We were trying very hard to not bump into each other in the small bathroomin our apartment as we maneuvered to get ourselves ready to leave. This was no easy feat as one person could only just manage the space and still have room to open the shower door. The tones we used when speaking to each other were just as delicate as our movements. "Watch your head, I just need to brush my teeth." He moved back so the medicine cabinet door wouldn't hit him and silently stood waiting for me to take out my toothbrush, squeeze on thetoothpaste, put back the tube and close the cabinet doorwhen he moved back in and continued to shave hisfive o'clock shadowwithout a word to me.
Our existence lately consisted of these harshly choreographed movements. There was nothing melodic in our time together. Harmony seemed so far in our past, I began to wonder if those first few months together were remembered dreams rather than actual, concrete memories, they were so hazy and fairy-tale like. The arguments started the same month that he moved into my apartment. The bliss of the newness of a relationship quite abruptly segued into the jaded realizations that the rose-colored glasses were not only off, but broken and in the trash. One day we were giggling in bed in the morning, rubbing our feet together and deciding how we wanted to spend our day together and the next, he would be up and out before I could even roll over and say good morning, leaving a cooling man-shaped space on his side of the bed that I couldn't bring myself to crawl into.
I regaled my friends and therapist with tales of knock-down, drag-out arguments that left us simmering and licking wounds - on good nights, me in the bed, him on the couch, on bad nights, me at a friend's, him at home. He firmly stated that his words were just words, not at all harmful and definitely not more damaging then a shove, a fist, or a yogurt cup splattering on his chest as he so often liked to remind me of at the lowest point in our disagreements. My friends chuckle with camaraderie when I say that I almost started laughing to see him sitting there with yogurt dripping off his face, leavinghis man-shaped spot on the wall behind him, outlinedin purple mixed-berry splash marks, when he stormed off calling me names. My therapist looked at me almost impressed, "you threw a yogurt at him?" not quite believing that I had that in me. She would listen unfazed to these melodramatic stories of simple disagreements transforming into all out wars completewith words flying like grenades, doors slamming like artillery fireandmy tears like blood flowing unchecked from a fresh wound and simply say, "You two aren't dancing."
Simple words for an equally simple analogy. And the truest thing I had ever heard. We were two people. very separate still, struggling to maintain our independence even as we tried to come together as a couple. It made sense. I could see what she was seeing-there was no lyrical nature to us at all. Our interactions on a daily basis were a cacophony of noise, jarring and disconcerting. It is true that we cared for each other, this was never an issue. The fact that we could forgive the other person, kiss and make up after such draining combat cannot be ignored. There was a lot of love there. Icouldstill feel my heart warm when he flashed his boyish smile at me. I still felt tingles rush through me when he would reach over and caress my arm or kiss my temple during a movie. Laughing together and sharing inside jokes was still the most cathartic points in our days after long hours at work. To be able to still have that kind of enduring love for someone meant something, I told myself. When we first met, we saw in each other a soul mate. I loved the way that he told stories in a meandering, tangent-filled way. His mind would see little side paths to his main story and it was fun to travel down them with him until he would smile and say "I digress" and get back on track. The first time he visited my apartment, he looked at my stocked bookcase and said with satisfaction "a well-read woman". I know I was beaming with pleasure at this. Finally! I thought, someone who likes what I think is my best attribute, my mind. Maybe it was the pressure of being the ideal mate that we both said the other one was. Maybe it was that we both let ourselves be just that, "who we really were." And then when it seemed like our genuine selves weren't being accepted, we started acting in shades of ourselves, holding back and stifling bits of us, afraid to let it all hang out. His stories began to repeat themselvesduring his diatribes. I alternately would tune him out, cut him off, smolder in my frustration with his redundancy. At those moments when he became annoyed with myconstant analysis of things, working things over in my mind as I let them tumble out of my mouth, I began to feel defensive. My resulting silences screamed at him my frustration, you used to love how my mind worked,I fumed. The arguments reared their ugly heads at the most innocuous moments and I began to tip-toe around him for fear of waking the beast. All my sashaying and fancy maneuvers only seemed to induce more clashing. When before I was honest and giving, he now found me patronizing and condescending. Still, we were resilient. The rubber band holdingus together would stretch out to its limit and snap back. But once the bungee elastic came to rest again after slapping around, we came back together as friends and lovers. Until that too, began to disintegrate like old rubber bands that have been stretched once too many andare threatening to snap entirely. We were losing our elasticity, becoming brittle and dry. The bruises from our altercations weren't healing as fast anymore. There were lasting effects now. As we made up, there was a palpable tension still hanging in the air. We walked on eggshells, wondering when it would happen again, how many more times would we argue about the same things. I thought maybe the volatile love affair might be coming to an end. We were too clumsy with each other any more. Tripping over each other even as we avoided one another. Both of us unsure how to take the lead, it didn't really matter. Neither of us were willing to let go enough to follow anyway. We weren't capable of dancing. We could only size each other up, pacing back and forth in our cage.
I looked in the mirror and wiped the lipstick from my teeth. A wedding was the last place I wanted to go to right now. I made sure my perfectly coiffed hair and made up face didn't belie my thoughts, clicking the light off as I lookedat myreflection andthen left the bathroom.The drive to the church was silent except for the radio. After moving up and down the dial, he settled on a station that played loud raucous rock and roll. The screaming guitar strains filled in the empty space of our lives neatly.
The ceremony was sweet and filled with emotion. Iwistfully listened and resigned myself to the fact thatI would not feel with the manat my side what the minister was describing.I had to face the music once and for all. I was surprised when he grabbed my hand and held it tightly during the rest of the service. Surprised and upset. I was tired and wanted a break from believing. I was ready to sit the rest of this one out.
The reception hall was filled with love andgood-feeling inspired by the songs the DJ was sending out over the speakers. I got comfortable in my seat. We didn't dance. He always told me he couldn't. I would sit, sip my drinkand safely wait for the music to stop. I decided that when it was over, we would be too.
The last song at a reception is always a love song. All the couples are supposed to get up and dance one last time before heading home together. Finally, that moment had arrived for us. Out of the corner of my eye, I sawa hand had reaching out to me. I looked up and into the eyes of my boyfriend. Three years of hurt and longing was mirrored in our eyes. Yet, in his, I saw a little spark of hope still flickering. I took his hand and allowed him to lead me to the dance floor. We both looked like we were on our first date, unsure, a little bashful and insecure, not knowing what to expect. His arm around my waist, he drew me near and we began moving to the music. He rested his cheek on the top of my head when I leaned on his shoulder. There was so much noise in my head I couldn't hear the music, didn't know how to move. And I did the only thing I could do. I let go. I let him lead me. We swayed to the music, he slowly turned me around, his hips moved side to side. The certainty in his movements were new to me. I was being swept off my feet. Holding tight, we moved in perfect sync to the beat of the music. We had found our rhythm together. We were finally dancing.