I failed to realize, was lifted from A Beginner’s Guide to Breakups.
But by 3:00 a.m. I was ready to explode. Every time I’d fall asleep a nightmare would insidiously work its way into my sleep, hover over my shoulders, then quietly work its way through my left ear and wake me up, even when I knew it was a dream, to remind me I was living a lie, that this should not go on, that I no longer wanted to touch her, didn’t even want her foot to rub against mine under the sheets. By 3:30 a.m. I got up, put on my socks, my trousers, kept the T-shirt I was sleeping in, picked up a few of my books, and removed her keys from my key ring and silently placed them on the kitchen counter. When I was out of her building and felt the first cool draft of autumn fan my face, I knew that this sudden freedom was the closest thing to ecstasy I’d known since moving in with her.
From an old telephone booth, I called Kalaj. After a few bland apologies for waking him at this time of the night, I asked: “Can you pick me up?”
“J’arrive.”
No questions. No explanations. From the sound of my voice he’d already guessed why I was calling. I wasn’t the first, or the last man who wanted out—desperately. Clearly he’d done the same thing himself many times before.
I waited in the late September weather, but I didn’t have time to feel the chill, for soon, I spotted his yellow Checker cab nosing its way ever so stealthily in between two rows of parked cars. Less than ten minutes had elapsed since I’d woken up and put on my socks.
After more apologies, I got into the cab. It was warm and smelled of cigarettes. All he said was, “You’re as white as aspirin.”
He laughed, I laughed. He’d learned the expression from a Greek sailor.
“Still, it was cowardly,” he finally said.
“Yes, it was cowardly.”
Looking straight ahead of him, he added, “You’ll do the same to me some day.”
I let it pass. Something told me not to argue.
To dispel the awkward moment between us, I asked if he’d known it could come to this.
Yes, he’d known all along, he said.
Why hadn’t he said anything then?
“Would it have made any difference?” he asked.
“No.”
“That’s why I never said anything.”
But I knew he had guessed the real why.
As we drove on Memorial Drive, I kept thinking of her, of what she’d feel when she woke up, how she’d look for me everywhere before spotting the keys on the kitchen counter. How long before she’d finally put two and two together and realize that I’d left for good? He’s left me. I could just hear her mutter those words to herself as she started rinsing last night’s wineglasses that we’d left on the tea table before turning in. He’s left, the irked, embittered rise in her voice betraying how much she wished she had me there if only to unleash her fury, while a plangent strain in her voice would nail the coffin on our brief love.
Tears began to well in my eyes, especially as I saw her sitting on her sofa that had become our sofa, or worse yet, by the very spot where we’d eaten our rice and spiced meats, realizing that her life had just spun out of orbit—Paris, the Arab Institute, my dissertation, our stay in Spain, everything thrashing about her like wild birds fluttering scared before an approaching beast. I was the beast. How could I do this to someone? And the way I’d done it was worse than the offense itself.
I wanted to go back now and tiptoe my way into her apartment, climb into bed with her, and hold her tight to me, and, as we’d hug, begin to make love, for she too loved sex that sprung in mid-sleep, rough, blind, beastly sex that grew ever so tender the more we awoke to what our bodies had started.
But I didn’t have a key to get back in, and I was too embarrassed to ask Kalaj to drive me back.
“Why did I do it?” I finally asked him.
“Because you couldn’t stand it, because you were choking, that’s why. Perfectly understandable.”
No, it was not understandable. Choking was just a word, a metaphor, a nothing. I myself had found the word crawling under my pillow that very same night. It was not an answer, not an explanation, yet it seemed the only