March 1982 – JFK

Angela's long, wool overcoat lapped her dress by more than half. But with the skintight, red material reaching just below her butt, even at 50 degrees, she was grateful for the added length. Still, the fact that she was able to walk through the airport in her favorite – yes, I'll now say favorite – dress, provided a smile she couldn't deny no matter what mood Michael would be in. Just try and take it from me, "honey". Her freshly blown out, blonde tresses flew behind her like a cape, and the structure of her nude nylons against her legs had her feeling like a thoroughbred.

Angela unbuttoned her coat, mid-stride, as she made her way to Michael's gate. Besides some extra volume in her hair to account for her updated style and a smidge less charcoal on the eyes, she looked almost exactly like she had the night they'd met. She'd spent the last month with this dress hanging openly in her room, reminding her of how she'd wanted to greet Michael today. She wasn't exactly sure of her motivation there. Part of her wanted to impress him. She'd really missed him, missed his hands on her, his beautiful smile...He can be really sweet. And when he holds me, I just want to fall into him. Then the part of her that still stung from the day he left, and the part of her whose face flooded with heat when he'd flaunted his rough nature in front of Anna, both wanted to stick it to him. That was inexcusable. He is going to know with whom he is dealing. She continued her leggy march through the terminal, her chin higher than her heels.

Angela couldn't help but laugh, remembering how Wendy didn't even say anything when Angela had dropped off Jonathan for a playdate while she came to get him. Wendy had just opened the door, saw her dress, and started laughing. But as she was closing the door, Angela did hear, "He is so dead," coming through her still-solid laughs.

Damn, I'm grateful for those ladies. They have pulled me up, and kept me propped there, even when I was wallowing and pathetic. I remember who I am when I'm with them, and it feels really good.

The door to the jetway was already open as she neared the gate, and Angela saw Michael deboarding amongst the last of the passengers. They hadn't yet made eye contact, but she could see him craning his neck over the other heads to find her, those deep dimples already flagging his expectant smile. He's so handsome. And ohh! He's in a good mood. Those stung parts of her kind of wafted away, and all Angela wanted was a tight hug from her enamored husband. Seeing him there, excitedly searching for her, she started to feel guilty for flirting with anything other than a grateful and genuine reunion.

Angela saw Michael's eyes briefly change in recognition when he noticed her walking toward him. Then, just as fast, familiarity departed, and it was as if he was watching her for the first time. He stopped walking, and the few people behind him bumped past his arms in annoyance. But he stood undeterred, unapologetically gaping for the few moments it took her to reach him.

She stopped inches from his nose and held eye contact. "Hi, beautiful," she said softly.

Michael's stunned demeanor reverted back to the broad smile with which he started. He made quick work of those few inches and brought his mouth to hers. Reaching inside her jacket, he picked her up by the thighs, right out in the open. Instinctively, her legs wrapped around him, her long coat covering her backside. She kissed him back, their heads vying furiously for the best position, until one of her shoes fell off.

They both let out a little awkward laugh and stared at each other as they caught their breaths, still not saying anything or bothering to pick it up. Angela rested her forehead down against Michael's, and lightly held his face with her right hand.

"I can't believe I get to hold you." He spoke even softer, "How can three months feel like eight?" Angela closed her eyes and answered with a gentle kiss to his nose. Michael set her down, and everything about her felt like Cinderella when he kneeled to put on her shoe. He stood and looked down into her eyes. "I'm sorry I've been so cranky. I've really missed you."

Reality reignited its struggle even as she stood in his gentle embrace. She wanted to shuck it off her and fall back into that glorious sedation where she felt nothing but cherished. She'd waited so long for the opportunity. In a low, quiet voice, she held his gaze. "I'm really hurt when you don't treat me nicely. When we can be together," she brought her palms to his chest, "that's the only place I want to be. But sometimes we can't, and I don't want you to blame me for it."

Michael tilted his head back in faux-strained patience and brought his hands to her waist. "Come on, Angela." His smile attempting to be playfully predatory, he stepped right up against her. "Let's just have a nice reunion." He brought one hand up to trail a finger down her cheek, and her eyes started to show their grief. "I've missed you like crazy, and I don't want to fight." She looked down, her hands following suit - the formidable power of the homecoming quickly losing its luster.

"Angela," he tried to softly regain her attention. She looked up at him in answer. "We're both hurt." Michael lightly ran his left hand down her hair to the tips and stared at the curl in his fingers. "I haven't seen you in months… I just don't want to do this now."

