Full Figured 10 (12 page)

“Stop it. Just stop it, okay!” I yelled.

Nothing he could say or do at that moment would make me feel better. He had broken my heart for the final time. I was tired of begging, tired of pleading, more than tired of longing for love. It had been an eight-year waste of time. Eight years of my fucking life that I couldn't take back, and I was sitting there, trying to keep myself from jumping across the table and taking his ass down.

He frowned like he was irritated. “What do you want me to say, Lynn?” he asked.

I twisted my neck and exhaled before I answered. Softly, I said, “The truth, Chez.”

Chester was the pilot who had spent the past six years of our marriage flying the friendly skies and neglecting me. The first two years had been okay, not steamy or hot, but I had convinced myself that things would get better, only for them to get worse. He had had his moments where he played the role of a husband, but the rest of the time he had played the part of my homeboy, my part-time roomie, when he was in town.

“I've given you the truth,” he countered.

“No you haven't. How can you say you love me, Chez, when we haven't made love in over a year? You come home, and . . . and . . . and you are in this zone, this ‘no romance for Lynn' zone. The zone of friendship and maid service. I do everything for you. I cook. I clean. I wash your drawers. I fix you a drink whenever you ask. I pick up your pile of funky clothes from the bathroom floor. Fix your plate, serve you, and take up your plate, even after you've eaten the meal I cooked.

“How long did you think I'd just play this role of a fool for you, Chez? I mean, all I ask of you is a little affection. A little romance, a little time spent. And some dick. If not on a regular, just sometimes. I mean, you are my husband, my only source and means of getting it, yet you refuse to share yourself with me. You are cold, a cold-ass bastard.”

“I've never mistreated you,” he said, refuting my allegations.

“You're right. You don't whip my ass, cuss me out, or call me names, but you're not a gentleman, either. I want to be held, loved, complimented, or just made to feel like a woman. You never hold me. You never touch me.”

“I'm not a lovey-dovey guy, Lynn. I'm not a romantic.”

“Who cares about the romance, Chez? There is still no intimacy.”

“Maybe if you'd stop hounding me and let me do it on my own, instead of always trying to force me . . .”

“And then what? Huh? You'll devour me? You'll take me to a level where my thighs shake? Tell me, Chez. I mean, I've done everything I can to turn you on, to pique your interest, and all you do is push me away, and I'm fucking fed up with this bullshit.”

“See, that's one of the reasons. Your attitude. You're like a ticking time bomb. If your food is wrong, you snap. If I forget to pick up something or do something you asked, you go off, and that is a turnoff. No man wants to deal with that shit.”

“And no woman wants a man who would rather play with a PS3 than her. Have you ever stopped to think that my attitude, my short fuss, or my demeanor is because of your lack of interest? Maybe if I had an orgasm on a regular basis, I'd be a little less stressed or more relaxed. You act as if you don't care, Chez, and this relationship has run its course. I'm done with begging. You've ruined my self-esteem and my confidence in myself. I've asked you, are you turned off by the weight I've gained? You say no, and still you won't love me. I want a man to love me. I want to be touched. I want to be wanted. I want to be with a man who wants to be with me.”

Silence fell upon the room. I knew then that he didn't love me. I knew he didn't desire me or even want me. Not touching me in over a year was the physical evidence of this, and now the silence was the forensic evidence for me.

“Okay then, I guess this conversation is done,” I said and stood. I headed for the kitchen, and he just sat there. “What do you want for dinner?” I called. I knew after asking this that I was foolish, but I was an oven whore. As a professional baker, I was also a chef at heart. Baking and cooking were my thing. Food was my enemy: I was a size eighteen because I ate as much as I cooked and baked.

Finally he spoke. “That stuffed poblano chicken dish with the Spanish rice and the refried beans you make would be perfect.”

“Yes, it would be,” I said.

I grabbed my keys and headed to the store. I had everything for that dish but the poblanos, and I had to make a run to get them. After grabbing a few things that were not on my list, I hurried home to cook.

Later we ate in silence, like we normally did, but before I could eat my last bite, he spoke.

“I'm moving out.”

I almost choked. I coughed and then took a sip of my water and then guzzled my white wine. I moved the last few grains of Spanish rice around on my plate with my fork and then said, “When?”

Without looking at me, he focused on his plate. “At the end of next week. I got a place, and I was waiting for the right time to tell you.”

“And now is the right time?” I yelled. My blood boiled over. I had never hated anyone in my life, not even my first husband, as much as I hated the man sitting before me. “You had this planned, you son of a bitch, and I . . . I . . . I . . .” I stood. “Fine. Get your shit, Chez. I know you've never loved me. Why you married me, I have no clue, but fuck us, okay? I'm tired of waiting on us. Hoping for us,” I shot at him. “As a matter of fact, don't wait. Please get your shit and leave tonight. Seeing your face until the end of next week is not the move.”

