Gabriel tells me I’m “controlling”. I don’t get it. How can you control a person with options? I don’t nag. I don’t push. I do not filter information spinning it to get a predetermined result. My forensic thought process automatically breaks a problem down to the bottom line. I give him the 411. He is responsible for deciding how to use it.
He slinks into the kitchen wearing a1- 800- kiss- my- ass attitude. I am in the middle of preparing his favorite meatloaf dinner. The herbs and spices I use always put a little extra lead in Gabriel’s pencil. Which means he’ll stay up all night writing me a wonderful love story.
He’s growling, "we ain’t no power couple like Beyonce and Jay-Z…you trying to control me, set me up".
"Set you up, how Gabriel, and for what purpose"? He can’t answer the question. I notice the blush in his chest rising to his neck engulfing his face all the way round to the tips of his ears. His nostrils flare. His lips become full. Gabriel is sexually aroused by …a fight? As usual, we are on the same page, but he’s a little dyslexic right now. I fix him a rum and coke, turn of the stove, and face him squarely waiting for an explanation. He begins doing a curious little dance I call the "what’s my line shuffle". Arms at his side, fists balled up digging into his thighs, feet moving, going nowhere. Softly, I ask him, what’s the problem? And it’s gone. Just like that. Poof, as if nothing ever happened. He reaches for my hand, takes a swig from his drink, asking me when dinner will be ready.
Again softly, "Gabriel if you think I’m controlling, what do you call other women?"
"Bitches", he says. Placing his empty glass in the sink, he goes back upstairs to finish playing his fantasy football video game. I hate this game. One, for the false sense of accomplishment it gives him. Two, for the false sense of accomplishment it gives me.
There were no love stories written that night. After dinner, intent on finishing the graphic layout for the tickets to his show, I stayed up into the wee hours working. Another eighteen-hour day ended.
Three hours later, I’m up doing laundry. Gabriel never wears the same thing twice, creating a perpetual pile of dirty clothes taunting me from the catacombs of the basement. We have rehearsal today. I learned, while in Hollywood, if you wanna get the gig you gotta rock the rig. Most people will not take you seriously if the audio and video don't match. up To this end I make certain that our clothing is always clean, presentable, in good repair. We are Archangel Entertainment LLC. It even says so on the website I built for him; it’s on the business cards I had made. We need to look like we are made for business. Gabriel of course, takes it all for granted. Lately he takes everything for granted.
The man I fell in love with is beginning to disappear. A changeling has taken Gabriel’s place. The closer we get, the farther away he seems. During the night, he holds on to me so tightly I wake up bruised. During the day, his surliness bruises my spirit.
He claims I am obsessed, but I remember. I remember working hard to make it work.
