by Fabio Volo
“Did you sleep well?”
“Yes.”
“Would you like to join me at my table, or would you rather sit alone?”
“I’ll join you.”
We had breakfast together. We talked about many things: movies, music, travel, and vacations. We never mentioned work, or that famous note he had left in my coat pocket and that I had torn up. Then Federica and Giorgio, another colleague of ours, arrived. Every now and then, as the others were talking, our eyes would meet and he would smile gently. The fact that we had started breakfast when we were still alone had created a sense of intimacy between the two of us. When we said good-bye, he kissed me on both cheeks and whispered in my ear: “You have a wonderful smell.”
February 27th
What’s happening to me? Is it possible to love one man and desire another?
This question has been haunting me for days and makes me nervous. So much so that last night at dinner I was criticizing everyone and everything, and people pointed it out to me.
This morning I woke up and stared at Paolo as he slept. I watched him closely and noticed something silly: He has a few very long hairs on his ears. I never noticed them before. The past few days I’ve been bothered by certain things about him that I never noticed earlier. In the morning, when he has eggs for breakfast, I can’t stand it when he hits the shell with his spoon to open it. And I hate myself for it, because he’s not doing anything wrong.
Lately I look at him and he seems like a stranger, as if I didn’t know him at all. I always feel guilty when I’m with him. The more he bothers me, the more I feel guilty, the more I feel guilty, the more he bothers me. It’s always been like that with him. Sometimes, for not particular reason, I feel compelled to apologize.
I’m turning into a hysterical old woman. Last night Paolo, his hair still wet from the shower and perfectly slicked back, so much so that you could see the marks left by the comb, put on a tracksuit, sat on the couch to watch TV, and started eating pistachios. He had even put a paper napkin on the coffee table for the shells. I got up and went to the kitchen with the excuse that I needed a glass of water, but I was actually running away from the urge to pour all the pistachios over his head. Everything bothered me: the noises, the way he chewed, even the little mound of shells on the napkin.
I keep finding new things I don’t like about him: gestures, actions, turns of phrase, habits—things I’ve tried to ignore day after day. Sometimes I catch myself acting a certain way just to bother him: I do it out of spite—that’s the worst part. At times I feel the need to punish him for reasons I can’t really explain.
The other day he came up to kiss me and I felt uneasy. I don’t like the idea of kissing him anymore, and I don’t want him to touch me, either. My desire for him has disappeared. I don’t even know where it went, why it has gone, or what has taken its place. He even bothers me when he sees me lost in my thoughts and asks me: “What’s up?” I’d like to respond rudely, telling him it’s none of his business. Everything he does feels like a violation of privacy.
I’m bad, I know.
I discovered what’s worse than a kiss that has been refused when you really wanted it: a kiss that has been received when it’s already too late.
Before, I always wanted to talk to him, even when there was no need. Now, instead, I always want to be quiet. I go through long periods of silence. What’s happening to me? What am I turning into? I feel divided, as if a part of me were looking at me from the outside, observing my own life. I only know that, more and more, I feel like leaving it all behind. I don’t know where I’d go … Away from everything, from my life, from myself, from the things I own, and from what I have become.
Perhaps all I need at this point is to be left alone for a while. I’d like to furnish the basement and move into it, but that would be too difficult and too hard to explain.
The best thing to do is to go to bed and stop writing in this journal. I know these evenings: I could write horrible things but then later I couldn’t act any longer as if nothing has happened.
March 3rd
Lately I spend more time looking at myself in the mirror. I stare at my face, at my profile, I brush my hair to the side, I make faces, weird expressions; I pull my skin back to see how I’d look if I had some work done. I think I still have a nice body given my age. I don’t go to the gym, although I should, but my breasts are still beautiful and I like my hips. I think I still have an attractive body.
I’ve been feeling more defiant over the past few weeks. I feel a desire to be less obedient.
Yesterday, after work, I went for drinks with a few colleagues. I usually say no but yesterday I accepted the invitation following a sudden impulse. I drank two cocktails and when everyone went out to smoke, I followed them and asked for a cigarette as well. I didn’t inhale, obviously.
I should go out with other people more often; I had fun yesterday and felt lighter and more relaxed, not tense like I usually am. I was a bit tipsy from the two cocktails, so much so that I didn’t write before going to bed.
I felt happy as I was driving home, but at a certain point, I don’t know why, I was struck by a bit of nostalgia and started thinking about the times I’d come back home after school. I wanted to open the door and find my mother setting the table, after she had cooked a dish of pasta with meat sauce.
I wonder why I get nostalgic when I drink. Today, after work, I wanted to indulge myself. I bought some lingerie; I’m wearing it now as I write. It’s a black lace slip. It’s the first time I’ve bought something like this. I always thought that lace was vulgar, not my style. I liked this one, though, because it wasn’t too transparent in the chest; I liked it immediately, as soon as I tried it on in the store.
I’ll take it off now and put it away in a drawer before Paolo walks back into the room. I’m sure he’d find a way to make me feel ridiculous.
