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Crying in Sante Fe (Part 5)

June 5, 2016

We walked into the “Crowbar,” calling it Pamplona-like. Mr. Houston continued his weird self-analysis conversation style, talking about himself and analyzing me at the same time. I wasn’t having fun. “At any given moment I don’t quite know what I am to you or where I stand with you,” I told him. The tension was broken a little when I made eye contact with a vivacious older woman in a sexy dress and fedora. She came over to me and hugged me and I told her she was fabulous. She returned the compliment.

We decided to relocate and headed around the corner to a hotel bar with nice outdoor seating. I got wine and he got a vodka soda. We were pretty tipsy by then.

That’s when the train left the tracks. Mr. Houston started telling me a story about his first sexual experience when he was very young. Too young. It involved the family housekeeper. For him, he was merely relating a life experience that had been formative but that he had long ago made peace with. All I heard was the unconscionable actions of an older, married woman toward a teenager. I was disturbed by the story. I thought of myself at that age, of my daughter, my son, all the children in the world who go through this and much worse ever day. As I expressed my discomfort and disapproval of the house keeper, Mr. Houston seemed to excuse her. The more I objected, the more he prodded. It was like he found a weak spot and he needed to dig into it and find it’s source. I tried to explain, he kept pushing. I started to cry. He pushed more. I felt stupid and insensitive for reacting to what was his experience. It was inappropriate and not the behavior of a supportive friend. But I also felt the Mr. Houston wasn’t respecting the fact that it was painful for me to hear. He kept going. I put my head and my hands and cried more. He wanted to know what I had been through to have this reaction. “It’s not about me,” I tried to explain. I got up and took off the scarf I had wrapped around my torso, put down my purse and got up and walked away. “Where are you going?” he asked. “I don’t know,” I said. “Just for a walk.” I sat on a step a few feet away and cried.

I composed myself and went back. He continued to question me. I started to cry again. I looked at him and said, “Can we go back to the room now please.”

“Of course,” he said. As I stood up he held me to him, put his arms around me and said, “It’s ok. I love you just the way you are. This is part of who you are. I accept this, too. It’s going to be ok.”

When we got back to the room, I took a bath and cried more. Not really understanding why and wondering how the rest of the trip was going to go. We were supposed to go to Taos the next day. When I got out of the tub, I dressed and crawled into bed next to him. He was watching CNN and he turned to me and held me. I put my head in his chest and went to sleep.



From → Rantings

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