The Visitor

Thank you to all who have made this possible, especially BlackRandl1958. I appreciate the honor, and only hope I've done you proud.

"I have drunken deep of joy,

And I will taste no other wine tonight."

-Percy Bysshe Shelley

The Visitor

Hate me if you will.

Spit at me. Declare me your enemy. Call me a cunt. Dream up all the morbid, detailed fantasies you want about how you wish to punish me. Hurl your vitriol at me; let me be the symbol of all your shattered dreams, all the women who screwed you over without a thought. Inflict your dreams of retribution upon me. I'll be your pin-up girl for disdain.

The truth is I don't mind. Why? Because trust me—there is no way you could ever do a better job punishing me than I could.

You're shaking your heads. Your fat fingers are clenching into fists. Your jaws are snapping tight, already furious that I could proclaim your judgment means nothing to me. How dare I, right?

The fact of the matter is you're unoriginal. You are predictable. You feel nothing but anger and a twisted sort of attraction for marital misery. You're like a wind-up toy of anger that twirls around in a comical sort of circle that has no beginning and no end; you're that inconsequential and that trivial. That is ineffective when it comes to making someone feel regret, feel remorse.

I, on the other hand, feel everything. I bleed. I weep. I love. I hate. I repent. My memories play on a vicious loop inside my mind, and I always find something new to regret, something else I overlooked all the other times I beat myself up for being weak. For hurting an innocent man I loved.

A man far more innocent and decent than you.

I'm starting at the end, however, or perhaps the middle. I know how you hate that, so I'll tell you how I started. Steady your hearts, already thumping hard with angry, misplaced fury and listen to quite a story.

I know how to entertain, at the very least.

He wasn't supposed to come at all.

There was a terrible rainstorm, and Jack and I were convinced that flights would be cancelled. The elusive Tom I heard so much about for so long would probably be stuck out west, and he and Jack wouldn't dream up a reunion again for another ten years.

Jack paced our living room, checking the TV and the internet on his phone to see if airports were shutting down flights. He had a quiet conversation with Tom for a while, who was stuck at his airport; his flight was delayed. I was mildly surprised he was even at the airport, let alone waiting for the flight.

When Jack got off the phone, he muttered things I couldn't make out under his breath. A few times I caught him nibbling on his nails, a terrible habit he of his that I had mostly banished after being married to him for five years, and knowing him for seven. I still hadn't mastered getting him to put the milk away after using it, but I figured we'd get there.

"Shit. I can't believe this," he said, flipping the TV back to the local weather station. He sat next to me on the couch; his elbows perched on his knees as the weatherman pointed to multicolored patterns over the area that was supposed to tell us where the bad and not so bad areas were. He rubbed the brown scruff on his face in agitation. "I haven't seen the guy in a decade. I'm gonna be really pissed if he can't come. Totally pissed."

I rubbed his back and made a noise of sympathy in my throat. Truth be told, I was indifferent about our visitor.

Jack talked about him fairly steadily throughout our relationship, but I had never met him. They were friends in high school, went to the same college, remained best friends through some pretty tough times. Yet Tom got a job in Arizona and took it without telling Jack. My husband remained puzzled about it for years, but never seemed to be angry about it. I wondered sometimes if I was getting the whole story, but it was out of character for Jack to lie to me. I figured it was just one of those weird cases when you outgrow a friend, or someone you thought you knew acts in a randomly unexpected way.

The interesting bit was that they still talked frequently. They constantly "liked" and "shared" each other's stuff on Facebook. Tom apparently knew a lot about me, I found out, which was a little disconcerting. He'd comment on things Jack put up about me, suggesting that Jack told him more about me than I knew.

Whenever I confronted Jack about it, he shrugged. "I just tell him what's going on. I don't even realize what I'm saying."

The strangest thing, besides not having met the man my husband seemed to love above all his other friends in seven years, was that he didn't even come to our wedding. He was supposed to. He RSVP'd "Yes," said he was coming with a date and told Jack he couldn't wait to see him and meet me. He was also asked to be the Best Man, a duty he said yes to, as well. Then, three days before Jack came to my apartment like a lost puppy, telling me Tom had backed out.

