Eventually the lobsters are in the oven and Tallulah’s salad is assembled in a large bowl and melted butter is simmering on the stove, whereupon we set the table—another straightforward task that’s accompanied by a great deal of appreciation of one another, especially after the lights are turned off and candles are lit. In fact, by the time we finish setting the table the lobsters are ready, so we—without further delay—bring the food to the table and seat ourselves, after which I pour Champagne into our glasses. No sooner am I raising my glass in a toast than Tallulah springs from her seat, circles to my side of the table, and bends over me to kiss me: her candlelight-illuminated visage is above mine, her hair’s spilling down my cheeks and neck and spreading over my shoulders and catching the light, shimmering with copper and gold. She’s kissing me very softly, ghost-nibbling my lips, teasingly flicking and tickling with her tongue while cooing, in indescribably sweet tones, at the volume of a whisper; and her eyes are more bright and beautiful than the most flawless sapphires on earth. I deliberately refrain from reaching for her and pulling her onto my lap, touching her with my hands in any way, in order to prolong the spell—continue to savor the vision. I only respond in kind with my lips—gently, so gently. I’m telling you this kiss is as close to a believable suspension of time, in which seconds seem to last for an infinity of bliss, as I’ll ever get. Our kiss lasts for I’d guess a good five minutes and, like our moments by the fountain earlier, I’ll remember every detail for the rest of my life. Then Tallulah returns to her seat and, raising her glass, says, “Thank you for this heavenly time, sweetie!”
“Thank you for coming here, Tallulah,” I respond, likewise raising my glass. “You’re the one who’s made this time heavenly.” So angelic and overjoyed she is that a pang of guilt seizes me again, on account of the way I shut her out last year, and I’m on the point of venturing to apologize for such again, and of thanking her for overlooking my shortsightedness and idiocy and giving me a second chance to get to know her so we can experience beautiful moments like these; but then I immediately check myself, realizing it’s not the time to venture anywhere near a less than cheerful subject. “I think I might need to reorient myself in space and time after that kiss!” I say instead, eager to put my anxiousness to flight, return to guilt-free enjoyment of her company.
“Me too!” she giggles, flinging her hair from side to side, bouncing up and down in her chair, tapping at my shins with her toes. And, with that, we clink glasses, sip some Champagne, and begin to eat.
So far, our night’s been incomparably delightful, right? So far, we’ve been happily reunited lovebirds who can’t get enough of gazing at and touching and pleasing one another, right? So far, we’ve been rediscovering and reveling in our mutual attraction, basking in the bounties of our magnetism, right? So far, we’ve been expressing gratitude that fate’s favored us with a second opportunity to come to an understanding and doing our best to be deserving of it, right? Tallulah’s been an absolute darling, as kind and considerate and loving as any man could wish for, such that I begin to wonder if her antics last spring were an aberration and she’s not normally prone to tempestuous exhibitions. Or perhaps she’s willed herself to set her capriciousness aside in the interest of seeing to it we succeed in laying the groundwork of a lasting relationship? And of course there’s her fundamental good-heartedness: I’ve never doubted sweet feelings make up the greater percentage of her emotional composition, not even during the thick of last year’s dramatics. Tallulah, like just about every other minx I’ve been mixed up with, can be utterly disarming with her kindness: does the angelic side of these wildcats go hand-in-hand with the swipes of their claws? Does their gentleness make their raging possible and vice versa, as in passionate in all things and their emotions are always subject to extremes? It’s absolutely impossible to predict what will enkindle their dark sides, cause mania to seize the reigns of their self-control, fling them headlong into frightening behavior.
OK, Angie, Ella, Steve: when I observe that a night’s been peachy thus far, with no indication of instability in the girl I’m spending it with, you know the situation’s about to change, don’t you? But I always fall for the seeming lack of drama—or, rather, trauma—in my latest involvement with a honey-voiced dollface. Always, I’m duped into believing her sweet face is the beginning and the end of what lives and breathes inside her. I never perceive undercurrents of discontent are gathering below the surface of my sweetheart’s mien—that darker impulses are lurking within the light of her eyes. And, if it comes to that, does a certain amount of this girl-eruption business have to do with what lurks inside me? Are these girls ordinarily as unlikely to be swept into emotional strife as I first suppose? Is there something dark in me that ignites the darkness in them and compels it to roar into the light? Is our shared darkness what brings us together in the first place? Why else would my tendency to bring home wildcats in love-dove’s guise be so inescapable? But enough speculation.
