Clear: (adj) transparent, unclouded.

He pulled me against him and dropped his head down to kiss me on my mouth. His kiss was warm and deep, the kind of kiss I loved from him. As his kiss deepened, I could taste pink bubble gum on his mouth, and I could feel the sugary coating it left … and then I noticed his lips were sticky with coconut lip gloss. I knew what it was I was tasting and I struggled to turn my face away from him, fighting to break the kiss, but his one arm that he had around my waist, held me tight against him. “Stop!” I pushed my arms against his chest to get away from him, saying, “Get OFF of me! I can taste her. I can TASTE her!” And when I broke free, I saw the showgirl standing there, with shiny glossed lips, chewing pink bubble gum. He had one arm around me, and his other arm was outstretched, holding her hand. She was wearing a tiny white cropped tank top and pink Victoria Secret Angel leggings. He pulled her against him and tried to tug me over, too. I was spitting on the floor, repulsed that I could taste her residue in his mouth, and I looked at him, disgusted. “You’re not seeing her anymore, huh?” “Hun,” he said, “I don’t know where she is, what she’s doing and I don’t care. If you keep accusing me of cheating, you’re going to force me into it.” I blinked at him a few times and I looked from him to her, holding hands. ” … what?”

With a heavy jerk, I woke up curled in the fetal position, my legs tangled in my sheets, my heart thumping. Very slowly, I fully woke up and gently moved my legs to free them. Still on my side, I gathered my pillow beneath my head and stayed there, staring out the window, watching the automatic security light turn on and off … on … and off. Absentmindedly, I began counting the clicks, and then my eyes drifted up and I started counting the slats in the blinds, and then my eyes slid over to my nightstand, and I began counting the objects there. Not moving my head, I just counted whatever I could see, laying there in my bed. Since childhood, when I was upset, I would count things; whatever was in my line of vision, I would count it. I have no idea why or when it started, but it’s an automatic response, to this day. Should’ve mentioned THAT to the shrink. And then I thought about the shrink. I wonder what he would say to my returning to him, ending up right where I started. He’d say he’s not surprised. He said you’d go back, and you did, you pathetic loser. I stopped counting and rolled to my back, draping both arms over my face, feeling my throat tightening up. It had only been a few days since our fight but it’s cut was still fresh and throbbed freely. I remembered him shouting that he he didn’t love me. I remembered how he held his head with utter exasperation, his frustration with how he really felt bursting out of him. Nothing had ever hurt like that. Even when he disappeared, and I ached to my core over his absence, I was sure he loved me and that love would eventually seep back in to his heart. When at last he did return, I thought it was because he loved me. I truly thought he loved me. I thought …

My mind drifted back to our first date. That night, he met me at a little German pub in the center of the town I now live in; I was immediately comfortable with him, which is unusual for me, and we fell right into conversation. He suggested we walk across the street to the boardwalk for a little bit. And as we exchanged first date banter, he took out his phone and showed me a picture of his new boat that he had named Crystal Clear. It was a cabin cruiser speed boat, with sleeping accommodations, a bathroom and a little kitchenette, right beneath the bow. He was very proud of his new boat. I nodded politely and shrugged apologetically, saying, ” … I only have a futon.” We both laughed and he tilted his head, looking into my eyes. “hmm,” he said. He later told me he was intrigued that I showed no interest in his boat.