"What do you mean? He isn't coming?" I'd asked, flabbergasted. The way Jack spoke about him, the frequency of their calls, the manner in which they still kept in contact baffled me, but his random and cruel decision was even more mind-blowing.

Jack shook his head and leaned against my wall. "Nope. Said it was a work emergency."

"What an asshole."

Jack shook his head again. "He'll come out to see us after, maybe when we get home from our honeymoon."

"What kind of emergency will he have then?" I snorted. I was aware of Jack's flinching but I thought the whole thing was absurd and I was tired of him hurting a man as sweet and forgiving as Jack. "A broken shoelace? He always does this. He's always supposed to visit, and then some crazy thing happens and you forgive him. Well, this time it's really fucked up, Jack!"

"Kelly. Please." He stepped away from the wall and ran his fingers down my arms. The lost puppy look was gone, replaced by a needful, lustful gaze. I knew what he wanted; he did this often. Extinguish pain with connecting physically. I always gave it to him, and I gave it to him that day.

Now on this day, years and years later when Tom was supposedly really coming, waiting at the airport to see his pal, the weather was conspiring against Jack. I stifled a yawn and continued rubbing Jack's back. That was as physical as I could be. I wondered idly if it was a sign the two shouldn't see one another again. I'd always been big into signs.

Jack's cell vibrated. I looked at his face, illuminated by the glow of his phone, and he grinned. His eyes swung to me.

"He just boarded the plane."

My heart fell.

He wasn't even supposed to come.

I'll admit to being surprised when I saw him.

I had pictured a muscular jock, sort of like Jack, with a fine appreciation for sports and nibbled on nail-beds.

He wasn't anything like that.

He was a few inches shorter than Jack, running after him in the rain. The two were laughing about something. The outside light hit his face and something bizarre stroked my stomach.

Then, both men were pushing into the house, shaking their bodies off and laughing. Neither paid attention to me. They were absorbed in their own world, joking about something I couldn't understand.

Then he looked at me. Tom.

What a simple name. Three letters. So innocuous. My mother once told me she never knew a "bad" Tom.

It's positively impossible for a Tom to be bad, she had told me years before. I'd been friends with a Tom I wouldn't date.

"Kelly," Tom said, so softly I almost didn't hear it.

Jack patted Tom's back. "Kelly. Tom. Finally, you guys get to meet."

I examined our visitor. He examined me right back. I felt strangely off center, and my heart thumped to an odd beat in my chest.

"Nice to meet you," I said. I reached my hand out for him to shake.

He stepped closer and took my hand. "Heard a lot about you."

"Yes, same here."

There was an awkward pause. Jack looked between the two of us and then started talking about what we were going to eat. Yet I stood there and heard nothing but the swirling thoughts in my own head. Something had shifted, and I wasn't sure what. Then I told myself I was being crazy. Nothing had changed.

When I dared to peek at Tom, he was still looking at me. Looking through me. It was as if I had been some complicated problem he'd finally solved.

Maybe he'd heard so much about me that he was wondering the same things I'd wondered about him. What answers was he getting just by observing me? I looked him over, wondering if I could figure him out, as well. He had a square jaw. A nose that was just a little too big. A simple shirt and pair of pants that looked effortless, but polished all the same. Messy hair that made him appear boyish. A posture that made him seem aloof, calm. Eyes that appeared to be searching for something.

He made me nervous.

I didn't like it. I decided I didn't like him.

"Whatever you want is fine," I heard myself muttering.

Jack, thankfully, decided on Chinese food. I tried to beg out of coming, but Jack wouldn't hear of it.

Just a little over half an hour of knowing him, I sat across from the strange, enigmatic Tom. He didn't appear that special. I kept trying to see things in him, kept trying to figure out why my husband would find him that fascinating.

"So, work is good?"

Tom nodded. "It never really changes."

Tom was a music producer. According to Jack, he was fairly successful. I supposed that was an interesting enough profession, but I couldn't think of any questions to ask him. Jack seemed equally unsure, and so an uncomfortable silence settled over us.

"How long are you planning on staying?" I asked, just as our food was placed before us.

Perhaps it was a bit of a rude question, but a time had never been given (much to my unease). Jack had repeated to me that Tom could stay however long he wanted.

