He always deceived with ease. He eased into his
lies like a comfortable pair of slippers. His
breath never choked as the words rolled out.
His canvas -- a woman's soul.
His intent was to make his victim swallow his
deception with ease. Everything about him was
tailored, tasteful, orderly and never excessive.
His timing was effortless, cool, calm and collected.
His aim was usually to please. He never coerced
his prey into feeling weak. He simply eased you
into believing he was doing you a favor by just
being with you. He used only essential words to
make you believe he was interested, and left just
enough vagueness to question your own sanity.
Did he answer the question? Maybe. Did he say
he'd call? Probably. Did he say he was coming
over? We'll see.
He wanted nothing, and gave just that -- nothing.
But somehow he convinced you he wanted more, simply
by listening to your needs, or simply by nodding
timely, or responding with I know what you mean,
when you took a breath.
He was skillful not to share any part of himself.
His past, fears and dreams, were all locked within
this mosaic of a man.
As you may have already figured out, I was one of
those unfortunate ones, a canvas, a victim, a silent
believer, in what was never there. A hoper of things
he never shared. A pretender that he somehow cared.
You see, my self-worth was not based on how a man
saw me in his eyes. I was educated, independent,
and comfortable in my own skin. I didn't need, or
for that matter, want a commitment. I was content
with the little things. A call whenever, dinner
wherever or a trip no matter when.
I was sociable when the occasion called for it.
Being a loner was a choice, not a sentence handed
down by some man that I wasn't worthy of being loved.
I just hadn't found Mr. Tolerable yet.
But it was at the end of the tenth year I wanted more.
More than a call whenever, dinner wherever or a trip
no matter when.
And, it was during a casual conversation with my father
about my semi-reclusive lifestyle, I began to reflect
on the ten years of nothing shared. The simplicity of
my father's comment that I was "Every married woman's
nightmare," hit me like a ton of bricks.
And as I stood outside myself and watched stupidity
unfold, "Every married woman's nightmare," rang in
my ears and I swallowed my pride.
I'd never taken the time to ask all the obligatory
questions or listen closely to the answers. His
hypnotic voice and smooth mannerisms tricked my
senses into believing whatever his answers were,
were right.
And I rarely remembered hearing the sound of my name,
Cassandra, cross his lips. It was always Honey,
Darling, Sweetheart, when he phoned between 9 a.m.
and 5 p.m., or Baby between 10 p.m. and 2 a.m.
His intentions were honorable, or so I thought.
But actions do speak louder than words, and his
actions were loud and clear.
"Every married woman's nightmare," was swirling in
the pit of my stomach, and heartache was just about
to scratch the surface of my sanity.
I'd never harbored any harm to anyone before. But
all that changed when I followed him home in that
11th year and one day.
Dragging a child's bike, he eased out of his two-car
garage. He kissed his lovely wife, who seemed as
naive as me.
Later that night, he eased himself up from my bed,
smiled, and said he'd call. I said, "Would you like
a drink before you leave?" "Yes, Baby please," he
replied with ease.
I watched him sip his drink as he dressed to leave.
He never knew what hit him. "Honey, Baby, Sweethea---,"
he gasped as he looked at me with that ohhh sooo pathetic,
panicked look.
"So, how does it taste, Mr. Ease?"
The day this soulless ghost was laid to rest was the
only time I went there. I stood out of sight behind
a willow tree to feel the breeze.
I saw no headstone for a man who lived his life with
such ease. And as I left, I'm sorry to say I was
quite pleased.
I never thought of him until I received a note from
Mrs. Ease, on the one-year anniversary of his sudden
passing. I was stunned to receive this note, because
I wondered how she knew about me.
Her note was instructions to his gravesite.
Four other women were there at the dearly departed's
eternal home. And it was safe to assume they were
also canvases, victims, and silent believers in what
was never theirs.
His headstone was draped with an oversized picture of
him he had apparently given to all of us. The one with
the confident smile, innocent eyes, and premeditated heart.
And as we stood there silently paying homage to our
pain, Mrs. Ease pulled back the drape and read the
headstone with ease.
