Lights, Camera, Rumblefish!

Ch.13

I just want to say that even though I haven't updated in 5+ months, the unwavering amount of support has been flooding in and I cannot and will not thank you all enough. I had 80 followers when I took my hiatus, and now I have over 230. I cannot believe the amount of love and support y'all are giving me and my work. So this is for all of you that have been waiting. I love you all.

Ch. 13
If I had learned anything from being in New York with Matt, it was that he and I couldn't share the same room for more than 12 hours at a time. And I learned in Tulsa that if I was in a room with another guy for more than 12 hours, I couldn't have a peaceful quiet night. As imagined, wedding planning was hard for a couple that over nearly everything: where to put the forks, what time he'd come home from work, what color the curtains should be in the living room. So he and I focused on the lovely aspects of a relationship like ours. The wise Mickey Rourke once told me, "You cannot love a man that puts his wife first for the sake of a bed to sleep in at night." Meaning, I shouldn't love a man that bullshits his way through a conversation. As Mickey puts it, "If you do that, you don't know the man you sleep with. It's as good as a relationship with the nearby hooker."
So I took his words into consideration and after a beer, a cigarette or two, and hunching over some blank notebook paper I wrote a story. A story about a convince store cashier who knew all about the cigarettes and could never sell them because no one wanted HIS cigarettes. They wanted the store's next to them. And it was a bust: not even Susie gave it a shrivel of praise.
But writing works as how a relationship works: you must get all the shit out of the way in order to gain good.
So when Matt would come home from work in the early morning, smelling like unwanted nicotine and sweat, he'd throw himself in the shower without a hello to me and throw himself into bed. He'd only speak to me at lunch, in which I made him. Only then would we have conversations.
"How was the shoot?" I asked.
"It was good."
"What'd y'all do?"
"I just did dialogue. Fooled around a bit."
"Okay."
End of conversation. He'd read some Bukowski, sleep some more, and head off to the shoot.
I found that I was constantly alone and constantly wanting to talk to him and so I started to write him letters, notes one could say. And he never would notice them sitting on his side of the dresser.
I was living the life of a housewife and I was only nineteen years old. The only company I had was my dog, and even then, I'd throw him outside for a bit, isolate myself from him.
I guess Matt started to pick up on this: he started coming home earlier and even had breakfast with me in the morning. After breakfast, he decided on a shower which I took the time to sit on the bed and read.
"Hey," he said as he grabbed a towel from the rack and wrapping it around his waist.
"Hey," I said.
"I, uh, think we need more toilet paper," he said.
"Okay."
He dried off his hair, wrapped the towel around his waist and say down on the bed.
"What does this look like to you?" He asked, pointing to his upper lip. I put my book down and pulled at the skin so I could see.
"Hair."
"Do you like it?"
"I don't know. You got to shave it off anyway," I said.
"I got to start growing a beard at some point."
"Or you could be a clean little boy if you wanted to," I said. He smiled and patted my knee.
"Love you," he kissed the top of my head.