“My place won't be ready for almost two weeks.”

“So fucking what!” I barked.

“This is exactly the reason why I'm leaving your evil ass.”

“No, baby. I'm not evil. I'm just lashing out. Lashing out from how my pussy aches to be touched. Lashing out from how I want to share a deep, passionate kiss. Lashing out because not one fucking time in this entire marriage have you ever sent me flowers. Lashing out because I've never been your babe, bae, darling, sugar, honey, baby, love, muffin, dumpling, or even boo. I've been Lynn or Lynniah this entire marriage. I know people who treat their pets with more love and affection than you treat me.

“Let's be real. When I met you, I thought you were a little weird, as you were not full of flattery. I was thinking, ‘This guy is genuine. He's not saying things that most men say to get between my legs. He's being him, and I like that.' Somehow realness turned into coldness, and I was thinking, ‘Once we are married, he'll loosen up.' I married you, knowing you didn't eat pussy, Chez. Yes, I compromised.”

I went on. “I married you, knowing you had a thing about washing your clothes with mine. Yes, I adapted to your ways. Oh, and the toilet seat cover. We were raised different. I was raised with it up, and apparently, you were raised with it down, and you'd have a mini heart attack if I forgot, even after I said to you, ‘A learned behavior is hard to break. If I grew up with a different kind of upbringing and am not accustomed to yours, don't be mad.' Yet it irritated the fuck out of you when I'd forget to put the cover down, something so small.

“I have endured all I can, Chez. So fine. Move out. I'm good,” I said. I got up and began to clear the table.

Wanting an argument, he said, “So you gon' let me leave.”

“
Let
you?” I laughed. “I can't stop you, baby. You got a place, remember? You didn't discuss it with me, nor did you tell me sooner, and I'm tired of holding on. This thing is over. As much as it hurts, I will admit it was over a long time ago. You're no longer welcome here, so please, go pack what you can take and move around. I'm past foolish. I'd be stupid as hell if I begged you to stay. So please do us both a favor and get your things and leave.”

He stood and watched me clear the table with no response. Of course he had nothing. There was nothing left to say. I hummed a tune in my brain—Melanie Fiona's “It Kills Me”—as I cleaned, and I wiped the tears that graced my face. I just wanted him gone so I could go through the heartbreak period alone.

Hell, I knew he didn't love me . . . well, not the way I wanted him to, so it was a done deal.

After cleaning the kitchen, I sat down on a staircase step with a refilled glass of pinot. He passed me on his third trip from our master to his SUV.

“That's all I need for now,” he announced.

“Bye, Chez,” I said, not looking up.

“You know this hurts me too.”

I laughed. “That I don't believe, but you are forgiven. Just go.” I needed no condolences, no apologies, and definitely no lies.

“I do love you, Lynn.”

“I'm sure you do in your mind. I know people who love their dogs more than you love me. Mrs. Warren across the street literally kisses that Maltese more than you've ever kissed me. And if I was weird, I'd say Sammie, her Maltese, would love to lick her cat before you'd lick mine.”

“And you wonder why I have issues with you.”

“No, you got issues with yourself, minute man.”

He shot me a look. “Don't, Lynn.”

“No, let's just be real, Mr. Eruption. This right here . . . ,” I said, waving a hand over all my big sexiness. “You couldn't hang with this. You couldn't deal with a real woman, and the sooner you leave, the sooner I'll be free to find someone who will.”

He gave a grunt and frowned. “Whatever. I'll be in touch.” He stormed out of the house.

I knew I'd hit a button, and that made me smile. He was no more than a pain in my ass at that point. Lovers, we weren't. Couldn't call us even that. In my good years, my sexy years, before all these pounds from overdrinking and being undersexed had taken over my body, I was a dime. Over the years I'd become a half-dollar piece. Yes, that was largest coin that made the cut, but at the end of the day, it's still money.

“That's right. Run, you limp-dick bastard,” I yelled at the door. Even if it was me, even if I was the reason he was no longer excited about sex, I didn't give a damn. I had suffered more than long enough.

I worked ten to twelve hours a day and still managed to keep a clean home and cook and do laundry and, to top it off, run errands. Chester had no responsibilities, because I had foolishly stepped up and spoiled his unromantic ass. I can honestly admit to myself that I had gone in doing it big, because I had had this high expectation that I'd get doing it big back. Ha! To my unfortunate surprise, Chester had been and still was a limp dick, a selfish, self-absorbed asshole.

I had let him get me to this point.

Yes, Lynn, you had, I thought to myself. You allowed that fucker to drain every ounce of happiness, confidence, and self-esteem you owned. How could I have been so desperate, so foolish to long for a man like him?

“God, please, just please let me get over him,” I prayed aloud. No matter how much truth I faced, or how much I was in touch with reality, the truth was that I still loved him, and I just wanted to get over him.