March 10th
Before writing down what went on today, I want to tell what happened Sunday morning.
After having breakfast, I made coffee and drank it on the couch. Paolo had already left. All of a sudden, as I was thinking about many different things at once, I jumped up and started opening all the windows in the house. I looked like a crazy lady. I can’t explain what prompted me to do it, but I had the sudden urge to let in some fresh air. Then I took a shower and went for a walk. I even bought some flowers. I keep acting strange lately. I really need somebody who can listen to me and help me. Left to my own devices, I can only jot down in these pages what I feel and what I experience firsthand, but I can’t really find a solution to my problems. I can only hope that everything will be over soon, that things will sort themselves out quickly, and that my doubts will finally disappear.
Actually, I’m afraid that everything will get worse. Today I did something I’m really ashamed of, and that I can’t really justify.
This month Silvia received, for the second time, a bunch of roses at the office. The girls like to tease her. Her smile is very beautiful these days; she’s cheerful and full of love. She enters the office walking as if her feet don’t touch the ground. This afternoon, before leaving, she showed me an email she had sent to the agency. As I read it, I realized she had confused some of the information we had discussed and I overreacted. I raised my voice to her, and I never do that. I don’t even know why I was so upset. Silvia almost burst into tears. Immediately after, I felt guilty about my behavior and apologized to her, inventing a lie: I told her I had just received some bad news.
Tonight we had some friends over for dinner. I made vegetables and tuna steaks with balsamic vinegar and sesame seeds.
Jokingly, Dario told me that I didn’t deserve a good husband like Paolo. He wasn’t serious, but it bothered me nonetheless. I’m tired of hearing that Paolo’s a wonderful person, that he really loves me, and that I’m lucky to have a husband like him. He’s a good man, I know that very well, but there’s more to it, and those who don’t live in this house can’t understand it. Sure,
we hardly ever fight, he’s always respected me … But he doesn’t even hug me or kiss me, nor does he drag me to bed.
I feel alone in this house, in this marriage. I even feel alone when I’m in the car with him.
March 13th
Yesterday I asked Paolo if he still loved me. I don’t even know where I found the courage. He looked at me with a strange, surprised face, and then he told me: “Of course I still love you. Why do you ask?”
“Just because …” I answered.
I was happy he didn’t add: “And you?”
I realized that writing is a double-edged sword. It makes me feel better, but at the same time it makes me restless. In addition to the fear that someone may read these lines, I discovered that jotting down one’s thoughts crystallizes them on the page, highlights unequivocally my contradictions and my failures. Whenever I reread these pages, after a few days have passed, I sometimes run into thoughts that seem to belong to someone else. In between the lines, I find fears and desires that I didn’t know I had. Dreams I have forgotten, or perhaps intentionally erased, when I realized they weren’t going to come true.
Writing in this journal allows me to put some distance between me and my past. On the one hand, it depresses me, and on the other, it surprises me. It saddens me to see how I was, what I dreamt of being, and what I have become. The pages of this journal frighten and disturb me, especially the blank pages that await me. If I imagine my future, I see the same identical monotonous life repeating itself, with the only difference being that I keep growing older.
I’d like to talk about this with someone. I’d like to a have a person next to me that understands me, gives me some advice, and helps me understand. If I were to talk to Paolo, he would tell me one of his reassuring phrases and then tease me. He’d try to downplay things, as if my doubts were nothing but a wife’s whim. There’s something about my personality, about my being, that escapes me, something I can neither explain nor understand.
I keep telling myself that everything’s okay. Why, then, are my hands shaking?
One day, very naturally, everything changed. And nothing was as it had been. A world of certainties was swept away, turned upside down.
In life, there are some moments, instants, fractions of a second, in which a no can become a yes. For years I’ve waited for my life to change. Now, instead, I know that it was waiting for me to change.
At the time, the more I told myself not to call him, the more I was tempted to do so. That was why I had decided to tell Federica everything. I knew for sure that, as soon as another person knew about it, I wouldn’t have had the guts to call him. By coming clean to her, I would have finally overcome that temptation.
That morning, after a visit to the gynecologist, I called her. I wasn’t going to stop by the office, since I had taken the whole day off.
The phone rang. Federica didn’t answer. I tried again twice, but no luck. The more the phone rang without an answer, the more I was tempted to call him. A voice inside me told me I was wrong to be so afraid, that there was nothing wrong with having coffee with him and chatting a bit, like we had in London at breakfast. I told myself that meeting with him didn’t mean we would end up in bed and that, up to that point, I had never cheated or lied. This gave me the courage to call him on his work phone.
“Hello, it’s Elena.”
I had a knot in my throat.
“Hi, nice to hear from you … I didn’t recognize your number. How are you?”
“I’m well … I’m calling you from my cell phone; I’m not at the office.”
“You’re not working today?”
“No, I took the day off … I needed to run a few errands.”
“Would you like to meet?”
“Well, I don’t know, actually I’m only free now …”
“Great, give me half an hour.”