Angela nodded silently, though unarguably knocked off her horse. He slung on his backpack, and she gently took his hand without saying anything. As they walked toward the baggage claim, Michael let go and slipped his arm around her waist. She leaned her head against his shoulder and tried to keep back the tears. It's not going to get any better, is it? She figured if ever they had motivation to keep kind while being honest, this would've been it.


On the ride home, Angela drove staring sadly out the windshield. Michael was quiet, his hand resting on her thigh.

That feels so good. It warmed her all the way through her ribs, but just made her loneliness even more stark. Shivering, she turned the heat up.

Michael looked amused. "Wool coat not doing it for you?"

Angela tried to smile a little back but shook her head.

"Hey," he gently squeezed her thigh. "What's wrong?"

Angela shrugged and glanced over at him before returning her eyes to the road. "I'm just sad."

"You're sad?" he repeated, not understanding.

"Yeah," she nodded. That truth-telling habit was starting to veer her toward its rut. "I wish things were different with us."

He tipped his head back, "Angela, I just got back." He brought his head quickly forward, and advanced on her coyly. "I've missed you so much. All I want to do right now, is take you to our room – if I make it that far," he grinned, rubbing her leg.

Her brows furrowed. Well, that was crass. "Michael, I actually wasn't pushing it. But you asked me what was wrong, and I told you." He let out an irritated breath. "Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

"Of course, it means something to me. It always does. We are both always sad and hurt about us. That's why we fight – all the time." His voice, which had started to sound a little strident, softened as he moved to take her right hand from the steering wheel. He looked at her face and held her hand gently. "But I've been looking forward to seeing you for months, and I don't want to spoil it with anything that we're both going through. You seemed like you wanted to be with me, too. Isn't that just as real as our problems?"

As always, his logic confused her. She didn't say anything for several seconds. Finally, she shrugged, "I guess," she said sadly. "I just feel so empty with you."

Michael withdrew his hand, and looked at her, shocked. "What?" She didn't have time to answer. "You feel empty with me? What a rotten thing to say."

Angela wasn't cowed. She turned to her husband. "Do you feel fulfilled with me?"

"I was trying to. Desperately! I keep trying to get us to be okay, and you keep insisting on fighting!"

"Michael, I want us to be okay, too. But if my sadness is just rain on your parade, how close do you expect us to get?"

Michael shook his head and looked out the windshield.


Angela pulled up to their house and turned off the car. The last fifteen or so minutes of silence felt like novocaine, and she wasn't sure if she preferred the pain. She didn't unbuckle.

Michael looked over at her. "Is Jonathan with your mother?"

She shook her head, "Wendy."

He nodded in acknowledgement, "He likes playing with Jenny."

She nodded back.

"Look, Angela. I know I brought this all up when I apologized. We've both been stressed, and I just wanted to clear the air. Coming home to you is probably my favorite thing to do. I didn't want anything to spoil what we have."

She turned her chin to look at him, "What if that takes longer than a sentence?"

"You know, you look at me like that, and it feels like you think I'm the only one who needs to apologize. I was trying to offer us a way out, so we could acknowledge the hurt, and still enjoy each other."

"I don't think I can enjoy myself until we talk about why we're hurt."

"It's just a start, honey. I mean, what? Are we going to comb through every issue we have before I can love you the way I want to?" He reached over to slide his hand down her arm.

Angela looked down at her lap, and her eyebrows rose and fell as she exhaled in comprehension. "Michael, I wanted this, too." She turned to look at him. "I'm dying to feel close to you. But if we can't have more than an inch-deep resolution to all the vast ways we've hurt each other, I feel like I'd be hurting myself to pretend we could."

"What are you talking about?" he said exasperatedly. "If you want to feel close to me, then do it. I don't understand how that would be hurting you."

Angela paused, grasping for clarity. "It's like I said to you before you left: sex is an emotional thing. I really want to feel close to you, but I can't just do it physically. I have to know we care about what the other one is feeling. If you need to tell me how I've hurt you, I want you to do it. And I need you to care about how you've hurt me. I can't pretend that doesn't exist as a matter of convenience; not anymore."

Michael's face scrunched more and more as she spoke. "Not anymore? What does that mean?"

"It means I'm trying to be more honest - with myself and other people. It was hurting me to pretend I was okay when I wasn't."

"Hurting you? How?"

Angela wasn't sure how vulnerable she wanted to be with him. The thought of bringing her weight into the spotlight scared her to death. No guts, no glory. She let out a quick puff of air. "I realized I was overeating to compensate for a lot of things. One of them is how things are between us."

"You're blaming me?" Michael yelped indignantly.

