The Benjamin Report

She told me, since day one, to not worry about it. To not think about it too much. And when I do think about it, look around and try and find some other thing. Maybe that thing has a story, a story to help me not think about it. And I said I would do that. Because when I think about it, I’ve noticed, and she’s noticed, that I flush with anger.

One of the peculiar stories I’ve tried to be distracted with was a small spider eating a meal in the shadowy corner of an awning. How it so expertly, intuitively wraps its meal. How it knows what to do, and how it doesn’t seem to care about extinguishing the life of its hapless prey. What sort of violence it doesn’t trouble itself with but that slowly disposes of this other creature before its very eyes. Not oh no poor thing, but what a perfectly nice way to spend an afternoon. And then I can sort of return to the happenings of my own day. And meanwhile, whatever it is that occupies her mind alleviating her troubles, does the same for her in regards to the staying out of it.

And we go on, and we live. We don’t need justice, at least she doesn’t. People are hurt all the time, and wronged all the time, and even killed but no good comes out of the balancing of it all. I don’t believe that, truly, but she does and I love her so I swallow the bitter pill. I pretend that I can live with anger, after all, I am a civilized girl. And to live today, you have to be civil or mad and when you’re mad they put you away. And I love her, so I stay civil.

But sometimes, well, my dreams can’t keep that promise. At least not as well as I can. I dream of his face, and I dream of guns. And I wake up, I walk to the bathroom, and I look in the mirror. And I look at myself, I look at myself. Then turn back, and I look at her. All peaceful all sweet. And I remember again that I love her and I go back to bed.

Every morning I wake up beside her. I am first, this is always the case. I kiss her on the cheek and prepare coffee for the both of us. And her breakfast: cinnamon bagel with plain cream cheese, cold-press orange juice, and a parfait with organic raspberry jam. When she wakes up, she says I love you, and I say it back. We kiss. We enjoy our mornings and we go to work. And I always look at the spiders in the lobby, if they’ve gotten fatter, crafted new webs, or found more friends. And I say be well and I go to work.

And sometimes my dreams aren’t so bad, and I think that whatever anger I had must have gone away and I won’t have to worry about it again. Even when I see his face, on occasion, social media the way it is, I bite myself and think of spiders and say the world is a better place anyway. And things don’t seem so bad. No, not so bad after all.

Maybe it will all work in the end. The other night I saw his face again, and I saw a grin. I hated that, I did. And I saw blood. I saw a lot of blood. I felt a blade in my hand. I felt its weight and my hand felt so comfortable holding it. This was a piece of me, it was a becoming. That’s how I felt, in my dream, you understand. And I saw scars appearing on his face. And grabbing his tongue, yanking it out. His eyes, his crying for forgiveness. His grin was gone now. I woke up though, I went to the bathroom and I looked in the mirror, and I didn’t see so much of myself as I did before. And whatever I saw in seconds hiding behind my eyes seemed so eerily familiar and yet so vague I couldn’t cut. And I’d blink. And I’d wink. And I’d frustrate when I couldn’t find a spider. And I’d bite my knuckle. I’d bite it hard. I don’t know why. I just wanted something. I needed something. You understand. And I’d go to bed and I’d look at her. Her beautiful face. Her smile and a softness that I’d swear could never be felt. And I’d go back to bed and it was okay. It was okay. And I’d have a beautiful dream, wake up and make breakfast and say I love you and wish the spiders well on my way to work and things will be okay.