Tall and Whiskered

Summary

The narrative describes a complex relationship between the protagonist and a tall, whiskered man, marked by unspoken fears and a gradual realization of incompatibility leading to a difficult breakup.

Abstract

The protagonist experiences a tumultuous relationship with a man who exudes a rugged masculinity and provides comfort during tough times. Despite his presence and acts of chivalry, the protagonist harbors doubts and fears about the relationship's future, particularly when she feels he may not reciprocate her depth of feeling. Moments of connection and tenderness are overshadowed by the protagonist's internal struggle and the realization that she does not feel safe or fully loved. The relationship's end is marked by a mix of sorrow and relief, as the protagonist acknowledges the pain of parting while embracing the necessity of moving on from a connection that no longer serves her.

Opinions

The protagonist values emotional safety and reciprocal love in a relationship but feels these are lacking with her partner.
There is a sense of disconnection between the couple, as the protagonist often feels like a stranger or an outsider in the relationship.
The protagonist appreciates the man's physical presence and comfort but finds it insufficient to sustain the relationship.
The protagonist is introspective, often questioning her own feelings and the future of the relationship, while the man seems more present-oriented and oblivious to the underlying issues.
The decision to leave is difficult and fraught with emotion, indicating the depth of the protagonist's attachment despite her reservations.
The man's reaction to the breakup suggests a level of surprise and pain, hinting that he may have been unaware of the protagonist's internal conflict.

Tall and Whiskered

He is tall and whiskered, with the sort of masculinity that has cutting edges and sharp lines. He opens doors, reaching in front of you with a smile, happy to do it again and again. His arms are solid and hard, but feel like comfort around you. And when you cry, he is awkward and strange but doesn’t turn away. And it is then that his arms do what his words cannot — reinforce the lack of distance between you.

When you’re teetering on reality and feeling like someone who stands outside a drug store all day smoking cigarettes, he’s still there when you come home. And you look at him with question marks dripping from your eyes and you want to ask, you want to know why he’s still here. But you don’t ask. You swallow the fear of not knowing if he’ll stay and you concentrate on the scent of his nearness and the cadence in his voice. You let yourself drift toward the assurance, a mere handful of comfort.

And when you see him across the room, his head nodding in time with his friends and his capable frame shifting his stance from foot to foot, you smile at his laughter and you wonder if he thinks of you the way you think of him, with warmth and desire, with thoughts that make his mind raced and his heart quicken. And you consider for a moment the weight of the pain should you ever discover that he doesn’t. And as the stabbing sensation loosens your senses, you step backward. You retreat even though you’re screaming inside at yourself: don’t withdraw. Then he looks over at you, marking you with a solid gaze as if you belong to him, as if there could be no other in the world for him but you. It stops the retreat. But not the stabbing.

At those times when he takes you away for the weekend, you go willingly. You visit restaurants with dead fish on the walls, you drink beer, and talk about how expensive everything is here. Somewhere between the haze of noise and the buzz of the alcohol, you know you should tell him you can’t do this anymore. You’ve subscribed to this weakness long enough. But instead you nod and drink another beer while he tells you of his global excursions and his finished girlfriends.

And when you leave the bar, all of that stays stuck between you but you’re not sure why. Later that night in bed he loves you and each touch makes you feel like a stranger in a foreign land as excitement mixes with all that is still unknown in him. And you try desperately to figure it out, this pull of distress that is weighing on you. And when he turns over on his side and tucks his arm beneath his head and lets his eyelids become my focus, you say, “I can’t do this anymore.”

“Why not?” He slants his brows to attention.

And in a split second, you decide that he should never know that there are days when you’re riding the train and you’re straining to remember the last time he said he loved you, but you can’t recall and so another fear deposits itself into the soles of your feet. And before the train stops you’ve realized instead that when he talks of politics, you think of romance. And when he watches football, you think of marriage. And when he cooks dinner, you think of leaving.

Instead, you say, “I’ll have my things out by the end of the month.” And after your belongings are packed, you forget to mention that the movers are scheduled for that morning. And he comes home for lunch and when he sees the truck he asks you if you’re sure you want to do this. You look up at him, plunging into the warmth of his dark eyes once more and you tell him again that you can’t do this. Do what? He questions. I need to feel safe. I need to feel loved. The words on the tips of your tongue are tipping the scales, but you tuck them away as you struggle with the invisible truths that sit between you.

He shakes his head as he wraps his hand behind his neck and rubs it back and forth. It sounds like a dog scratching and you wonder if he’s ever really loved you. You think back to the beginning of you and him. Your mind wanders in and out, following the weave of moments that created a false sense of we. The time he looked away first, then pulled you tight against his chest. The day he forgot your middle name, so he made up a new one. The little things that didn’t mean much to him then or now. The things that stuck like gum to your hesitation.

And as his head stops shaking and his scratching hand returns to his side, you step closer and say I’m sorry, because you can see the pain pulling at the corners of his mouth. And you question for a split second if you’re doing the right thing but you know inside there’s no going back. So you look up at him, tall and whiskered, and you pull every detail of him into your mind one last time daring not to breathe in the chemistry of him. Then as a quicksand type of quiet settles between you, a minor rush of “never again’ slides through your mind. And when suddenly his form breaks, you see that your closeness is nothing but a slapping farewell. He steps away, retreating out the door. And you leave with the moving truck.