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"I'd be happy if I was just pissing away my life," Langley Moran told his
wife as they prepared for bed. "Instead, it's passing in dribbles and squirts.
I'm like an old man with a prostate problem."
"Then get it checked. Do you want me to make an appointment with Dr. Levy?"
"No, no. My prostate's fine. It's my... Never mind."
She felt guilty not paying attention to him, but lately it was difficult to
know when he was speaking to her or to himself.
"I'm a dinosaur. Thirty years with the same firm." Starring straight ahead,
he continued his monologue. "Maybe it's time for me to think about
retire..."
"Oh, don't let me forget. Phyllis Ramsey left a message when I was out
today. She and John want to get together for dinner this Saturday. We talked
about it earlier."
"Talked about what?" Langley had taken off his clothes and was disappointed
Agnes hadn't even noticed him standing naked before putting on his pajamas.
"I'm talking about dinner with the Ramseys. Don't you listen?"
"Oh yes. Dinner with the Ramseys?"
"It's our turn to choose the restaurant. Perhaps Marcel's? They have a
lovely poached sea bass. You had the chicken breast stuffed with crabmeat last
time. You thought it was a bit dry."
"Fine. Dry chicken sounds good."
"We could go someplace else."
"Why bother?" Langley crawled into bed as Agnes applied cream to her face.
*****
Already awake, he turned off the alarm before it rang at six the next
morning. Agnes had kicked the covers off herself during the night and her nightgown
had ridden up exposing her rear end. In the glow of the morning light, he
recalled how excited that sight once made him. He slipped out of bed covering
her quickly with the blanket.
She smiled and offered to put up the coffee.
"No need," he said, looking forward to the time alone.
He felt odd this morning, acutely aware of his every move as if he were an
actor playing the role of a man brushing his teeth, showering, shaving and
carefully combing his hair from one side to the other to cover his bald spot.
Dressing in a dark blue suit and white shirt, he thought of putting on the
brightly colored tie their son had bought him for Christmas, but reached for the
modest blue and maroon striped one instead.
Langley stared at his reflection in the mirror, stifling the urge to weep.
Instead, he thought of his son, his two daughters and his grandchildren, a
thirty-two year marriage and an impressive title at work-Director of Research.
He was a comfortable man in a comfortable life. What right did he have to be
unhappy?
But happiness isn't measured in years married or titles, he thought. His
children made him happy but they followed jobs to other parts of the country, and
he saw them only occasionally. Agnes once made him happy, but they hadn't
laughed together in years. Sipping coffee at the kitchen counter, he tried
remembering the last time they made love.
His work was all he really had, and it bored him. Yet, the thought of not
leaving for the office each morning scared him senseless.
He sipped his coffee, imagining what he would do if he had the strength to
act on his impulses. Would he tell Agnes he never stopped loving her or would
he walk out of the house and never look back? Would he put a gun to his head?
Agnes padded barefoot into the kitchen, her loose robe exposing part of her
breasts. "Coffee smells delicious," she said as she poured a cup. "How'd you
sleep?"
"Just fine." Langley looked at his wife. She was still attractive. He
stared at her face, glimpsing the girl he married and recalling how afraid she was
after giving birth the first time that her breasts would never again be round
and firm.
"I'll sag like an old washerwoman and you'll lose interest," he recalled her
saying. Langley wanted to tell her how much more beautiful she was now, how
much more sensual and womanly her breasts were.
More than anything, he wanted to share with her how afraid he was. But he
didn't know how to begin. Would she understand?
They met in college. Back then they spent hours discussing poetry, arguing
politics. Langley remembered his dream of writing a novel based on T. S.
Eliot's poem, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." He would tell the story of a
middle-aged man who sees himself as others see him, and although profoundly
disgusted at the sight, is too set in his ways to do anything about it.
Again, the urge to weep nearly overwhelmed him.
Langley felt Agnes take his hand. "Are you all right? You've been so
distant lately."
"I've been measuring my life with coffee spoons."
"What?"
"It's a line from…"
"Prufrock."
"You remember?"
"Of course I do, Lee," she said, using the nickname he hadn't heard in years.
"Of course, I do."
He wasn't sure what to say.
This was his chance to tell her…to tell her what? That his life bored him?
That she bored him? That he wanted to do something daring. Something
unexpected.
"What?" he imagined her asking. "What do you want to do? Do you want to
quit your job? Travel? Climb mountains? Take up with a younger woman?"
He tried picturing Cheryl, his new assistant. She was young, attractive. He
was surprised how long her hair was when she let it down at her desk the
other day. But Langley knew she saw him as an old man, a sad old man.
He stared at his wife, remembering how long her hair used to be.
"Marcel's will be fine, Agnes. Be sure to call Phyllis and make
arrangements," adding with a sigh, "I think I'll give the chicken another try."
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