block before she turns to antagonize me.
“You’re making things up. There is no such thing as emotional infidelity. I am not doing anything wrong, and I am not letting you cage me by your definition of love and marriage. You do not know what love is. I am physically attractive. Other men appreciate my looks, and I like their attention. It’s natural law.”
“Emily you are lying to me. You deny that men make passes at you. That includes my brother- in-law for Christ’s sake who majored in religious studies and does not give a shit that my sister is pregnant. You deny that you phone and text other guys. That you spend hours talking and texting, frequenting isolated areas, without my knowledge. If cheating could be calculated, you would register as a catastrophe on a Richter Infidelity scale.”
Emily barks back, “Stop talking nonsense. I
am a little bit flirtatious. So what? It does not make me a cheater of seismological proportions. You are making a terrible tsunami out of something everyone takes for granted. It is an earthquake only if dishes and windows are broken. It is just a little fun, and I am in full control over the situation. Stop treating me like a child. I can handle it. You’re a control freak and you’re not going to manipulate me.”
I stand in front of our French patio glass doors and stare at the backyard shrubs. The blooming flowers mock me. I can feel fresh tremors surging throughout my core. Anger management is never an issue at work. At home, Emily knows how to press all the hot buttons. I take massive, deep breaths to relieve the shakes.
Emily continues her routine preparation of Saturday brunch while periodically sipping her latté. We do not look at each other. Eye contact will surely reignite the volley of venom. The kids, aversion sensitive, have already absconded to go play with their friends.
Finally, I am composed enough to break the
silence.
“Look, I don’t even know for sure. I really do
not want to lose heart. I don’t know what I would do if...” My voice trails off. I am emotionally exhausted. Emily stands in place. Her obstinacy and unwillingness to back down make me think of my
mother.
“You can’t control me. You cannot expect me just to have girlfriends. Yes, I am physically attracted to handsome men, and they are physically drawn to me. That’s natural. It is only a game and everybody
plays it. I share a drink and conversation with men. What is the big deal? You’re just jealous because women don’t chase after you.”
“I don’t provide them with the opportunity. You can opt not to play the game. I behave with respect, loyalty and trust toward you. I do not expose my emotions to other women. I’m committed to my vows.”
After a pause, I add. “You make me feel hopeless. All I want is for you to be trustworthy.”
Emily fumes, “That’s a big problem for you, Renzo. You subscribe to a weird philosophy and you keep everything inside. Women are different. We need to vent. We want to share. I am a social being. You are a hopeless recluse buried in your books and your computer. You have no friends. You never present your feelings except to your punching bag. I’m sure every karate kick and all those punches at the heavy bag are directed at me.”
I am still dressed in my sweat suit having worked out in our basement weight room. I take a tiny sip of the liquid protein concoction from my shaker bottle labeled No Pain, No Gain that I had prepared earlier.
“Why? Because I do not make myself open and vulnerable to strangers? Because I do not run- around with other women? You’re the one who meets men in parking lots, behind buildings and in secluded industrial areas after sunset.”
“How the hell do you know that? Are you having me followed?” yells Emily, wide-eyed and flushed, her paranoia seeping through.
I do not succumb to her attempt to shift the
blame by raising her voice several decibels. Loud, sounding fury is a bullying tool that signifies anemic, porous thinking.
“Emily, you can’t keep the truth suppressed. You have kissed other men. I hear you talking into the phone at night when you think that I am asleep: making fun of me with your boyfriends. Ridiculing me. Laughing at me.”
Emily, newly composed, sips from her glass, latte mug, and says, “I can handle other men. I have not crossed any line. I resent your jealousy. You need to grow up. I am not your mother. Perhaps, you should see a shrink. You clearly have childhood issues to resolve.”
“Thank you, Dr. Freud. Emily, if nothing else, you are emotionally promiscuous. Our trip to Italy is not going to cleanse your risky attitude and behavior. You are going to blunder and bang. We have two teenage kids who deserve better. For their sake Emily, if not ours, you have to make up your mind if you want this marriage to survive.”
Emily vacantly stares at me. I see that she is lost in her own thoughts balancing the pros and cons of my statement.
I wait. Nothing. I am frustrated and furious. I open the patio door, and before stomping out, say, with gravity and resolve.
“Keep it up and one day you’ll leave me no choice but to walk away from you without warning.” I exit onto the backyard patio, almost slamming the door off its hinges. Emily mumbled an
epithet but I did not care to listen to it.
Chapter 4
Toronto, Canada
Pearson International Airport
The lead up to our Italy trip is exciting for Emily and the kids, but not for me. I am comfortable with our perennial holidays to the Caribbean and don’t see the value of crossing from contemporary to bygone days across the Atlantic Ocean to attend the wedding of a cousin I have not previously met.
Emily has traveled with her family to Italy before our marriage. She brags about the ragazzi italiani carini, cute Italian boys, she met. Her past story of a cousin trying to kiss her and feel her up was recounted more like a milestone achievement than with the disgust it deserved. I have not been back to Italy since my exile as a child.
My irritation upturns, swelled with the
booking, packing, driving and inevitable waiting at the airport. So many hours suffered at the shrine of boredom. Post security check through, Emily pleasures herself with airport shopping. She is always on the prowl for the latest fashion trends, looking for whatever is chic on the streets.
One tour of duty and she smells like a perfume sampling counter. The kids play with their electronics with the dedication and focus of famished creatures devouring food. While I sit here, at Gate 49, with all the travel trappings, silently sipping a cappuccino. I rubberneck between the check-in counter and my wife’s whereabouts. I am a regular business flyer but I have developed a total eclipse of interest in airports and flying. I must be developing a social conscience because I find ‘first class seating’ tasteless and offensive.
Today, we lumber our way to our economy seats near the front of the airplane. Well, my family does. I have to snake my way several rows farther into the womb. Without having paid for guaranteed seating, an uncalled-for rip-off according to Emily, adjacent accommodation is a gamble. She does not appear troubled by the lost
