Thinking of these verses, I am reminded of a story I wrote some time ago, and having had a couple of hectic days, with all sorts of ideas buzzing in my head, herewith a fiction break while I pus thoughts in order. And remember that - The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self control. Against such things there is no law. Galatians 6:22,23.
Flight of Fancy.
It wasn’t a good day. I certainly didn’t feel like a long journey. I was feeling fragile, and in urgent need of TLC, something which was not likely to be forthcoming. I had left the house under a cloud of anger and accusation, and was wondering if it was all worth it, this marriage, my job, and all the peripheral things that took up my time and prevented me from being the person I wanted to be.
Why was it that when I was at my most relaxed and content, that the unexpected happened, that a volcano of frustration and irritation erupted, spilling into a potentially quiet day and making it into a catastrophic disaster?
We had enjoyed an idyllic evening, Byron and I, watching a romantic comedy, and relaxing in intimate comfort while the children slept, miraculously free of nightmares, wanting water, or sudden loneliness. They had risen early, gone off to nursery school with happy faces, full tuck-boxes and excited anticipation for the day. We had cleared the breakfast things, and while Byron had prepared for work, gathering his laptop, and various document into his attaché case, I had made the bed and gathered the washing together.
It was as I was checking pockets that I found the bank slip. Why would Byron have drawn an extra R1000 when we had already exceeded our budget for the month? I knew he had an office function coming up but couldn’t imagine that he would need money for that. It would have been covered in the staff budget. We usually discussed any unexpected payments and it was unusual for him not to mention such an outlay. I was not unduly worried as our policy was strictly “ours” and not “his” and “hers”, so he would surely tell me eventually. It must have just slipped his mind. That was my idea, until he came into the bed-room and just about snapped my head off.
“Why can’t you leave this until I’m ready to sort it myself?” he exploded, snatching his shirt from my hands, and feeling in the top pocket. “Don’t tell me you have already thrown things away?” he continued, rifling through the papers I had laid on the vanity table. He pocketed the bank transaction, and threw the till slips from his supermarket shopping for me, into the waste basket. “I wish you weren’t such a perfectionist” he growled. “There is such a thing as letting me clear my own pockets you know!”
Being struck dumb did not last long. I wasn’t accustomed to him yelling at me, and my defences were only temporarily out of action before I yelled back.
“How long should I wait, then? Until you’ve cleared the bank?”
He had obviously not realised that I had actually seen the withdrawal slip, for his face registered guilt before he retaliated with “Oh, so you’ve been snooping as well?”
Replaying it all in my mind now, I couldn’t believe that such an eruption could have gathered impetus as it did. Before I knew what to say or how, we were both in a heavy argument about how I always want things my way, and then blame him if I don’t get what I want, and how he always takes it for granted that I will pick up after him, and how he cares more for his appearance on working days than on home days, and how I ignore him anyway when I am fussing over the house and the kids, It was scary, and I couldn’t remember when we had last had such a blow up. It just didn’t happen. We were a normally contented couple with laughing and joking together part of our life style.
By the time I boarded the ‘plane for my short flight to Pretoria
I wallowed in my pool of self pity, before taking note of the passengers filling the seats around me. I was on an aisle seat, and next to me, on my left, at the window of the small ‘plane, was an Indian gentleman whose body language was pronouncing “Leave me alone. I want to relax” for his eyes were already closed, seat belt strapped, and hands resting benignly on his ample paunch. Resentment was colouring my vision, but I needed distractions, so began to mentally fill in backgrounds and scenarios for my fellow passengers. The lady in front, whose hairstyle poked aggressively above the seat proclaimed her youth and exuberance in life. Coloured in various shades of pink to purple, the spikes were gelled to symmetrical perfection, and I wondered whether the seat cover would withstand the stains that would surely be left on her departure. Probably a student, I thought, with pierced nose and toe rings, and a boy-friend tattooed from head to toe. Not having watched her alight I was unaware of the child seated next to her, now popping her head over the back of her seat and giving me a beaming smile just before the hostess came round checking seat belts. My ideas changed – there was a young, dark husband waiting for the return of his family after a visit to his in-laws. Or perhaps an aunt was returning her charge after a hectic and educational weekend break.
