jenny boult

the silent treatment

"don't breathe down my neck like that."
she tells him this while they're making love.
"don't put your hands on my chest like that."
when he wants her to ask him to caress her breasts.
she won't say breasts. she doesn't give him an alternative.
he takes his mouth & hands away & she turns away from
him & he feels like a tennis player practising on grass
for the match he's playing on a hard court.

"you treat me like I'm an animal."
he's doing his best but he's lost for words. he turns
away from her, snaps out the light on his side.
it's so repetitious. he fools so foolish. every time he
opens his mouth he's saying the wrong thing. when he
tells her that he loves her, she accuses him, "i bet that's
what you say to all the girls".
& when he says nothing, she lays into him with her fists
& sharp nails & her soft voice is as hard as his erection
was before she started.
what can he do when she won't face him. like they are
animals. like she wants him to do it like that. & he wants
so badly to make love to her.

he comes to me. & i'm sorry for him because i'm only a
substitute & this is a loveless act.
he tells me that he wants children. he could learn to
love me. i'm not listening. this is pillow talk. not to
be repeated. it doesn't deserve an answer. she gives him
the silent treatment & i prattle like there's going to
be a prohibition on talk.
she knows about me. we're necessary to each other.
"you can lead a horse to water", she says.
i give him food & drink & he's grateful. but i don't want
his spirit. or his children.

it all began with this act in another bed. children becoming
parents & bequeathing their children misery because that
was all they ever had. silence is only golden when you
want it to be. communication breaks down when dialogue
inhabits a world of cliche & second hand thought.

he thinks about today & tomorrow & all the things he
might say to her if only ... he's scared. he doesn't want
her to leave him ask him to leave. her scowls & snarls
are better than her absence. he tells me that his heart
aches for her. he rests his head against my breasts. he
tells me how his skin warms for her in spite of her indifference.

she wishes that she could love him, but he's worn out
love. submission. he tries to please her & he equates
this with an effete masochism. they come from different
worlds. once upon a time it didn't matter to him. she's
a victim of her upbringing, her education, her dubious
connection with theories that don't & never have had
any practical application.

his hands are roaming her body again.
"take your hands off me."
minutes later, it's my phone ringing & his voice pleads
for succour. & i'm the sucker who says, "yes. i'm home. come
over if you like".
what i mean is that i'm lonely. i'm feeling friendless
& fragile. my skin absorbs sentiment. i'm learning to
despise him, too.

in the hotel she tells him that he's over-sexed when he
puts his hand on her leg. softly. he's not squeezing.
he can't understand why she's so dispassionate. didn't
she save her virginity for him. the price was marriage
& she's been paying for seven years. he can't take her
body back to the shop & ask for one that works. he can't
ask for a refund. neither can she.
but he says that he can't live without her & his body
needs, his spirit needs. he doesn't ask for much, he
gives me information.

they've taken sides. me & you. you & her. me first. she
calls me "that woman" like i'm a soap opera anti-heroine
or a handful of dirty fingernails.
he's a body in my bed.
she's the body on his mind.
she's the body in his bed.
she's the woman who shares her bed with him.
she has a headache, again.
she gives him the silent treatment.

I stop answering my telephone.
sometimes, i don't need words either.

jenny boult lives and writes in Adelaide. She has published seven books to date, the most recent being About Auntie Rose (Omnibus/Puffin), which is a book of poems for children of all ages, and currently available in bookshops.