The weekend started out great. Dinner with friends at an Indonesian restaurant. Crying babies notwithstanding. Then we went to R bar afterwards for drinks. I didn’t want to go. I’d worked so hard that week. I was pooped out. After a nice dinner, I just wanted to go home and chill out. Dean insisted we wouldn’t stay long.
It wasn’t my scene. The place was packed with youngsters flirting, chatting. I sat down and pouted. Despite his denials, Dean loves his local R bar whether it’s during the day to watch sports or late at night hanging out with the bartenders. It’s like Cheers for him. Everyone knows his name.
It’s when someone came up to him and kissed him smack on the lips in front of me that I had had enough. When I got the chance, I pulled him toward my bar stool, “You used to sleep with that girl, didn’t you?”
“What are you talking about? Who?”
“That whore behind you with the curly brown hair. The one who keeps eyeing you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about and no, there isn’t a single girl here that I’ve slept with.”
“Look, I’m going home. You have fun tonight.”
I pushed my way through the crowd out of the bar with Dean screaming behind me, “Look, at least let me hail you a cab.”
I scoffed. “What a fucking asshole.”
He called early the next morning. “Baby, you’re right. I’d be pretty upset too if I saw you kissing someone on the lips, but I swear that girl came up to say hello and crashed her lips into me. You’re the only one for me. These lips are just for you.”
He picked me up and we went out for a nice brunch before his birthday shindig–again at R bar–to coincide with the NFL draft. From 1:30pm until 7pm, we drank. I remember doing shots, but I couldn’t keep track of how much Dean was drinking. By early evening, he was a wreck. He turned to me, “Baby, let’s go home. I don’t feel good. Let’s please go home.”
I supported him out of the bar and hailed a cab to my place. He was quiet. Dean’s never quiet. He looked sullenly out the window. I tucked him into bed and closed the bedroom door. I figured he’d sleep until morning. Half an hour later, I went in to grab a sweater. I could smell the different shots he’d consumed in the air: tequila, buttery nipples, vodka. I felt queasy and kept the bedroom door open to air it out. Another half hour later, I got myself some water. Thinking Dean would want some water too, I filled a glass for him. I walked into the bedroom and turned on the light, “Baby, I got you some water.”
Dean was drowning in a pool of vomit in my bed. I screamed. “Oh baby! Oh sweetheart, are you ok? Let’s move you over and let me try to clean this up.”
He freaked out. “Oh no, I’m so sorry. Baby, don’t clean this up. I’ll figure it out.” Then he started dipping his hands in the puke and spreading it around.
“Aggghhhh! Please don’t do that. You’re making more of a mess. Yuck, Dean. Please just stop. Move over. Let me take these sheets off and I’ll clean them.” He refused and continued to make a mess with his vomit, playing with it like a kid finger-painting at school.
I lost it. Here I was, having worked an 80+ hour week. I was on my period and I lost it. “STOP IT! JUST GET OUT OF MY BED AND GO TAKE A SHOWER OR SOMETHING. YOU’RE MAKING THIS ALL WORSE.”
Instead, he turned around and vomited on my bedroom floor. The devil in me perked up. “WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU? YOU’RE 40 YEARS OLD AND THROWING UP IN BED. YOU CAN’T GET YOURSELF TO THE BATHROOM AND THROW UP LIKE ANY REASONABLE HUMAN BEING?”
He ran to the bathroom and threw up more while taking a shower. I sobbed and cleaned up. “I can’t fucking believe this. I don’t deserve this. Of course he wants to come back to MY place so he can throw up in MY bed.” I piled all the vomit-filled sheets and comforter cover into the washer. I was screaming in-between sobs.
I setup a bed for him on my couch while he kept murmuring how sorry he was. I was stern. “Dean, Dean, I can’t deal with this. Sleep here on the couch. You’re going to be ok, alright? I’m going to my sister’s place, ok? I have to go. I just can’t be here tonight.”
I drove myself down 101 South to my sister’s. She lives just outside of the city in Brisbane. I drove amidst stuttered sobs. I told myself, “Try to cry it all out before you get there. It’ll be ok. You don’t want to scare her with your tear-streaked red face.”