Suffice to say Tallulah and I are happily partaking of our meal—laughingly dueling with our forks in the butter sauce bowl as we dip and swirl our morsels of lobster, wiping dribblings of butter from each other’s chins with our fingers, hand-feeding one another vinaigrette-soaked vegetables, playing footsie under the table: a perfect picture of harmony until, from out of nowhere and for no comprehensible reason, discord puts harmony to flight.
Who can anticipate the manner in which discord will make an entrance, annihilate a heavenly night? Discord’s an extremely slippery creature—skilled at concealing itself in apparently innocuous situations, exploiting the blind spots of one’s perceptions, taking advantage of one’s inclination to only see what one wishes to see—and tonight discord outdoes itself in that respect. It seems Tallulah’s having difficulty extracting meat from one of the lobster claws: she keeps jabbing her pick inside it and coming up empty, knitting her brow in good-humored fashion and fretting charmingly, even smiling a bit, as if she’s half-laughing at herself—or such, at least, is how I’m interpreting her facial fluctuations. Not exactly a strife-sowing circumstance, right? Wrong! One doesn’t need a can of gasoline to set a building ablaze, one only needs a thimbleful—an itsy-bitsy spark can ignite a conflagration. Suddenly Tallulah slams the lobster claw on the table hard enough to overturn her glass of Champagne, yells, “Tore a nail, dammit!” and leaps to her feet, whipping her hair behind her shoulders with both hands. “Why didn’t you crack the claws?” she demands in an acidic tone, glaring at me as if I’ve poisoned her mother.
It’s almost amusing how unprepared I always am for suchlike outbursts. Considering my relationship-history, I ought to take the inevitability of such outbursts for granted; and considering my vivid recollection of last year’s Tallulah-adventure, one would think I’d least be expecting an outburst from her. Or is it that I’m predisposed to set myself up for disorienting surprises? In any case, I’m sent reeling from a state of unabashedly relishing this night into a state of unadulterated alarm without any advance preparation whatsoever, as if it’s the first time a delicate darling’s changed into a blazing-eyed spitfire in a second. I stare at Tallulah, frozen to my chair and unable to mouth a word, certainly with my jaw dropping to the floor and panicked perplexity written all over my face.
“Nothing to say?” she shrieks. “Too ashamed to open your trap? Treat a girl to lobster, not man enough to crack it! Make me crack a nail instead! Horrible manners…no way to treat a woman, no clue about doing right things! You’re…I don’t believe how inconsiderate, thoughtless, lazy…how stupid! You should be proud of having me here, not dismissive and neglectful! A clumsy…a poor excuse for a man! Undeserving of a good woman, behavior of a rude and crude schoolboy! A…” She breaks off, too choked with fury to continue.
