I Talked to God: Who Did You Speak With?

Thursday. 6pm. I entered the house, gave Tank a quick hug, bent down to kiss Kaydee on the nose (closer now to being an 80 lb puppy), dropped my purse and keys by the bar fridge, walked into the family room and sat on the larger of the two beige leather sofas. Tank was the kitchen getting himself a drink. He hesitated a bit and then asked:

“How are you?”

“Uhmmm, I’m a bit nervous.”

“How come?”

“I think you broke up with me over the phone on Monday and Tuesday night. I’m not quite sure what to say or how to act. I don’t even know why I’m here.”

I don’t recall the lengthy conversations we’d had prior to this moment. My mind has this ability to forget difficult moments. It’s a habit I picked up with my first husband—to live through the pain of being hit repeatedly.

He sat down next to me and I started to sob. Not small tears. Crocodile tears. And I began to shake. Uncontrollably. How did this happen? How did the amazing connection we had get reduced to this moment?

I couldn’t breathe, I’d been crying for close to 72 hours and my sinuses were swollen and inflamed. I looked towards the ceiling, a technique I’d learned from a colleague. A way to stop tears. Try it sometime. It works—until you look down again.

My brain engaged again when I heard:

“I called Lyzette. We talked for two and a half hours. She said the easy way out would be to break up with you. But I said, ‘Lyzette, When have you ever taken the easy way out?’”

I lost it. I mean really lost it. I stood up. Ran to get my purse and keys, turned around and screamed.

“I don’t care how good a friend she is. How dare you talk to her about our issues without talking to me about how you truly feel. I called no one. Not a soul. None of my friends. Not even my sister … I talked G-d. And you say you’re a spiritual man. How dare you do this to me. That’s it. I’m done. Damn it. Take the easy way out. ”

Tank’s face turned pale. He got up from the sofa and walked towards me. He took the purse from my hand and set it on the floor. Softly, he said:

“What did God say?”

“He said, ‘If you were to die tomorrow, what would I regret not having told you?’”  (What I couldn’t admit was that this question was one that Tank was to answer about me. What would he regret not having told me if I were to die tomorrow.)

“And, what would that be?”

I put one hand on each side of his face and said for the first time, “I love you. I’ve loved you from the moment we met. I can’t explain it. It just is.”

“You know I don’t feel that way about you. And it bothers me. I should know. After six months I should know. I tried to tell you months ago how difficult this is for me.”

At that very instant, the doorbell rang. She’d arrived.

(to be continued)

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