“Where ya goin, Abs, jogging?” I ask as my determined wife tugs on black workout pants and matching top, both so skintight I wish again I were human.
I’d strip those right off.
Yes, I would.
Dammit!
I follow her into the bathroom, appearing on the other side as she walks in. “Putting your hair into a ponytail, huh? You know I love those. Tell me you’re going jogging! Yes! Exercise! Anything!”
Abs tugs the elastic tight around her red hair, “I don’t want to do this,” frowning at her reflection. “I really don’t want to do this.”
“Yes, you do! Jog!” I follow her out, “Not too hot. Not cold at all. Not that I can tell the difference anymore. Don’t feel temperatures.” She tugs on her sneakers over black socks. “You always got cold before I did,” I smile. “This gives me hope, Abs! This is good!”
Her ponytail sways as quick strides take her to the door, and she snatches her phone, keys and a Metro card from the kitchen counter on her way. “Metro card, huh? Taking the subway to where? Central Park?” She grabs the doorknob and stops, puts her forehead against the wood, closing her eyes, shoulders tense. “C’mon, Abby. Go! You’re gotta do something other than work. Anything, baby. Go see Jennifer…Lorna!” On second thought I mutter, “Don’t know how much she can help with depression, but anyone is better than this!” Raising my voice I beg her, “I’ll be here either way. I promise. Now go!”
She takes three deep breaths, opens her eyes, backing up.
“Did you hear me?” I demand, stepping in front of her, hope pulling at my heart. “Did you hear me just now? Can you hear me?!!”
She reaches through me and yanks open the door.
“Okay…guess not,” I mutter.
But as she walks out of our building, I bounce back into action, flashing to outside so I can wait for her to join me, revel in the sight of her in workout clothes on a weekend. So much better than the couch reading all those books she reads.
I’m not into fiction, much to the chagrin of both Abby and Ma.
I have enjoyed watching movies with Abs, binging television series after televisions series — that’s been fun. We’ve got the same taste as far as they go. And time flies when you’re in a story.
Still, she’s human.
Humans are made to move.
Finally figured that out.
Since I’m not one anymore.
“Where are we going? Because I would love to see Central Park with you. We can walk through The Mall, maybe buy some art?” I move out of the way of a well dressed old man and his dog. Lucky bastard. How’d he get to stick around until totally grey? Shrugging it off I ask Abby, “Remember how we used to wonder why they called it The Mall when it’s just rows of trees on a path? How we wouldn’t look it up because it was more fun to wonder?” She doesn’t see a guy checking her out and I watch him turn to admire her ass in these workout pants. “Never gonna happen, pal!” Returning to Abs, my voice softens. “Promise me you’ll never look it up.”
Her eyes show no sign of hearing me, as usual, and so I stop talking and just stay as her journey swings west onto Spring Street. We pass Crosby and it dawns on me, “You’re taking the 6 train! Going to Union Square? That’s cool with me, too. You love the farmer’s market. You can get that bread that you like. Maybe buy some flowers?”
But she stops walking and turns to look behind her. I glance back, too, wondering what she’s looking for.
I suddenly realize she’s having second thoughts.
Jumping in front of her I beg, “Please keep going! You came this far. You can do this, Abs, you can. I know you can.”
She looks at her phone.
There’s a cute photo of us bundled up last winter, holding pizzas like trophies, the backdrop on her lock-screen. I remember that night. We were out with Tom and Jen and they challenged us in an eating contest — winner gets a hundred bucks. Abby and I creamed ‘em.
“Why are you staring at the time?” I step back like I’ve been hit as I realize she’s meeting somebody. A guy. That’s why she said she didn’t want to go, that she couldn’t do this. “You have a date, don’t you Abby?” I ask her, voice pained. She blinks back in the direction of our place on Mercer. I whisper, “How did that happen? While you were at work, is that it? A client?” Spinning around I yell, “Shit! I knew I should’ve stayed there!” Abby descends the steps into the 6-train subway on Lafayette and Spring, the one we’ve taken hundreds of times together when it was me taking her on dates — married or not yet.
I can’t watch.
I turn away, muttering to myself, “And what if I had stayed at the office? Couldn’t have stopped him, whoever he is. She can’t fucking see me! What good am I?”
I grunt as she walks through me, because I didn’t see her coming back up, and I still can’t get over how I feel nothing when she touches me.
In my soul I can.
But no skin left to feel.
Sighing, I study which direction she’s going in, watch her swaying hips and ponytail as she walks fast because someone’s waiting for her.
Or maybe she’s ditching the bastard?
Going home?
To sit in silence.
I’m torn.
This is excruciating.
I want her jogging, or whatever, just not with some asshole I can’t punch. I flash to her and soon figure out where she’s headed. Washington Square.
“Why the 6 train?” I wonder aloud, realizing, “It was a mistake, huh? You weren’t aware of what you were doing, where to go. Your mind isn’t working right anymore. Believe me, I get it.”
Abby starts up one of the shady paths heading in the direction of the iconic fountain. Her sneakers slow as we pass where a classical pianist plays his grand piano every week when the weather is good. He’s on a break, seat empty, tip-buckets, too.
Looking tortured, she spins around,
“Abby, why’d you say yes to him?” I punch a branch hanging from a tree, and it moves, leaves rattling. Abby glances to it.
I blink in surprise, “I do that?”
She flops down on a park bench, stares at her phone and dials.
Jennifer’s photo lights up the screen and as Abby lifts it to her ear, I hear Jen say, “Hey you! Where are you?”
“You’re seeing Jennifer?” I start laughing. “That’s great!”
Abby frowns, eyes scanning the park, the happy people, kids skateboarding, picnics on the fenced-off grass, while she blatantly lies, “I decided to stay home. Watch TV. I'm so sorry.”
Suddenly, and without knowing I’m about to, I flash to the Arc de Triomphe replica where Abby’s best friend is stretching in workout clothes. She drops her leg, confusion in her eyes.
“She’s not home, Jen! She’s over there! Look behind you. Down that path right there!!!”
Abby’s voice comes through the phone. “None of the stuff I'm doing is working, Jen. I just...I don't fit here.”
Jennifer frowns, “Here?”
I flash back to Abby, watch her explain, “In this city. That job.”
Jennifer’s voice comes through as if I’m still in front of her, “From the woman who was destined to be king of the company one day?”