Jack stepped hard on my foot and I winced. Tom looked between us, likely understanding what was going on.

"Probably just a week. I'm going to look for a place to rent and I'm not that picky."

My husband and I paused as we filled our plates.

Jack recovered first. He put his fork down and leaned across the table. "You're... moving here."

Tom smiled, but he didn't seem to be happy. I could add another adjective to describe Tom; he was sad. Tragic, even.

"I'm tired of Arizona. Too much sun."

Jack snorted in disbelief. "That's just crazy. You always seem so happy when you talk about stuff back home."

And there it was. A shadow crossed over Tom's face. I'd heard the expression before, but there it was before my eyes. I realized then that my husband's observational skills sucked.

I watched the man across from me, wondering how much I knew of him was Jack's fantasy. How much had Jack made up?

"Change is good." Tom glanced at me when he noticed I was staring. I hastily looked away. "Besides, work pays better here."

Jack shrugged. "Well, yeah. I just hope you can adjust to winter."

Tom smiled. I sensed he didn't mean it. "I'll manage."

And then his gray eyes met mine. Our gaze held for a moment and I lost track of myself.

"Babe, you've barely touched the chicken," Jack said. He elbowed me.

I jumped slightly. I couldn't figure out what was wrong with me. My cheeks felt hot as I looked down at the table.

"You teach, right?" Tom asked.

It irritated me that he asked. First of all, he knew I taught. Jack told him everything about our lives. He probably knew my menstrual cycle. Second, I had no desire to make small talk with him. I was happy that he made my husband happy, but that's about how far my goodwill extended. Plus, I wondered if he wasn't a bit of a liar. How could Jack have described him so poorly?

I pushed some rice around and flicked my eyes up towards his. "Yup."

"Must be hard."

"Not really."

He looked like he was holding back a smile, which aggravated me further. "Jack says it's pretty demanding."

"Jack says many things." That earned me a kick under the table. I sighed and put my fork down. "It can be demanding. I love it, though."

"It's funny..." Tom began. He left those words hanging as if he didn't intend on saying anything else.

One of my big pet peeves. I was growing to hate the guy more and more each minute.

"What is?"

Tom smiled, and it occurred to me that it might have been the first real smile he gave me since we met. And I'll be honest with you—it was breathtaking.

"You're not at all like I thought you were."

I wanted to say ditto, but it seemed impolite and I didn't want another kick to the shin.

I glanced at my husband. He was happily helping himself to the plates of food we ordered. How much had he gotten wrong about Tom? It was becoming increasingly apparent that Jack didn't know him, either. Who was this man who sat there with us, presumptuous and curious?

We all made small talk. I was mostly silent, observing the exchange between the men. It was stilted, distant. I would have boiled it down to them just being separated for a long period of time, but it seemed like there was something bigger between them. Something heavy.

I can't say why I felt that way, even now. Call it sixth sense. Call it knowing my husband. The more they chatted, the heavier things felt. Jack's smile dimmed. Tom seemed anxious. I couldn't make sense of it.

When Jack paid the check, I was relieved. I wanted to be home in my bed and away from whatever awkwardness had settled between the two friends.

We set Tom up in the guest room. Jack and I prepared for bed. By the time I came out of the bathroom, Jack was snoring. I wouldn't be able to ask him about my observations, and I briefly wondered if I really would have. Things seemed inexplicably precarious, and I didn't want to cause any trouble.

And yet...

I couldn't sleep. Jack was hogging most of the bed, and I felt antsy. I wrapped my robe around me and decided to get a glass of water.

I wandered out into the kitchen. The light was on, and Tom was standing in front of the open fridge.

He closed it when he noticed me standing there. "Sorry," he whispered. "Didn't mean to go through your stuff. I'm just a little hungry."

I smoothed my robe, making sure I was properly covered. Tom glanced behind him at the hall, looking like he might go back to his room.

"I'll make us sandwiches. I could use something, too. The Chinese didn't fill you?" I joked.

"Eh. Chinese isn't my favorite."

I paused as I reached for a loaf of bread. "But Jack said—-"

"I didn't have the heart to correct him," Tom admitted with a tiny smile. He looked a little embarrassed.

Jack had gone on and on and on about how he knew Tom loved Chinese and that he hoped he'd like our favorite restaurant.