Is this really happening? flashes through my thoughts. I’m glancing from Tallulah into the space of air behind her and back to her again, as if seeking to ascertain if she’s a mirage cast by the candlelight, while the rage of her voice rings i
n my ears, stirs havoc into my nerves—I swear I’m as good as whisked outside my body, flailing in the air, by the suddenness and intensity of her anger. It’s as if her anger’s a separate being that’s slipped under her skin and taken possession of her mind and body, such that she’s no longer the primary resident of either. She’s glaring at me like she wants me dead, raining insults upon my head, because I didn’t crack the lobster claws? We were laughing and playing moments ago—not five minutes ago she told me how wonderful our dinner is, complimented me on baking the lobster to perfection—and now she’s behaving as if I’m her worst enemy? Is something else occurring in the depths of subconscious communication? Have secretive shadow-emotions been orchestrating our night without my knowledge—waiting for an opportunity to burst into the foreground, demand that they be accounted for and dealt with? Is failing to crack the claws the pretext for anger, not the cause? Swirling through my head is our joy at running into one another at the opera, the sweet looks of trust and vulnerability she treated me to at the fountain, our cab ride and walk and lovemaking and the dinner preparations delayed on account of being unable to stop delighting in one another—our entire happy night, until now: Tallulah’s anger simply does not make sense. But, my friends, there’s a difference now in my reception of suchlike outbursts. Sure, there’s the same fearful wondering what I’ve gotten myself into, what sort of person I’ve become involved with, as on previous occasions—the same jumpstarted imagination presenting me with highly unpleasant representations as to how our night might play out; but there’s also gratification in the mix. Am I insane, you’re wondering? Allow me to explain: my darling wildcats, I now fully comprehend, are wonderful repositories of uncivilized impulses, primal urges, elemental unrest. There’s something to be said for being unexpectedly torn from comfortable and reassuring emotions, swept into a place where rationality doesn’t apply—where one’s thoughts and perceptions are unable to render the least amount of assistance. It’s almost as if I’m in a trance: the walls of my apartment—even the taste of the lobster in my mouth—have as good as vanished: I’m only conscious of Tallulah’s eyes and in her eyes are untamed agitated depths, alive with dark silver light, threatening and beckoning at the same time. Who knows what emotions will engulf us tonight, where we’ll end up?—violence, mania, out-and-out lunacy?—tears, pleading, heart-rending cries?—delirium, euphoria, impossible-to-contain bliss? I daresay it’s my religion, in the sense that the object of religion is to attain to a state where one’s communing, however briefly, with the essential unknowability of life. Our senses present us with but a small fraction of the whole of existence, right? Intensity of emotion heightens—that is, extends the range of—our senses and allows us to catch a glimpse of a greater part of the whole of existence, right? When one’s in a place where rationality falls to pieces on account of onslaughts of panic or surges of delirium one’s closer to uniting with the depths at which our life-fire kindles into being, right? My hellcats might gaze at me with affection and gratitude, play and laugh, be the sweetest of angels well into the night, but that never stops their inner demons from holding court at some point—demolishing my comfort-zone and flinging me into inner disarray, opening up new vistas of possibility. And I’m telling you it’s a beautiful thing, not otherwise. I’m telling you any girl who disorients me enough to lift me out of the ordinary—the expected, the habitual—and inspire me with a kaleidoscope of wonder, no matter how daunting she may be, is to be cherished. This is hard-won knowledge on my part and I’m standing by it. But I’ll discontinue this aside and resume my narrative.
The air’s bending and blurring in the dim amber light—not merely the walls but the dimensions of my apartment, areas of vacant space, are crowding and overrunning my peripheral vision, seemingly looming up against my eyes—Tallulah’s eyes, gleaming like those of a cat in the dark, are the sole point of clarity in my perceptions—I’m seeking to swim against the current of my disorientation and apprehension, collect my scattering thoughts and speak, attempt to mollify her. “Don’t you remember I wanted to crack the lobster?” I manage to say in a voice that immediately strikes me as being weak and uncertain, thoroughly insufficient to the situation; at the same time I find myself gripping the seat of my chair and pressing myself into it, as if afraid it might be kicked out from under me. “But you said…”
“So it’s my fault?” Tallulah breaks in with a hiss, choosing not to recall that when I offered to crack her lobster she said she’d rather do it herself. (Among her words: “I like the messy lobster experience, it’s part of the succulence!”) “It’s my fault my nail’s ruined, because you don’t like being helpful! You like seeing me embarrassed and hurt, that’s clear! And you won’t help! So I’ll have to crack my own lobster, won’t I? It’s too much trouble for you—you can’t be bothered to be considerate—you’d rather make excuses unbecoming a man! But I understand: you’re just a scared little boy and you can’t help that you don’t know how to treat a woman! I’m so sorry for assuming you did and expecting too much, I know it’s tough for you to be a responsible human!” Yanking her shirt tight at the waist and straightening herself to her full height, very deliberately showing off her eye-grabbing figure, she takes a step towards me and lifts one of her arms, seized by a spasm of anger that’s far more expressive than words.
