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Considered to be one who’s logical, I rationalize the situation.
Hear me out.
I shouldn’t be mad at Amy. It should be Denny.
Opening the dishwasher, I put a serving spoon in its proper slot. I hate it when anyone puts plates backward in a machine. Especially if it’s my machine. Silverware’s another big issue. Point them down in the trays, not up, to get a proper cleaning. You’d stab yourself if you did it the other way. Don’t people think?
I rinse out a small dish towel and start wiping down the range for the third time. I’m fanatical about it looking clean, with no caked or baked-on food on the grates. Tell me I have issues with OCD, tell me I’m anal-retentive and need to chill and relax. Remember, this is me—this is how I am. Let me get inside your head and see what’s in there. Will I roll my eyes at you like you just did to me?
When I met Denny at UCLA, he was finishing his degree in marketing, and I was a sophomore taking photos for the college paper. Since part of my job was to capture the fun, I naturally saw a lot of him. Of course, I took plenty of shots of him being on intramural basketball and baseball teams. But it took me a year and a particularly thrilling baseball game to maneuver our relationship into a hot, steamy romance.
At first, my friend, Rochelle, did the writing, and I did the picture-taking. Thanks to her falling in love and quitting school, I took over both tasks. But photojournalism remains my first love, my avocation.
Denny isn’t stellar at confrontation or debate; I think it’s due to living with Aunt Amy during his teen years. As you may have noticed, I’m the competitive and even-keeled one.
During our fight twenty minutes ago, he ticked me off when he said frankly that I’m mean and calculated, especially toward his aunt. Well, that’s a snarky comment. What is with him these days? He doesn’t debate or confront his aunt, and he keeps his trap shut, yet he confirms Amy’s observation that I’m heartless, cruel to others, and a sinner. Excuse me? I correct myself—no, he had added, “All of us, including you, Sarah, are not perfect, and we’re born with a sinful nature.” He must have borrowed Amy’s podium for that remark.
By the end of the argument, at least he admitted he had his faults when I called him on the carpet about his confronting issues.
Okay, I do have problems, I agree. I’m not perfect all the time. Are you? Doubt it. You can admit to me that you mess up from time to time. We both may be good people with minor flaws, and that’s a part of life.
Not perfect? Denny kept saying, “inside,” “inside our hearts,” and “inside our minds.” Secrets we keep deep down “inside” us. Bad thoughts, bad ideas, bad schemes.
I’ve got plenty of secrets inside me, especially at this minute. Don’t you? Doesn’t everyone? Be honest here. It’s just the two of us. You are keeping something hidden, too, I know it. Same with bad ideas: You get upset when the driver in the car behind you flips you off when you cut in front of him, and you have visions of slamming your brakes so you can say to your insurance agent, “Why, he rear-ended me.” Or how about pocketing work pens that aren’t yours? Bet you do that occasionally, too, thinking you deserve them. Do you fantasize about having sex with someone, even if you’re married? Should we even mention your tax returns? Come on, admit it.
You and I are the same. We’re not perfect all the time. No one can be; we’re human after all. It’s normal.
See, if you’re honest about it, you’ll agree with me.
I look up and stare outside the kitchen window above the sink, pondering this sinful nature I supposedly have. Two little girls are playing in the blissful California evening. The sun is over the San Fernando Valley hills to the west, and the air is breezy and pleasant. The ideal time of day, the perfect time to take a walk. The cute girls are on the playground’s swing set, going back and forth like pendulums, giggling away. Maybe they’re pretending they can fly as they soar through the air.
A flicker of sadness overwhelms me.
Something’s wrong.
Something’s not right.
Something needs to be resolved.
Time to face the music, girl.
Oh, please help me get through what I’m about to do next. Please, I need your help.