… that boat, Crystal Clear, that I would scrub every summer, cleaning the cabin interior and scrubbing off the mold that seeped in from wet winters, getting pounding headaches from the fumes as I scrubbed every seam on the cream colored leather ceiling through out the cabin, every nook, every part of the stitching on the plush leather love seat, then dragging out the large master bed mattress and bleaching the surface beneath. I would vacuum the carpet, bleach and scrub the inside of the refrigerator that had succumbed to mildew and odor over the winter, carefully unhooking the delicate hanging fasteners on the drapes and spot cleaning the drapes with a toothbrush so the fabric wouldn’t tatter, buying elegant bedding and pillows to make it comfortable and modern on his boat … and finding out later that he needed that boat beautiful to impress the showgirl, laying her back against those pillows I bought and making love to her over and over in that bed as the boat rocked beneath them, where he had me a million times, too. I wonder how she would have felt knowing her head was laying on the pillows his current girlfriend bought, or that she was drinking out of the custom personalized “Crystal Clear” etched cups with the bronze compass rose and bronze font carefully matched to the font painted on his boat boasting it’s name, that his girlfriend designed and special ordered for his 40th birthday; would she enjoy laying in the sun up on the bow where he could show her off, stretched out on the Cruisers Yacht towel that I bought for him. I wondered how she would feel if she knew that boat bow that she rolled around on with him after dark out in the bay, dazzled brilliant white in the moonlight because I got deep sunburns on my back as I scrubbed it, inch by inch, on my hands and knees with bleach soap, taking care to go over and over and over certain spots that were dull, polishing the chrome rails, baking in the scorching New Jersey shore sun. I had no idea the presentation was all for her. I wonder if she thought he was a classy guy as he served her on the imported wood tray cutting board with the pewter boat cleat, that I bought for him. I wonder. I wonder if she was impressed with the shine on hull of the boat as it bobbed gently in the water, reflecting the sparkling water. I doubt he told her that I would hand wax one side, up on a ladder, shoulders aching, swatting gnats and sweating in the humidity, while he waxed the other side. I wonder if she knew he and I crawled underneath the boat before it hit the water, while it was up on blocks, and painted the thick tar like anti-algae black paint on the bottom, from one end to the other, laying on the cement drive way of his shore house, on my back and reaching up with the roller, getting speckled with tiny black flecks that stained my skin. I knew he wanted his boat to be gorgeous as it sat in a slip in Atlantic City, with the Casinos flashing in the background, the rolling lighted signs warming the dimming sky as the sun sank below the horizon … but I didn’t know about the showgirl or that he had been going back and forth in that boat, to see her dance, to sleep beside her in the Taj Mahal hotel, where she performed. I had no idea. This woman, this second life was all unfathomable.

“Hun, Alpha’s don’t cheat. They don’t NEED to. Stop accusing me of things I’m not doing. That’s how you’ll lose me.”

My mind went back to the night I first saw his phone, and among their texts was a beautiful picture of 4th of July fireworks. Seeing that picture he sent to her was a heavy kick to my gut, because I had taken that picture. On the 4th of July, he took me and some friends out to the Atlantic City bay to watch the fireworks. I sat on the bow, my heart swollen with love, and I captured a shot of one spectacular firework explosion. I posted it on Facebook, tagging my location and wrote, “Thank you God, for this night and this wonderful man that is showing me a life I never knew I would ever find. I am so lucky I found him. I love him so much.” He saw the picture over my shoulder and said, “Wow, hun, great shot. Send that to me, I love it,” Proud of his approval, I sent it to his phone. … and the night I spent locked in his bathroom, I found it in their texts, and I saw he sent it to her with a note: “I am out in the bay watching the fireworks, looking at the Taj, where you are, missing you more than you can ever know. I snapped this picture, wishing you were here with me, tonight, in my arms. I love you so much.” Laying in my bed, I still couldn’t absorb that one. You dirty low down scrumbag bastard. I wondered what words she would choose if she knew his girlfriend took that picture of the shimmering exploding fireworks right before he sent it to her, claiming it as his special picture for her … or if she knew my fingerprints were on almost everything she enjoyed with him, including his body. That night, he was so loving to me. So attentive and warm, kissing me deeply on the deck, cradling me against him as we watched the fireworks. I closed my eyes at the memory. I dont UNDERSTAND. I thought he loved me. I thought that was love. I thought … And then the memory of him with his hands on his head, snapped me out of my memory. I don’t love you! Oh my God, I still couldn’t make any sense of it.

It was cold in my house and I lifted my head off of my pillow, listening closely for the deep hum of the furnace. I didn’t hear it, and I sighed as I dropped my head back to my pillow, lacking the energy or desire to get out of bed to turn up the heat. My eyes drifted through my open bedroom door into the darkness of my living room. I left the Christmas tree lights on, and the warm glow spilled across the wood floor before it was absorbed by the dark. That’s exactly how I felt. I swallowed back tears that were pushing their way out; I didn’t even have the energy to cry. And enough crying already. I was getting on my own nerves.