“Tallulah,” I hastily say, half-flinching in expectation of a slap—immediately standing to make it more difficult for her to administer one, ready to raise my arms in a deflective gesture. “I wanted to crack the lobster for you and you wouldn’t let me! I’ll be very happy to…”
“No, I’ll do it!” she cuts me off again, emphatically thrusting out her chest. “Too much bother for you, the baby boy! And you know what? I’d say I’m a pretty girl and all the men agree, that’s for sure! I let you touch me and grab my goodies (Here she shakes her chest, briefly glances at her breasts.) and what do I get in return? You make me ruin a nail! Maybe I said I’d crack the claws. What if I did? Maybe you should’ve been a gentleman and done it for me anyway instead of acting childish and using it as an excuse to be a slouch! And maybe because of that you’re not touching me anymore! That’s right, it’s hands off from now on—no more pawing Tallulah with your inept mitts! Anyway, like it or not, I’m not leaving until I finish my lobster and, since I’m obviously the man here, I’ll take care of business myself! Where’s a hammer? These worthless nutcracker things you brought out are flimsy and weak, like you! Is it too much trouble to tell me where the hammer is? So sorry if it is!” Without waiting for a response she casts a withering look at the candles, blows them out, and flicks on the overhead lamp, after which she stomps towards the kitchen, glaring at me as she does so.
I was afraid of being slapped moments ago? Ha! Being afraid of a slap’s a luxury compared to what’s whipping through my head now: I’m picturing Tallulah with a hammer in her hand, imagining destruction—the glass dining and coffee tables shattered, indentations and gashes on the other furniture, holes in the walls—dreading the prospect of having to wrest the hammer from her grasp. Need I say I’m instantly at her heels, seizing her by the waist, pulling her back into the living room? “I’ll crack the claws!” I’m yelling. “I’ll mash them to pulp, for Christ’s sake! My apologies for making your favorite food! I’m sorry it’s been a trip to hell for you!” Ordinarily I’m not this easily prodded into raising my voice when dealing with wildcats—honey’s generally more effective than venom when seeking to calm them. But Tallulah’s present behavior is causing the stormy intervals of our past to roar back to memory: suddenly tonight, emotionally speaking, is a continuation of her previous displays of temper, as if they happened earlier this evening, whether I want it to be or not. I don’t want to be yelling at her but I’ve already been there, right? I’ve already traveled that path and so find it all too easy to travel it again, even if I know I should be more tactful.
Squirming furiously, Tallulah shouts, “Don’t bother! I’ve had enough lobster—disgus
ting crawly thing, makes me sick to look at it—messy, greasy!”; then, ceasing to move, folding her arms across her chest, and glancing down at my hands with supreme disgust, “I told you I don’t want you touching me! Low and cheap to do it by force but that’s you in a nutshell, isn’t it? Tell you what, I’m going to stand here like a statue and you can feel me up all you want! Will that please you, creep? Can you even tell the difference between a loving woman and one who hates you? Will it be fun to grab me all over while knowing it makes me want to throw up? Go ahead—grab away!” True to her declaration, she remains stock still, not counting the twitches of the lines of the scowl upon her face.
“Fine, dinner’s over and you’re making trouble again, like last year, for no reason,” I say in an even voice, instantly releasing her and taking a couple steps back. “Do we really have to go through this again? What’s the point? We were having a wonderful night, I like the real you very much—you’re my idea of the perfect woman when you’re not... What I mean is that maybe we ought to say goodnight for now and take a breather, before we both do things we’d rather not do. Maybe we ought to get together again tomorrow, or later in the week, after the air clears, and continue getting to know one another, sharing and enjoying what we have in common and making each other happy. I don’t want to fight with you—it’s the last thing I want—and don’t understand why you want to fight with me. I only want good things between us, what we felt earlier, before this misunderst...” It’s here that I trail off uncomfortably, as Tallulah abruptly steps to within inches of me, a highly confrontational and quizzical cast to her gaze.
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