was a challenge because the boat had high sides. I’m sure I looked like a beetle trying to climb into a bowl, legs flailing as I dropped over the side and tumbled in.
About ten minutes later, the boat passed around a tall, rocky headland, and my face stretched into a broad smile as Ao Railay was revealed. The small bay lay tucked between impressive cliffs, lofty Chia Pets of fluffy jungle greenery. The cliffs were dotted with climbers, the beach bars clotted with customers. The pretty little white sand beach sported a small collection of sunbathers, many of them young, topless European women.
Generally, Thais are modest Buddhists who’d never think of putting on a bikini, much less going topless. When visiting a beach, most Thai women wear shorts and t-shirts, and swim in those same clothes. But I could hardly judge the topless European sunbathers on their manners, since my bikini would also seem immodest by Thai standards.
I didn’t strip down to my bikini right away. Instead, I went on a search. I’d heard the island had a trail to a beautiful lagoon trapped within a mountain.
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