I had hoped he would say no. I didn’t think I would have called him a second time.
“Listen, I’m at home,” he added. “I’ll give you the address so I can finish what I’m doing while you’re on your way.”
I remained silent. I didn’t want to go to his place, but I didn’t have the strength to tell him no. He gave me the address.
“I’ll see you in half an hour. I’m really glad we’re going to see each other. Bye.”
At that moment I thought I had just gotten myself into trouble.
As I was going to his place, I started to get scared. I was shaking all over; I was terrified about what might happen; I was afraid of myself. I didn’t feel like I had any certainties anymore. Even though a coffee was a far cry from cheating, I still kept thinking about Paolo.
I rang the buzzer next to the front door of the building even though it was open. It was a way of letting him know I was there. He answered and said: “First elevator, fourth floor.”
I preferred to take the stairs. My heart pounded faster and faster. I didn’t know if it was from the stairs or the anticipation of seeing him. I had butterflies in my stomach; my hands were sweaty and cold. I would have liked to have had a mirror in order to check my hair. I stopped at the second floor; I was too nervous; my legs felt rubbery. I heard the door opening. He was turning the lock and he was probably going to wait for me on the landing. Suddenly, without thinking about it, I turned around and ran down the stairs. I fled as quickly as I could and locked myself in the car. I was frightened.
My telephone started to ring. It was him. I didn’t answer. I think I stayed in the car for about half an hour; then, after I calmed down, I sent him a text: “Sorry, I received an unexpected phone call and had to run.”
I knew perfectly well he wasn’t going to believe it. I went for a long walk, and I thought that turning around had been the right thing to do.
“Sometimes, in life, one needs to know when it’s time to stop,” I kept repeating to myself. When I got home, I remembered I felt a sense of safety. I wonder how much happiness that safety cost me.
Paolo came out of the bathroom wearing his robe. He had just gotten out of the shower. Without thinking, I ran toward him and hugged him. He freed himself from my embrace. “If this is some sort of tactic to get out of cooking dinner, I’m not buying it,” he told me in an ironic tone.
As I was cooking, I wondered what was going to happen if one day I decided to turn around and flee on the stairs of my own building.
March 18th
I didn’t write anything last night; I was too angry and disappointed. I wanted to do something different with Paolo and so I booked a table at a restaurant for Friday night. I thought we could drink some wine and take a stroll downtown. I always liked walking around late at night and looking in the shop windows.
After making the reservation, I called Paolo and asked him if he wanted to eat out on Friday. His reaction was very different from the one I had imagined.
I don’t feel like writing anything tonight, either, because the more I think about it the more depressed I get, so it’s better I don’t.
To this day I’m still surprised about the state our marriage was in and about my stubbornness to remain in it.
After I graduated, I immediately found a job I liked, and where the pay wasn’t too bad, either. There were a lot of advantages, but after a year I decided to leave. One thing was missing: the opportunity to grow. I couldn’t improve, learn, better myself. I don’t understand why I didn’t do the same with my marriage. At a certain point there were no more prospects, no plans to grow, and even organizing a romantic dinner had become difficult.
“No, it’s not that I don’t want to eat out on Friday. It’s only that … I work like a dog all week and I’d like to stay in and relax a bit.”
“Well … it’s not like you’re the one who’s going to cook at the restaurant. We can sit down and relax.”
“I don’t like the idea of getting in the car, looking for parking for an hour, sitting in a restaurant fill of people yelling around me … but if I really have to go, I’ll go.”
I felt lik
e an idiot. “Don’t worry about it; let’s forget the whole thing.”
That night at home the air was heavy. There was tension. At one point, Paolo asked me if I was mad about the restaurant thing.
“Don’t worry about it … It was only dinner.”
“Anyway, it’s not my fault.”
I gave him a dirty look.
“I’m sorry, but I’m working at the office, where everyone’s busting my chops, and you call me and throw this dinner-on-Friday thing at me.”
“I didn’t think that having dinner with me was such a nuisance. I was so sure you were going to like the idea that I had already booked a table.”
“Ah, it gets worse … You booked the table without even asking me if I wanted to go?”
“Listen, Paolo … Let’s drop it, it’s better that way.”
“Excuse me, but you’re the one who caused this whole thing. All you had to do was ask me beforehand and I would have told you no. Why would it be my fault? It’s all on you. If you had asked me first, nothing would have happened.”
I didn’t say anything and I went straight to bed.
The next morning I called Carla from the office to tell her that I was coming to visit for the weekend; then I called the restaurant to cancel the reservation. They didn’t ask any questions, but I felt like I had to explain myself: “Unfortunately, the other person won’t be around anymore.”
The woman on the other end of the line answered: “My condolences.”
The Friday after my fight with Paolo, I went to visit Carla.
Every time I went to her place I told myself I needed to do it more often, but then life would made me forget all about it. We had dinner in a nice little restaurant. We had fun. After taking a walk, we went home and stayed up late sitting on the couch, chatting and drinking herbal tea.
