Romeo

He knew she would be angry. She often was. That was part of the problem. He wanted out. The constant stress wore him down. There was no relief. He wanted out.
He was an unhappy man. But he wasn’t always unhappy. Alone, he felt good. Finding time to be alone was difficult. She wanted romance. He was frustrated, angry all the time. She wanted to redo their wedding vows. He wanted out.
They didn’t talk, not really. They used to talk. He could not remember when. He was wrong, mistaken. They had never really talked. He wanted her to understand. She wanted Romeo. He wanted out.
He liked to be out on his boat. He didn’t like his job. Necessity kept him there. The sun beating down, a gentle breeze in his hair, water slapping the side of the boat. He knew what he liked; he liked to be alone. He wanted out.
Dinner parties bored him. She said he had to go; it was expected. He liked working on his car. He wanted a truck; she said no, he had a car. They had a mechanic at the garage to work on the car, she said. He liked to get his hands dirty. She disliked the ‘common’ look. He wanted to be alone with his car. She wanted Romeo. He wanted out.
His wife kept her car meticulously clean. He knew she paid to have it done. They could afford detailed cleaning. He liked his blue jeans. She liked him in dressier slacks. He liked to be alone; he wanted out.
She bought him a gym membership. Pricey. Exclusive. He liked to play football, baseball, hockey. She got memberships for them at the country club. He wanted to be on his boat. He wanted out.
One Saturday afternoon she went out. He was alone. In jeans and tee-shirt, he went to the harbour. She wanted a large showboat. He liked his small sailboat.
The sky grew dark, the water choppy. He returned to the harbour. The harbourmaster waited for him on the dock. She was in the hospital. He drove there. Her leg was in traction, her face bruised, a bandage was wrapped around the top of her head. Beeping monitors were attached. Unconscious since the accident.
He slung his jacket over the chair back. A paperback book fell out of the pocket. Not a book he would read, love poems. She had put it there without telling him. He sat, turning the book over in his hands. She did not know he was there; he could go be alone. He opened the book to a random page then read out loud to her. A poem of love, devotion, and passion. He talked to her as he never had before.