Broken heel

 

As I was climbing the stairs, the heel broke so innocently, as if it weren't meant to, but he didn't seem to care whether he was holding on to the rest of the shoe or not. I looked at the poor guy, now lying alone on the doormat grate, and thought that if that's what he wanted, it was his business. All I had to do was take off my shoes, because it was so uncomfortable, and climb those few steps, walk through the door, say a cheerful good morning, smile, hug me if you're not already in bed, and then lay my head on his lap and fall asleep. Then, as he always does, he'd put his hand in my hair, gently, with his wonderful fingertips, just the way I like it, stroke it, lightly scratch it, and finally whisper in my ear that you're sleeping, my love, and it would be best if we were together in summer sheets. I always feign deep sleep then, just to spend a few moments on my lap, feeling the delicious, unconditional limpness. And he never protests. He never protests.

Yet this is what my eyes would see, looking soullessly and dispassionately. But eyes that, long entangled with my heart, see more or see something entirely different today, choose the sight of a close thigh and a television on, sending this postcard in pastel colors to my brain, which, with a gentle and benevolent smile, places it on the shelf of the Hearth and Hearth and, to give the situation greater significance, gently steps back, just a few steps, like people who have just hung a picture and want to check if it looks nice. Yes, it is nice, I admit, but now, unnoticeably, the shelf of the Real World, Which Always Has to Appear When It's So Pleasant, enters the lens of my vision! Damn it!…

Because when my gaze fell on the stairs, I felt I had to bite back, choke back, swallow, and crush the tears that were suddenly welling up inside me. A situation I'd grown accustomed to, one that, in its unreality, had acquired a double mystical meaning, burst today like a soap bubble and vanished completely. I tried to save him, but it was only a chaotic, blind gesture. I suddenly wanted to understand, but nothing comprehensible came through me. All that was left was to go in and do what I'd sworn, even though I knew it was impossible, utterly improbable that I could.

I actually wondered what had happened. That he looked at me differently? But they all looked at me that way, so I should be used to it. That he approached me differently that evening? Like they all did. But he was sure of what he was doing, of what he was drawing me into, and perhaps that was precisely why he won me over, a woman too beautiful to dare more than a lingering glance.

Let's say I, Betty, am writing this, fully aware of the rights and obligations that come with married life, with sharing everything until the graveside, and with faithful infidelity, which at that time was my second life, a kind of Looking-Glass Land, where Betty could peacefully spend several hours a day in paradise, as she often called it, a paradise of complete abandon, just like now, losing herself in this text, her blouse almost catching on kitsch and her thoughts driven by a broken heel, telling herself that this is how it has to be, with no way out, with the truth on my lips, only in this way, no other way, can one straighten out this so hard-but-soft name Martin, which for all this time was the other half of sin.

You're probably asking how I managed, I, a woman who loves her family, who sees almost nothing beyond them, to divide myself into two parallel halves and surrender myself to Martin in my strong arms, my glistening thighs, his all-encompassing scent, while never losing a smile over chicken stew, pancakes served with chocolate, and the steady rhythm of my husband's breathing, which has always soothed and gently lulled me to sleep. I don't know. I can only call it pure madness and attribute it to dissatisfaction, a hormonal surge so intense it was almost unbearable, or simply closing my eyes too long. It doesn't matter...

Honestly, I knew, I felt it as I walked toward him, that this would happen. Then, one look was enough to read the expression on his face. But I tried not to see, to fall into his arms like every day, to fall head over heels in love, and then simply go home. No. He wouldn't let me. He didn't push me away brutally. He was gentle, but firm. Just as firm as when he started this. And I tried to find in his eyes the opposite expression of the one he'd used to overwhelm me, to grab me by the waist and pull me closer. I tried because for a moment it seemed perfectly natural that such an expression must appear at that moment, to undo the spell of falling in love, to reverse it like a turn of the head at someone's scream.

And when the heel broke, something in me broke too. I didn't want to play that role anymore. I didn't need to hide and pretend to be myself. Come what may, I'll say it, I'll call him Martin, I'll reenact the whole farewell scene, and, looking deep into his eyes, I'll sadly share all the details, because after all, he's a husband – a friend, and a friend should be treated to everything…

I know, maybe not like that. Gently, somehow. Calmly and slowly. Like now, when I climb the steps, when I press the doorknob, when I say good morning cheerfully, I will tell them that I am alone, that I have never been more of no one, that they need to help me, that even with pancake batter or the simple opening of a jar of jam, after which there is much laughter and licking of fingers, his kiss on the neck, the answer that everything is fine and the quiet lying on my thigh, breathing deeply, deeper and deeper, because you have to take a breath before…