Rebooting

by A. Frank Bower

Friday

Ugh. Two a.m.again. I have to break this habit of crashing before ten; otherwise, I’ll never sleep through a night. Slivers of street lamp light, through slightly open blinds, show me Alison’s face. In sleep, there’s no hint of her resentment toward my lack of communication. I wonder if I go to sleep early to avoid her.

             It’s Friday. I’d like to get up and grab some amaretto and milk to ease me back to unconsciousness, but I know better than to show up at work bleary-eyed. I’ll lie here and think about Alison’s conversation in front of the TV. She didn’t even wait for ad breaks to say, “Harry, you know I love you…but I feel alone all the time. You don’t share yourself with me.”

            I forced my gaze away from the wide screen, sat erect, bent my head forward and glared at the rug between my knees. What did she want me to say? I swiped a cigarette ash into the carpet with my foot and spoke to it. “Sweetums, I swear I don’t know what you mean. I try to share everything with you.”

            Alison’s eyes remained on the TV, but the glaze over them said her gaze was directed inward. She breathed and sighed. “If I pump you, you don’t tell me

how you feel about anything unless I ask.”

             I swallowed, reached to the coffee table for my pack of smokes and said, “I just don’t feel a lot, but I’m with you. You know that.” I fingered her forearm

with my left hand while lighting up with my right.

With agonizing slowness, Alison turned to me. “Stop it. You’re a person, for Christ’s sake. You feel all the time. You just don’t share it. I’m lucky if you tell me what kind of day you had on the job.”

     “I always tell you interesting things that happen at work—like when my super

slipped on the ice and fell on his ass.”

     She sighed again. “Never mind, Harry. You just don’t get it.”

     We watched reruns until 9:30 and went to bed.

My alarm clock reads 2:12 when I ask myself, what does she mean by alone? I must be dense, but I don’t get it. I help around the house and yard, tell Alison jokes I hear and ask her opinions about everything. I don’t feel alone. Why does she? For a while, I allowed my mind to seek answers fruitlessly, meandering

inside itself along dim alleyways and sparking neural tubes, until those images put me to sleep.

                                                                                                                      Saturday

             2:04 a.m. I pour a third of a glass of amaretto, fill it with milk and lean my elbows on the kitchen counter. I grin to myself because yesterday I didn’t wait for Alison to ask me anything when I came in from work.             I told her up front that I had a good afternoon because my super had a doctor’s appointment and left during lunch. Then I did an impression of him, exaggerating his squinty eyes—vanity prevented him from wearing glasses—and shoulderless slouch. She cracked up, setting the tone for a good evening. We chuckled during dinner over the daily news on TV in the next room. We were able to find humor in the unstable economy. Alison said, “Finally, I don’t have to feel guilty for shopping at Wal-Mart.”

I should have known. In front of the TV later, she asked how my morning

was. I shrugged. “The usual.”

     “See what I mean?”

I got the reference but tried to avoid an argument by explaining usual. “I got my assignments right off, was half done with my first task and the boss changed my jobs for the day. I kept my aggravation to myself and made the best of it. It was okay.”

Alison lifted her eyebrows and flashed her know-it-all smirk. “That’s how you deal with everything.”

     “Aw, c’mon, hon.” I was cornered again.                                                                                                                  

     “Shall I push your buttons?”

     “Why can’t we just relax together…and cuddle?” I put my arms around her

and eased her to me trying to ameliorate the moment.

     Alison pushed me away. “Not on your life, buster. If you think you have

pressure at work, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

     I stood, fled to the kitchen and blurted, “I don’t need this.”

     She followed me. “Do I hear anger? Whatever it is, it’s a feeling.” She waited

for me to face her before adding, “You wear your anger button on your sleeve.

You’re so easy. Now if only….”

     We shut up for a moment, and then laughed together.

     Alison hugged me and whispered, “Harry, I shouldn’t have to push buttons to

see emotion from you.”

     I bit my lip. “As long as we can kid about it, we’re okay.”

     “Speaking of humor, think there’s any chance you can hang in for Saturday

Night Live? Britney Spears is on again.”

     “Now that’s funny. Is her sister on, too?”

     “A double whammy? No such luck.”

     “I’ll try to stay awake, but it’d be…what, the fourth time in a year?”

     Of course, we didn’t see SNL. I fix a second amaretto with milk and withdraw the newspaper from the paper bag I use for recycling it. I did the sudoku the morning before, so I start the crossword. I finish it during a third drink and return to bed.

Sunday

At 2:30 a.m. I struggle with the Saturday sudoku, the toughest of the week. While I add milk to my third drink, Alison joins me in the kitchen.

     I say, “What are you doing up? You always sleep through.”

    With foggy eyes, she nods. “Can I have one of those?”

     “I thought you don’t like amaretto.”

     “Anything to wake me up at this point. Besides, it’s another habit I can change.”

     I smile, grab a glass and mix her drink. “Another?”

     “Yeah. Maybe, if we’re both awake in the middle of the night, we can put

each other to sleep. If you catch my drift.”

     Alison hasn’t flirted with me in a long time. Then again, not as long as I haven’t with her. I put my glass on the counter and kiss her. I step back, stroke her hair. Licking my lips, I gaze into her eyes and to the spark behind them.

“Sweetums, do you think you can help me learn to express myself?”

     She smiles, close-mouthed, inches from me. “Looks like you are. It’s been a long time since you’ve been this warm.”

     “Love-making is obvious. I mean…the other stuff.”

     “You just made me proud of you.” Alison kisses me again. “Mmm. Maybe.

This is a good start.”

     In our bedroom, I say, “I’m glad there’s a street light outside.”

     She looks down at herself and smiles. “Still like what you see?”

     “More than ever.”

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A. Frank Bower retired from full-time job as a mental health worker to write and study writing. He work shopped with Dan Pope, Sari Rosenblatt and Jamie Cat Callan at Connecticut Wesleyan, but credits Poplar Writers, a local writers group that took him in, with being far more influential. Carol Parker, Lynn Wilcox and Geof Fowler have been his harshest critics and staunchest supporters--along with his wife, Carol. Bower published two shorts and creative nonfiction in '07 and another of each in '08, along with a poem. Three magazines have accepted short stories this year, not counting Sangam. In 2008 the Middletown (CT) Commission on the Arts awarded Bower a grant to work on a novel, Midbury.