Hurt

You're not toxic, just traumatized...

-‘This is pointless,’ he said.

At times he reminded her of the Grouchy Smurf. Or that annoying dwarf from Snow White. All dwarfs from Snow White were annoying.

Then why do you even bother? She thought. But she did not say it. Because he had not drank away his hangover yet. Besides, fatalism and victimhood were rooted way too deep here. Instead, she took the tools from the bench one by one and inspected them with the interest of a scientist or curious toddler.

When she reached for the fourth, he grabbed it. No idea what he was up to. There were random parts strewn across the terrace and part of the lawn. Wooden legs from a broken table. A metal frame that looked twisted. Empty beer vats. A bath tub. She had woken up early in the morning by RAMMSTEIN at maximum volume. The title of the song she had forgotten. Not the video. It reminded her of rape fantasy porn. Not that she had ever seen any, but she had read about it. She had sat with her eyes closed to see if it would turn her on somehow but instead it had left her a little nauseous. So, she went to clean out the pantry. She didn’t want to think about it anymore. How maybe it did give him a hard on. The brutality of it.  

It reminded her of rape fantasy porn. Not that she had ever seen any, but she had read about it.

Did all men have that? Like that creepy guy from that HBO documentary series about a cult. Again, she couldn’t think of names or titles. The art of abstract conversation someone had called it. The holes in her memory. Usually, the penny would drop at some point during the day. On the toilet or while ding dishes. Now it could bug her for days not knowing who the presenter of that certain TV show was. You know which one. The one your parents let you stay up late for to watch every Friday night.

The conquering of a woman. It had never really appealed to her. Playing hard to get. What a farce. Apparently, men still fell for it though. Once conquered you had to keep pretending you needed them for something. Like removing spiders from the bathroom. Get something from the top shelf. Open the jam jar. That kind of stuff.

She did not really need him for anything. And yet they did everything together. Occasionally, she felt like a magician’s assistant. But one that never had any rehearsals. And one who also did not quite understand how any of the tricks worked. Everything was improvised. He found peace around her, so she took it has her job to calm him. It had never occurred to her to say no. Or walk away.

Just because you are good at something it doesn’t mean someone else is entitled to it. She had to think about this for a minute. She had already forgotten what he had said to her. Or why.

Coffee. Oh yes. She wandered off without saying anything. She put on the electric kettle without looking to see if there was enough water in it. It was easy to tell within the first few seconds just by how it gargled. Enough. The jar of coffee was not where it was supposed to be. Eventually she found it on the top shelf above the sink. Which she could reach just fine without him. The French press was still full of coffee clumps. She added some water to stir it loose and dump it in the compost bucket. Suddenly she felt an urge to dunk it on the tray. Read it like a fortune teller.

Narcissist, she had often heard her mother hiss at her father through clenched teeth.

Narcissist, she had often heard her mother hiss at her father through clenched teeth. It sounded like a snake. She had Googled it a few times recently. In the book app she found an endless list of recommendations. How to deal with toxic people. How to divorce a narcissist.

There wasn’t any point in forwarding it to her mum. She was covered in such a thick layer of Teflon, nothing stuck.

Wasn’t everyone a narcissist. With an artist, you kind of knew that in advance. It requires an exaggerated sense of self-importance to think the world is waiting with bated breath. The depper he pulled her into his world, the shallower it all seemed. You can really talk things to death. The endless chatter. Look, feel, move on. Thinking was something she didn’t do while walking through a museum. Not when it was modern art. When it as a prehistoric ladle she might ponder its purpose for a bit. But a Pollock didn’t need that.  

She had found it quite sexy at first. A successful painter / car mechanic / musician. He could do it all. What he couldn’t do was be considerate of others. Charming and seducing, yes. The whole world revolved around him, but it was never enough. He munched his way through people, things, like a caterpillar. She was waiting for him to turn into a cocoon. Give her a break. But she knew she wouldn’t have any peace of mind then either, but just worry what the hell was going to pop out.

When he vanished. Because he had met a Flamenco gistarist and now also had to learn that and roamed around Spain for three weeks. Or when after a mushroom trip he felt a calling to become a shaman. and ran off to Brazil using the money that she had saved up for a new washing machine on a plane ticket. Wonderful that he wasn’t there for a while. But fuck. Where the hell was he?!

She asked if this in part was what he got a kick out of. The idea that in his absence she was utterly consumed with worry. Did he do this stuff on purpose? She preferred this to the alternative. Namely that he actually didn’t give a fuck.

She preferred this to the alternative. Namely that he actually didn’t give a fuck.

If I am attracted to him, there must be something wrong with him. This had been her love mantra ever since puberty. Successful like all self-fulfilling prophecies. There was always something wrong. Kind of fun in a way. Waiting to find out what it was this time. he had surpassed all her expectations. and she had fallen head over heels for all of it. There was nobody on earth who could keep up with his fast-paced mind. She was literally tripping over all the half-finished projects that were colonizing the house, the terrace, and the yard. Everything he tought of inevitable lead to chaos.

“Don’t let me near spray cans or puppies when I am drunk” he had joked. There were six dogs now.

Every new plan he came up with was launched with infectious enthusiasm and she let him do his thing. Sooner than later, it would fizzle out. The only time she wanted to slap him in the face with a dead fish was when he just wouldn’t stop making noise. Mess she could handle. But she craved for a moment of quiet.

She went outside and found an empty spot on the work bench to put down his coffee mug. He saw it and nodded but she knew she would hear him cruse in half an hour when taking a sip of his cold coffee.

Cultural clash or a gender thing, she didn’t know and it didn’t matter, really. She had laid it all down the moment they met. After that he kept sending her cryptic videos via Instagram. He never added any text but the messages were clear.

After the surprise party he hosted for his on and off girlfriend he had left for Mexico to set up an exhibition. He spent time playing guitar, munching on mushrooms, painting and growing a beard. He had called her from the airport and asked for a ride. She went to pick him up. At the arrival’s lounge he had hugged and kissed her. It felt like a reunion of long lost lovers. She had taken him home and had never left.

The neighbour was leaning across the garden fence clutching crunched up serviettes dripping with fat. Chicken schnitzels. The music was too loud to be able to hear each other, so they said nothing. They both just shrugged and looked up to heaven as if shooting up a small prayer for divine intervention.

Once she had confided in her neighbour. A conversation woman to woman, did not go as she had expected. After her detailed account of pretty much everything the neighbour had asked “How is the sex?”. She had laughed out loud but had not replied. “You know love. All men are assholes. Loking for a new one won’t change a thing. You might as well learn to love the asshole you already have.”

She did love him.