"No. Not at all!" She saw his face stand down. "This is my responsibility. But if I feel hurt or scared when you do something, that's just it – it's up to me to tell the truth about that - to myself first, and then to you. But for a long time, I haven't been doing that. I've been acting like I'm fine, and then just eating a bunch of ice cream or whatever to feel better."

His face looks like it's putting in a long day's work. "Why does this still sound like I hurt you, so you're overeating? That sounds like you're blaming me."

"No, I'm saying, regardless of how you behave, I need to be honest how I feel about it."

"…And that's what caused you to blow up?"

Her eyes bugged out in horror, and he amended quickly. "I don't mean blow- I mean, I'm just trying to understand what you're saying…"

Angela threw off her buckle and got out of the car, slamming the door behind her. I tried to bring him in. I tried to be honest. Shit! She wanted ice cream so bad. If Michael hadn't been trying to follow her into the house, she was sure she would've grabbed some out of the freezer when she bolted through the kitchen. But she certainly wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. Ohhh, that hurt! Tears fell fast, and she kicked off her heels as she ran up to their room. Michael was yelling something after her, but even with hearing the words "gorgeous" and "misunderstood" speckled throughout the din, she had no comprehension of what he was saying.

Angela sped through the upstairs hallway and closed their door fast. She spun around and locked it.

"Angela!"

She threw herself on the bed and hugged her pillow, mascara permanently streaking the Egyptian cotton. I was right. I didn't even have to ask him.

Michael banged on the door. She didn't care. She just cried.


Angela woke to a stinging feeling in her eyes. The eye makeup. Her eyes squinted in realization, and she pushed herself up to sitting. All she could see out the window was black. She turned to look at the clock. 8:13pm. She'd had almost a two-hour nap. I need to get Jonathan.

Angela got up and listened for any sound outside her door. I do not want to talk to him. She didn't hear anything and cracked open her door.

Nothing.

Angela tiptoed down the stairs and into the kitchen. Why do I feel childish? I worked really hard to be honest. I was open! It just bit me in the ass!

Angela looked out into the driveway. Michael's car was gone. She let out a long exhale and turned around. She zeroed in on the freezer.

I know I'm not hungry, but I don't care. I really want some ice cream. She walked toward the freezer.

Standing mere inches away from the door, her breaths deepened. Angela bit her lower lip and grabbed the handle. She stood there for several seconds.

Then, with a vicious growl, Angela shoved the handle roughly into the freezer. The whole appliance wobbled a little, but not much. Wiping yet more tears from her eyes, she ran back upstairs to change.


Angela drove to Wendy's in a velour track suit and freshly washed face. It wasn't that far, but the temperature had dropped, and Angela was trying to find as many innocuous ways to pamper herself as she could. She rang the doorbell, and Wendy opened it.

"Angela? What's up?"

Angela squinted her eyes in confusion, "I'm here to get Jonathan."

"Michael already got him a couple hours ago. Are you okay?"

Angela's posture crumpled even as she stood. She looked in at Herb and Jenny in the living room. Sighing, Angela leaned in to hug her friend. "I'll call you tomorrow."

Angela heard Wendy quietly say, "Okay," as she turned to walk down the front steps.

When Angela stepped through her kitchen door, the house felt painfully quiet. She didn't want to be there all alone, and she didn't want to go see anybody. I want to be snuggling with Michael. I want for him to have never said that – to have never meant that. Her loneliness pulled at her like a G force, and again, she was staring at the freezer. Whirling around, Angela got back in her car and just started to drive.


The clock in the car shone 11:36pm when Angela pulled back in her driveway. She sat in the car, and slightly slammed back into the headrest. Everything felt so out of control. Immediately, Angela started thinking about what she could get done before work tomorrow.

She never understood how, when every company with whom they did business took off weekends, how Monday morning could always provide a pile of work like she'd been playing hooky for two days. Angela mentally assembled a to-do list for the next day and walked into the house feeling steadier.

It was still quiet, but she saw there were two bowls of what looked like had been French Vanilla ice cream in the sink. Instantly feeling itchy, she opened the cupboard and snatched the cylinder of mixed nuts. She popped a couple of almonds in her mouth and walked upstairs.

Tiptoeing toward Jonathan's darkened room, Angela peeked inside. Michael and Jonathan were both asleep in the rocking chair, the promised book of horses lying open against their tummies.

Slowly, what seemed to be the full weight of her sadness sat down on her chest.

Just to be ornery, she was also comforted staring at the little hall-lit, snuggle scene.

When guilt and anger shoved their way to the front, Angela narrowed her eyes and turned back toward her room.