Poetry in Commotion

She looked at it disgustedly. I tried to make my smile look simultaneously understanding and teasing, continuing, “You don’t earn the bad-ass award until you can clean up your own mess. Be glad it doesn’t look more like that.” I indicated Richard’s rust-colored blotch on the floor. “Besides, you will need it now.”

She took it from me and carried it slowly to the kitchen for a thorough rinsing. In a few minutes, I felt comfortable getting up. I went to my room, wrapped an ACE bandage around my chest, and pulled on a new shirt. I joined her by the sink, where she still seemed not to know what to say. “You know,” I offered, “I kind of wonder what a poet would have to say about this situation. There are all those metaphors about broken hearts, right? Would it be cheesy if I said that by breaking mine, you’ve captured it?”

She turned from her soapy sponge and her stake and said, “Um, yeah. Yeah, it would be. Completely cheesy.”

“Can I kiss you?”

Her forehead wrinkled, and I was a bit dismayed that the question seemed to require some thought. “Not yet.”

“How do you feel right now?”

She exhaled forcefully and organized her thoughts. “A little traumatized. But also kind of buzzing on that rush of energy. More confused than I was before, if that’s even possible. I know you told me you’d survive that, but I still can’t believe you did. Pissed you didn’t say how much it would hurt you. My god, Marya.” She threw the sponge into the sink. “What am I not feeling right now?”

I looked down, away from her, as if in regret. I owed it to her to appear contrite. She continued:

“Oh yeah, and I’m expecting a hell of a lot more than a chunk of wood out of that.”

“I know.”

“And you. You are one patronizing bitch, you know that?”

“Yes, I do.” I turned my head away so she couldn’t see my mouth curl into a grin. She hadn’t meant it as a compliment and wouldn’t appreciate me taking it as such.

Turning back, I said, “And I’m sorry.” God, I hate saying that. “I don’t want to hurt you with any of this, but I know you’ll understand once you hear the whole story.” I touched her cheek gently. “If you get your stuff together, I can start to tell you on the way.” I picked up my drawstring bag and my phone, starting to dial Patrick’s number.

She’d almost been calmed by my apology, but she stiffened once again. “On the way where?”

“Remember I said before we were running on a deadline?”

“Um, yeah, but…”

“I have to get to Patrick.”

“Now?”

His phone was ringing while we were speaking, and now it went to voicemail. I hung up and headed toward the door. “Yes, now. We could already be too late. Come on.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Yeah, no. What are you thinking?”

“Um, I’m thinking that if the guy who left me unconscious last night and tore my flat apart gets to Patrick before I do, things are kinda gonna suck for him and possibly for a lot of other people. This is life or death, Jeanine. I didn’t just give you a stick and say, ‘Poke me with it.’ Why? What are you thinking? That you have time to get your thoughts in order? That you need to let your feelings heal before you race into action?”

This stunned her, quite appropriately. She stood like a pillar in the middle of the hall, almost as rigid as the weapon she clutched at her side. “Then go.” Her voice was either cold or hurt but probably not both. “Do what you have to. I’ll let myself out when I’m ready.”

It took me a few moments of staring into her stillness to accept that there was nothing to say. I couldn’t keep apologizing for things I’d done moments after apologizing for the last. I kissed her frozen and unresponsive lips and left. She wouldn't have to know that this was just what I'd hoped would happen.