Putting stories to the faces around me was always good therapy, and I continued my perusal of passengers through a text book perfect takeoff.
My therapy was working and Byron was receding to the back of my mind, as I looked across the aisle, one down from my row and a story was surfacing about the attractive grey-haired stranger, broad shouldered, sensual, well groomed and well dressed.
Now there was one good looking guy! He looked like a hot-shot business man, no doubt about it. He reeked prosperity and oozed charm. Probably in his early 40’s, not flamboyant, but striking. He had a fleshy face, not puffy or overweight, but strategically padded, over a solid frame body. He was too masculine not to be dangerous, and I noticed the broad wedding band on his left hand as he rested it on his knee. When he turned to smile at the hostess offering drinks and snacks, his profile was arresting and his charm tangible. I guessed his masculinity to be dangerous, not to be trusted, and wondered if his wife knew where he was, and whether she ever harboured thoughts as I had experienced this morning, feeling a jealousy that had not previously surfaced. What if Byron had to go on business trips and leave me behind while he was enjoying camaraderie with smartly dressed and readily available single, career type ladies of whatever repute? The passenger next to him was identifiable as female only by coiled dark hair, fashionably twisted into an attractive tortoiseshell clip.
Thrusting Byron and his misdemeanours back from my thought mode, I put my fellow passenger into a supposed mid-life crisis where he would need the attentions of a young chick to perpetuate his youthful ego.
The wedding band was ornate, gold bordered by platinum, and definitely expensive. Was his wife a rich heiress whom he had married for her money? Was he able to pursue a life of ease relying on her gratitude for having such a handsome escort? Did she leave him to enjoy his philandering or was she prepared to sacrifice him on the altar of expedience? Was he perhaps her status symbol? Did he have a convenient political position?
Did she have her own dalliances to satisfy her frustrations or was she inclined to jealousy? Did she suffer through sleepless nights of wondering where he was? Was he really at a work caucus? Was it men only? Did he enjoy the felicitations or facilitations of a willing workmate?
By the end of the flight, I had the man ready for execution, with all my sympathies directed at a poor, unsuspecting wife sitting forlornly at home, waiting for her errant husband to return and profess his love for her with a Judas kiss.
I had been unable to see past him, so was unprepared for the sight of an identical wedding band on the hand of the lady he solicitously helped out of the adjoining seat after the ‘plane landed. He had removed a smart trolley case from the rack above, and now took down a collapsible white stick and offered it caringly to his companion. She was a diminutive lady, with oriental features who smiled adoringly in his direction, and slowly they made their way to the exit.
Mortified, I gathered my own luggage and reflected on my misguided assumptions. Perhaps Byron was right in his accusations that I was inclined to allow a suspicious or critical side of my nature to surface when I was angry or challenged.
By the time I reached the venue of the conference I was feeling suitably chagrined and guilt ridden. Byron had not been given a chance to explain even if he had wanted to. If I was in the position I had placed my imaginary character of the handsome passenger’s waiting wife, what should my reaction be? Become the wife he wanted, patiently polishing the shoes he would wear when he walked all over me? Or would I be an Italian type volatile virago waiting to throw a Prima-Dona cadenza on his return? And there I went, off on a tangent again. Bringing my mind into focus, I thrust thoughts of Byron away in order to concentrate on the conference. By the end of the afternoon session I was calmer, and more charitably disposed towards him, looking forward to a refreshing shower, and the prospect of making a phone call to him later. Just to apologise and tell him he is much loved.
The knock on my hotel room door called my attention to the time. Almost ready for the evening meal I assumed it to be a conference member calling for me. Opening the beautifully carved door, it was the perfume of the Roses arrangement that first caught my attention, then the smiling deliverer. Byron! He held out the card accompanying the bouquet. Trust I am forgiven, I read.
“It was supposed to be a surprise,” said Byron sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to bite your head off. Please forgive me, and let us enjoy the surprise evening I had planned, with the full co-operation of your convenor, I might add. I want you to know how special you are.”
His smile was deliciously Byron, my wonderful and devoted husband. Perhaps my own was remotely oriental, reflecting the love and adoration I had seen on the face of a certain lady who had taught me a valuable lesson.
When will I learn not to let my imagination run away with me?
Be blessed. Elaine.
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