PERFECTLY PATIENT

By Ben Greenman / @2019

From forthcoming collection of stories, as yet untitled

She watched, not from her car window, but from his, looking across the field, focusing on the two teams competing, remembering the scoring that had already occurred, the cheers that had followed, the careful way the players took their time setting up new scores, the perfect patience with which their minds moved their bodies into place. Not just remembering: cherishing. Mountains backdropped the scene. Her husband was next to her, looking out the same window. He was both leaning in too close and not paying attention, and she thought about saying something, but she knew that if she complained his face would tighten with what could be violence, if she was not careful. She corrected herself: if he was not careful. Her shrink had taught her to make that correction. And also to say “thank you” and “I’m sorry” less, and “I don’t care” not at all. Her shrink was a wise old man who called his bicycle “mine steed” and every can of soda he drank “mine silver chalice.” His advice helped her but more importantly he made her laugh. Her husband never made her laugh. He focused on her too intently and couldn’t put across any real ideas of his own. Coming to watch was not his idea. She had brought it up a week earlier. He had ignored it. She did not bring it up again. That was another piece of advice from her shrink: Don't repeat yourself. Then one morning he had announced that he would drive her to the field at the foot of the mountains. He did not explain the change of heart but from questions he asked she was able to ascertain that she had said something in her sleep about leaving, and that he had planned the trip as a countermeasure. He committed to his performance fully. He talked about the players whose names he knew: there were maybe two or three. He tacked the schedule on the wall. The morning of, he set the alarm for early, made breakfast, supported every choice she made as she got ready. “Choice of clothing, choice of scent, choice of where the razor went.” That was her shrink’s song. He sang it when she talked about altering her appearance. She wanted more hair on her body or less. She wanted more revealing clothing or less. She wanted a thick natural odor or artificial citrus. But she worried the wrong choice would put her husband off. “Who gives a shit?” her shrink said. “If it puts him off, put somebody else on. Not me, of course. No thanks. I’m as old as a commandment. I shalt not. But if you ever want to give me a peek, let me know. It would warm mine cockles of mine heart.” He knuckled his chest merrily. Would he ever stop making her laugh? She was dreaming about putting someone else on the night she talked in her sleep about leaving. In her dream she had hair most everywhere and smelled both of herself and of grapefruit. She couldn’t wait to tell her shrink about the dream. Maybe she’d even give him a peek. She politely ate a few bites of breakfast though she was always saying that it was not a meal that interested her. She must have said that a thousand times over the years. Her husband frowned when she scraped off most of the breakfast into the trash but said nothing. He packed up the car in silence and drove all morning with his jaw set tight. “Looking forward to the game,” he said, though it was fact a match. “Nice day,” he said, ignoring the crushing heat. “We’re here,” he said, before they were. “I like this better than I though I would,” he said, leaning in too close, not even looking. “Matter of fact, I’m glad we did this.” She knew he was lying—facts were never like that—but she didn’t care. She watched the match, cherishing the players’ patience. On the field a girl scored a goal, not her first.