Like a mis-wired Marionette
Tell me your story.
Marsh puts the coffee down. Her knee as she adjusts, hits the table’s leg, juddering the heavy top to a side. He arrests the sway as if he has anticipated, his eyes conveying sure purpose.
Ed was her fitness instructor. They had met during the fit-45 sessions in Carnegie back when she was living in a one bedroom flat, and owned a blue Mazda 2. He was much older than her, in his forties, physically fit, with hands of a warrior, those muscles severely taut as if he had replaced the bits of him with annealed cables of steel.
‘You need to relax your shoulders,’ he had said to her, his gloved hands held before him like saucers for alms. Her left foot dangling in the air beneath her, she had let him cup her right foot, to toss her up. But she was no acrobat — she landed with a thud, no grace and no poise, just meat and bones, all of her, landing by his side preceded only by confused flailing of arms and legs.
She takes her book and starts to glance through the contents. It is not as if she has not read one of her stories to him in the past. But this, she felt is different. It is about them, about the time they had spent together in the gym last Christmas. He is eating a Blueberry muffin that he said he got from coles on the way. He offers it to Marsh. She hesitates, brandishes her coffee, meaning she is going to drink her coffee come what may. He smiles and proceeds to sweep the crumbs off the table with a paper napkin.
Marsh shows him the Apple Watch. He extends his hand, holding her wrist, as he peers closely, reading the stats. ‘Heart rate and Vo2 are excellent Marsh,’ he says, his head bobbing up and down, as he swipes and scrolls. He pauses now and then but does not explain, shrugs off the reluctance as if it were a shawl of fine silk, releasing the grip. Her wrist is returned to her — she brings it close to her eyes, unable to hide the disappointment. She wishes for him to drag his chair close and for her head to lay on his shoulders, her body to keel over into his arms, and then she wants to read the story to him. It is their story after all. He is not acknowledging, he is all business-like, drumming with his fingers in mock anticipation.
Marsh had found Ed attractive right from the beginning. He was openminded and when she said she was in a relationship, he did not a bat even an eyelid. He did not push her too much. After training for about 2 months she felt she could open up with him — her boyfriend was in Sydney, working as an apprentice Tradie. He was ambitious and wanted to build them a house one day. And he was not joking.
‘That’s so cool, Marsh,’ is all Ed had said. He was probably intrigued that she was sharing all this with him, that a shadow of doubt presided in her armour of love, that she could not bear to be far away from her boyfriend, but at the same time, would not appear weak, by proclaiming her unalterable love, one that demanded him to be close to her, so she could be spooned at night, with the warmth of his body lulling her into sleep. But she had to be here in Melbourne, training as a nurse. She had wanted to be a nurse with a human touch, someone who cared genuinely. It was all that she could do when her father had succumbed to cancer. He had said to Marsh ‘the nurse made my life worthy of living in the end.’ Marsh wanted that to be said about her. She studied with palliative care in her mind, and landed a job at the nursing home where she volunteered last summer. At Nineteen, she was already sought after, some of the residents only wanted Marsh by their side. No one else would do.
How could she leave all this behind? She confronted Ed on the Boxing Day when the gym was all but empty. He pursed his lips and opened a bottle of wine. They sat on the Treadmill and sipped from the bottle. She was sweating after the workout and wanted to shower. All the bathrooms were upstairs and she dithered, said she could go home and shower. He said it was not a problem, she could give him a shout if she got spooked. He turned up the lights and walked all the way to the top of the stairs, his hand limp and holding the neck of the wine bottle, which he kept tapping at his thigh. He kept smiling, amused at her vulnerability. She clutched the gym bag tightly to her chest as if demanding protection from it. Once at the top, he jumped the stairs two at a time as he descended, reminded her to holler if needed. She stood there for sometime, checking her phone, rubbing the heel of her shoe on the faded carpet.
Marsh was not sure when it happened but about the time when she was shampooing her hair Ed had hollered ‘Are you Ok in there, Marsh?’ From within the cloud of foam she replied ‘Ed…’ And he was there as if he was summoned out of a sacrophagus. She heard his footsteps approaching, kept the shower going , hot with steam rising of her body. He paused outside the shower, only the curtain with its dewy drops now separating him from her. Once inside, he looked at her with savage relish, turned her away from him, his hands buoyant as they sailed up and down her body, a raft, enthusiastically slowing when it hit rapids.
‘It is nice,’ Ed says, ‘I like it,’ he adds when she waits.
‘I have changed the names,’ Marsh volunteers.
He nods and asks about her training. She tells him she stopped training, blaming it on her work, which she loved doing. He does not inquire about the boyfriend but she wishes he would. They talk about weather — she wants to tell him more, and she wants him to tell her more about him. But he keeps his distance, pays the bill for both of them, says it is for putting him in the story. He takes the tram back to Carnegie and she makes her way to the carpark, her heart heavy, as if she is walking in a desolate dream on an intractable land that squelches and hisses…
