Easier said than done.
Our eyes meet, lock.
-oh no- I think -I'm not in the mood for this, right now-
"What did you want to be when you grew up?" You ask b
"I don't remember...actually, a cowboy, a fireman, or a paleontologist. " I answer casually.
"Those things seem exciting," you reply, "what happened?"
"I joined the Air Force" I respond "became a metrologist. It seemed to be the one thing I was kind of good at, so I still do it because it pays a decent wage"
You cast a disapproving stare at me. Judgmental, mocking. You look me deep in the eye, I know the next words you mean to cast at me...
"Does it make you happy?"
"I don't know. Kinda? It pays the bills"
"But does it make you happy?"
I knew where you were headed. The same place you always take this conversation in your daily efforts to demoralize me. We both knew the truth. I do my job daily, like an automaton. A ritualistic robot designed to perform a passionless task for the benefit of others. It's what I do.
The worst part was I spent the better part of each day trapped by self doubt. Fearful that I, very actually, WASN'T very good at it, that I was a charlatan at best, and eventually I would be found out and exposed for all to see. That the world would know what I'd only admitted to you in the strictest confidence, yet softly denied to you on a daily basis.
I look you in the eye. "I don't know. Yes? Kind of?"
You recognize the lie for what it is. An opening for you to expose more of my self doubt...my self loathe.
"Do you love me?" The words tumble from your lips, but I see the expectation already running through your mind.
"Yes. Of course I do."
"How do you know?"
You carefully set your trap. You know I'm likely to give you the answer you want to hear, that I'm programmed to give the answers that makes our friends and family comfortable and confident and the answers that prevent the conversation from going where you always fucking insist on taking it. Answers like "not really religious, but more like spiritual" when I've known I was an atheist since childhood, and "not even for a million dollars" when I've been broke enough that I would probably suck a cock for much less...
"I just do" falls from my lips.
"But how much?"
You take a different approach.
"I don't know, a lot?" Not much of an answer, but I tell myself it's the truth.
"How much is a lot? How do you know?" You insist, attempting to cut to what really is the heart of the matter.
"Describe it."
"I can't. I just do."
"Do you?" You ask, impatient for the truth you know I'm hiding as I lie to your face, to myself. "Do you REALLY love me?"
"I don't know."
The crack widens. You remain emotionless and unphased by the revelation. This was an answer you expected.
"You don't know? Either you do or you don't." You make an argument that makes a lot of sense to me. I wanted no part of this, but you trapped me where I couldn't escape; left me no path for retreat.
I look up to meet your steely gaze.
"Do you love me?" You repeat with an air of finality. I can see the expectation in your eyes. I feel your acceptance and resolve as you prepare for the answer you know I'll give.
"I dunno...I guess I...no. I don't think I love you anymore. I don't know how I lost it. I don't know if I ever truly did."
I mean it and I know I mean it. You know I mean it. I only know that, in my current state, I'm not sure I even know HOW to love you. You deserve better, but I don't even know how to tell you that.
"I don't think I love you. I don't think I even know how."
The answer honestly hurts more to say that it does for you to hear. I see it in your eyes. The acceptance. The same look you give every morning before you head out to work. Dull, lifeless eyes. The robotic stroll of an automaton heading out to make others comfortable. To simply "do" things to appear normal. In the light of revelation it appears we have nothing more to say. I know you are more friend than enemy, but most days the line that separates that seems blurred, at best.
We break each other's gaze to look down. It's been a solid 2 minutes. I spit out the creamy paste and rinse it down the drain. Clean the toothbrush off and place it gently in the cup. Look up at you one final time before I turn off the bathroom light. I stare deeply into your eyes. Dull, lifeless eyes. The robotic gaze of an automaton. It might have been an act born of indifference, but I lament the specks of toothpaste on the glass that lies between us as I feebly wipe at it with a washcloth.
And then I put on my shoes and head off to work. It's what I do.