Prose in progress, part 2
2008
She sat in the bridge club after the tournament in the smoking room. Listening to her card pals chatting away as per usual after a tournament. She was regarding most of these people as friends although none of them was really close to her. Apart from her regular partner, a kind man of fiftysomething, who didn’t mind playing with her. As she was not one of the better players. But neither was he. So they were a perfect match, really. Both of them had taxing daytime jobs, so to them playing bridge was something they did for leisure. As opposed to many players in the club, who took the game very serious. Getting into fierce discussions about which card to play in a certain hand, what bid to choose, often enough getting in bitter fights about a signal misread or a convention forgotten. Apart from that bridge chit-chat, everyone was civil and friendly to each other. And sometimes, when a few stayed on, over a drink too many, one would get to talk about private affairs or problems. So the regular players kew each other quite well, especially the ones that were members of the club since forever. She joined the club maybe six years ago, after taking up the game again that she had had a first introduction to back at Gatow golf club. There she had just set up shop together with her husband and noticed a bunch of ladies gathering every Thursday afternoon to play cards with a teacher. As she wanted to get to know the members of that golf club, which were her new customers, on a more personal base, she decided to join the group. Thus she got in contact with the game. Shortly after that, her marriage failed, she had to give up her business and never played bridge in the years to come. Untill, maybe four years later, that teacher turned up at her new place of work on Wednesday afternoons, teaching another group of golfers how to play bridge. So she arranged for further lessons and was back at the table. Soon she was falling in love with that teacher, and he loved her back; a relationship for some years started. The very relationship she was slowly recovering from now. It was hard enough still, even after she had survived the initial shock of separation and sadness. As she was building up to end this thing, she was even contemplating to leave the city all together. As this man was going to show up every week at her place of employment and would be frequenting the same club every week, too. But leaving Berlin was out of the question. Somehow she had to find her bearings in spite of all that had happened. She vividly remembered the self-humiliation she inflicted on herself, sobbing on her knees for a little civility. It was not to be extended. But who wants sex out of pity, anyways? And who can live without it for years? Other than monks or those who lack the physical predisposition for it in the first place or those who lost it because of old age? Well, not her. And as begging, arguing, raving, waiting and even keeping her mouth shut about the topic at hand for a whole year did not work, she had to put an end to that misery. As much as it tore her heart out, since she really loved that guy. Still loves him. And probably will always love him. Sometimes she caught herself wishing he had beaten her as her husband used to. It would have been so much easier to go. She recalled the evening she had left her husband for good. Knowing without having to think about it that if she drank that large whiskey she had poured herself after she had picked up her sore body once more, she would cease to exist as a human entity. So she just got up, drained the drink into the sink, gathered her purse and left to a completely unclear future, not knowing where she would go and what she would do and how she would manage to live. Turned out that after a couple of days she ended up in a psychiatric hospital where she was treated for about half a year before she was able to pick up her life again. And she still loved her husband to this day. Odd, but to her, love never went away. Knowing that, she still had had to end this relationship last December. Since there is not so much of your lifetime you can afford to waste away being unhappy. It consumes too much of your energy and it does no good to anyone else, either. It is a sin, if there ever was a sin, being committed against life itself. As it turned out – and as she had known, deep down, all along, how often had she asked him, whom he was sleeping with, since they used to enjoy a thriving sexlife in the first couple of years, so he had to take it all elsewhere – he was alredy going out officially with the woman she had asked him about many times. Of course he would always deny it. And of course she was more wanting to hear and believe his denial rather than facing the truth. Such is life. And all is fair in love and war, as the saying goes. Ping, one coin into the phrase piggy bank. As she sat there, with the talk around her falling low to a murmur, she felt the tears well up once more. When would this stop? She was lovelorn the entire winter, after she had made up her mind and asked him quietly to leave one morning. Ducking away underneath his hand as he tried in vain to stroke her hair one last time. At that time she had reduced herself already to a single ball of sexual frustration, despair and was constantly feeling insulted. As he would not, albeit she almost begged him to, leave her out of his own will. He couldn’t muster the strenght or courage and left it to her to make the decision and set the time and place. She remebered saying to him one night, well a year before it actually happened: “If you have any regard left for me, please have the decency to leave me. Don’t put me through this any longer.” “I am sorry, but I can not. And I will not. You are so close to my heart.” was the reply. It made her angry, thinking about it.
As angry as she had gotten tonight, when she had to play against that woman, who was her successor in this man’s life. She noticed she wore his shirt, when she sat down at the table. And her rage almost made her make a sarcastic remark. She managed to reign herself in, wished the woman a nice game and kept quiet. After the tournament had finished – her partner and her finishing in the last third of the field, as was normal – she thought about how stupid she must look to everybody in this room. Of course no one had filled her in on the news. They all knew it, she was sure. But none had mustered the will to tell her. So she had to find out on her own. She felt glad she didn’t let on about her state of mind tonight.
With a shrug of her shoulders she ordered another glass of wine and turned to whoever was sitting next to her, picking up a conversation. Turns out it was the club’s former president, a guy whom she estimated to be in his late forties, maybe fitfty. And average looking guy, not too tall. The only feature worth any notice was his dense, dark brown hair, left slightly longer than grown men’s hair was usually worn these days. Otherwise he would perfectly fit Billy Connolly’s description of “beige people”. Dressed in the typical Berlin style: no style at all. Brownish trainers, jeans, chequered shirt of indefinable shades of what? cream, red and gray, a bit too tight around the waist, badly worn jeans jacket two sizes too big. He played for the club’s top team on the federal league level way out of her reach. They had quite often enjoyed a chat about organisational matters in the bridge club, about marketing topics or about golf, as he is an amateur golfer and she works at a golf club. Her ex-boyfriend never thought much of this guy, but the pair of them had often worked together, whenever there was some handiwork in the club to be done. Together, they did a lot for the good of everyone in this club. Yet, her friend always hated the manner of this man’s speech, all the ahs and ehs he uses to fill the gaps in the wordflow just wound him up. Whenever the two got to talk to each other, afterward she had to listen to endless complaints about this. Apart from that, she didn’t know the man too well. As they exchanged a few pleasantries, all of a sudden he said to her: “Did you know that your ex is with such and such now?”, giving the name. She was outright thankful for that, someone at least mentioned it openly to her. For the rest of them to hear. And she was also thankful that she wasn’t caught completely by surprise. It would have keeled her over. But as it happened, she was able to answer in a calm fashion. “Yes, and it appears he has been with her for much longer than I care to mention.” She smiled and that was the end of that topic. Chapter closed.
floatsome 