I sighed as I gathered the rest of the ingredients for our sandwiches.

"Listen, you're going to need to speak up if you have any hopes of stopping Jack before he gets carried away."

Tom laughed. "He gets carried away often?"

I wondered how to answer. Jack was always enthusiastic. In many ways, that was an excellent attribute to have. He was a veterinarian, impassioned by helping animals—and humans. His head was frequently in the clouds. He thought far more abstractly than concretely, which could drive a person crazy when it came down to picking paint colors, or what gift to get a sister-in-law. I had to talk Jack down from things so many times. I always felt like a killjoy in comparison. Like his mother.

"Anyway, the food was good," Tom said.

I handed him his sandwich. He thanked me and leaned against the counter next to me. "And you are very serious. It's an interesting combination."

"I'm not very serious," I whispered in disbelief. "Not at all."

He took a bite of his sandwich, not looking convinced at all. In the grand scheme of things, his opinion didn't matter. Who was he to me? His assessment bothered me, especially on the heels of the thoughts I'd been having.

"Reserved, then?" he asked.

"You just don't know me yet."

"True," he agreed. "You're just not bubbly like I thought you would be. Not like his past girlfriends." He put his plate in his sink. "Thank you for the sandwich. I think I'm going to head to bed."

I was aggravated, like a little girl who'd been teased far more than her liking. He'd hardly said anything to me, let alone done anything to me, but something about him provoked me.

"Hey," I called. Tom stopped and turned around. "I don't really know who you think you are. You don't come around here in years to see your best friend, you missed our wedding, you know nothing about us. I'd prefer if you kept your opinions to yourself."

He just nodded and then disappeared down the hallway. I was left in the kitchen, stewing. I wanted to run after him and say something better. I wanted to scratch him. I wanted to prove him wrong.

Instead, I just ate my sandwich and let the annoyance breed into something ugly. Something devastating.

I was fascinated.

______________________________________________________________________________

Merriam-Webster defines a tsunami as, "a great sea wave produced especially by submarine earth movement or volcanic eruption". Essentially, it's a giant wave caused by a big displacement of water.

It is also known as a tidal wave. The origin of the word is Japanese: tsu, for harbor and nami for wave. Interesting little tidbit, that.

Most of us are acquainted with the term. Some of us have lived through them.

A great sea wave manages to invoke fear, but does not quite sum up the catastrophic terrifying event.

I didn't always know this, but there are signs of an imminent tsunami, though they may be difficult to determine right away. The most interesting and frightening part to me is the "drawback"—the receding of the sea from the shoreline. Some people report hearing sucking noises.

Even now, when I'm at the beach and I know that I'm realistically far from any possibility of tsunami activity, I cautiously watch the tide roll out. My stomach drops as the water folds over on itself to slip over the damp sand, only to drag itself heavily back out to the ocean. I wonder if something has happened, something that we can't know yet, if we've been caught unawares like so many of the poor souls slammed by past tsunamis. Is this the drawback? The shattered seashells mock me as I stare, as the water flips back onto the shore, as the little children giggle.

I had nightmares involving tsunamis even before I knew my marriage was over. I dreamed of giant waves headed for me. Sometimes I had the impression they slammed into me, even if I wasn't sure that actually happened in the dream. My husband thought it was my overactive imagination. After watching a movie featuring a rather realistic rendering of one, I was obsessed. I read a lot about them, watched footage from actual tidal waves.

"Told you not to look them up," my husband would say. I would be covered in sweat, but freezing and shaking beside his drowsy body.

I would touch him. Touch his naked skin. He was always so hot.

"Told you," Jack would mumble again. He'd turn away, nuzzle deeper into his pillow. Before drifting off again, he'd always say, "You can be so ridiculous sometimes, Kelly."

For hours, I would lie awake, listening to the rhythmic pattern of his breathing. Lights shifted on the ceiling until morning eventually came. I would feel ridiculous, playing that wave coming towards me over and over again in my mind. No tsunamis were likely hitting New York any time soon. We had so many other things to worry about, so many other legitimate problems I could have stayed awake to torment myself with. Instead, I imagined ridiculous things. And in doing so, I missed the ridiculously obvious.