I sat up and slumped forward, stretching my arms out in front of me, yawning deeply. I stayed like that for a second, feeling my tight muscles slowly stretch. It burned but I didn’t really mind. Still bent over, I reached up and shook my hair out with both hands, massaging my scalp, feeling the cool strands all through my fingers, all over my forearms as it fell forward. Slowly, I pulled myself up, gathering my hair into a loose knot on top of my head, holding it there, just staring blankly into nothingness, lost in my own memories. The shore and working on the boat was our thing, I thought. I thought that was bonding time. If you don’t love me … if you never loved me … why did you have me down the shore every summer, while you were with her? Why have me around at all? I dropped my hands down to my lap, my hair falling down my back. It was only 10:15. So much night left to get through, so many thoughts to ignore and tune out and ultimately replay over and over again. “I don’t LOVE you! I have NEVER loved you! Why do I have to be punished for how I DON’T feel about you?” How many times had I cleaned his shore house for him, only to welcome her or any of his others, washing his clothes that he would wear when he took her out? I shook my head as I remembered the engaged broad on the island; she had frequented his boat, too. But she was just a warm body for him, until the showgirl was available. … like I was, apparently. … but, no. No, that just didn’t make sense. It didn’t ring true. I didn’t know if I was in denial or just missing a piece, but it didn’t fit. Sitting there, shoulders slumped, I remembered his email to her, lamenting his hurt that she stood him up at his shore house … how he said he only wanted to make her feel “happy and safe” … the very opposite of where I was in my heart and head at that moment.

“Stop accusing me of things I’m not doing. This is how you will lose me again.”

I slid back down beneath the blankets and laid there quietly, my eyes fluttering shut, my body relaxing. My thoughts were quieting down, my heart was unclenching and I was drifting. Through my closed eyes, I saw the brilliant golden light dancing off of the surface of the water out in the bay, sea gulls crying and swooping deep over the water. I could smell the brackish sea water in the air, the unmistakable and intoxicating scent of the coast. I felt the cool winds of the coming evening flutter my white muslin swimsuit wrap, floating against my tanned legs, my hair gently blowing over my shoulders, as we swayed side to side, carefree, drifting. He started the motor and the engines roared to life, the boat humming beneath us. I walked up beside him, kissed his face like I always did and stood there, looking out over the bay, my eyes following rays of light that broke through a bank of clouds. He turned his head and winked at me, telling me to hold on, as he shifted gears and we jumped to life, speeding over the small whitecaps, lifting up and slamming down, over and over, skipping over the deep water. We were drenched in early evening golden sunlight, his face beautiful and serene as his pale blue eyes scanned the horizon. Atlantic City twinkled in the distance against the watercolor sky, and my anticipation of a night with him spilled into excitement and bubbled out of me. I was so excited! … so grateful for him, for this. I was so lucky and I knew it. He downshifted and the engines quieted as we slowed to a leisurely pace coming into the Atlantic City Marina. The thumping bass and drums of a live band greeting us as we fell into the shadows of the blinking casino hotel lights, nighttime arriving as we did. We pulled into a slip and I stepped off the boat, him tossing me the black ropes to tie Crystal Clear to the dock. And as I crouched down to secure her for the night, I looked up at him, talking cheerfully with marina staff, so tall and strong, his skin glowing from the day’s sun; and me, shrouded with love for him, oblivious to the showgirl who was there too, somewhere on stage in her costume, shining under the lights, smiling to her audience … waiting to hear from him. The coming night would be one of my most cherished memories with him, and one of my last before the awful truth arrived in my life. He spoke to me, but the fuzziness of sleep was taking over, robbing me of his voice …

I was so relaxed and calm, finally falling into the pocket of sleep.

From my bedstand, the bright strum of a harp jarred me from my slumber, startling me wide awake. It was him.

I scrambled out of my blankets and reached for my phone, swiping it open, my heart wild in my chest. “Shannon, can I call you?” I blinked at the text, holding my breath. “Yes,” I replied. With barely time to think, my phone rang in my hand, our picture above his name. I answered. “Hi,” I said, sheepishly. “Hi Shannon,” he answered. ” … I want to talk to you.” “Ok … ” “Can you come over? Please? I want to talk face to face.”

To be continued …