I grab Dave’s hand and pull it away. “Knock it off.”
“Ah, so whereas when he fingers your pussy, it makes you feel safe, but when I do it, you find it repulsive.”
“When you do it in hate, yes, it’s repulsive.”
“You want to be touched in love?”
“Yes.”
“Then make me feel love.”
Perhaps it’s the accidental sincerity of his tone. I turn in my seat, try to study his expression, but his eyes stay stubbornly on the road. There’s something tragic in what he’s said.
“I don’t know if I can make you feel that.”
“Does he love you?”
I hesitate before answering. “I don’t know. I don’t even know if it matters.”
“And you?”
“You’re asking if I love him?”
“Yes . . . no . . . I . . .” His voice trails off and he blushes slightly, embarrassed by his own fumbling response.
The traffic in our lane starts to move. The witness to Dave’s brief assault falls behind us, making the memory nothing but a shrinking image in my side mirror. “What do you want to know, Dave?”
“I don’t think love can just disappear,” he says, as much to himself as to me. “And yet what you did . . . we had something . . . it was big. How can you be so cavalier with something that had so much substance?”
I don’t have an answer.
“You think I’m trying to torture you,” he says quietly. “Maybe I am. Maybe I want you to experience a tenth of the pain you’ve caused me. But I don’t believe the love we had just disappeared. I don’t believe that the woman I love has evaporated.”
“I’m here, Dave. I didn’t evaporate.”
“No, it’s not you. A whore in sheep’s clothing . . . in her clothing. It’s like a split personality or . . . or a mental breakdown.”
“You think I’ve gone crazy?”
“I think you need to be saved.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m going to do that. I’m going to be your hero whether you want one or not.”
And like that, he’s going from tragic to insane. He’s still the captor asking his prisoner to sing his praises, but maybe all captors are a little insane. What does it matter if someone is fanatical about religion, politics, or love? Fanaticism is what it is: crazy, misguided, and, in a weird way, honest. Fanatics believe their own bullshit.
“I understand now,” he continues. “You have . . . needs . . . things you have to get out of your system. I’m going to help you do that. We’re going to use the depravity that’s infecting you to our advantage. I’m going to bring you back to the woman you were, the one I want to marry. By the time I’m done, that’s who you’ll want to be. You’ll see how your current path only leads to degradation. You’ll crave purity.”
I shake my head. I didn’t know an affair could push someone over the edge like this. It’s like he thinks he can turn our lives into a modern-day version of The Taming Of the Shrew.
“Tonight,” he continues. “We’ll start tonight.”
I don’t know exactly what that means but I know what it might mean. The idea of being with Dave now, having him touch me, having him push his dick inside of me, looking at me smugly as I squirm underneath him . . . I can’t do it.
“You are so angry with me right now,” I say softly. “I don’t want to . . . to be with you until you feel some degree of kindness toward me.”
“You don’t think I do?” he asks, but it’s a rhetorical question. We both know I’m right.
“Then we’ll start slow,” he says. “A dinner at home. Cook me dinner the way you used to do. Dress up for me. Show me that you’re at least willing to make an effort.”
I turn toward the window. I’m tired. I don’t have the energy for any of this. But Dave had been making a point when he lied to me about telling my parents. He was letting me know what he could do. If I don’t make an effort, why should he hold his tongue? Why should he do anything for me at all?
“I’ll cook dinner,” I say quietly.
“And you’ll let me select something pretty for you to wear while you serve me?”
While I serve him. I have to tell myself that he’s only talking about dinner . . . but of course the wording was more carefully crafted than that. I’ve given my confession and this is the penance he has chosen for me. Instead of appealing to God, I’m meant to appeal to him.
So I nod. It’s only dinner, only a dress. I’d rather recite the Rosary a few hundred times, but perhaps that wouldn’t be appropriate. It’s seems silly to try to bring something sacred into hell.