Ruined Meat
I made the mistake, as many do, of surrounding myself with teen magazines in high school. I learned to expect sonnets and serenades and electric kisses. Romantic comedies had taught me that big grandiose efforts in the name of love were not out of the ordinary, and Romeo and Juliet showed me that parental approval wasn’t always necessary (nor was emotional stability).
The stage had been set, but it stood empty until my 17th birthday. Charles had just moved to Indiana, and brought with him a Southern mystique that went in line with my romantic ideals. I had heard stories of Southern hospitality and I automatically applied them to him because he hailed from Georgia. I was giddy over simple door-holding, forgetting the number of northerners that had done the same for me over the years. I was blind to the lack of hospitality he extended to my family and friends.
While I buried it shortly after it had occurred because it didn't fit into our "perfect" relationship," I remember one particular day at the very beginning of our three years together that challenged my definitions of love and romance.
It was the summer of 2002, and we had just started dating. We took a short drive to the city park, for a concert of the Kokomo Park Band - a local group I had thoroughly enjoyed in the past. We seated ourselves on folding chairs on the lawn and I eagerly awaited the patriotic songs heralding the upcoming holiday.
As the band played, a woman a few seats a way began to sing the words. I smiled, appreciating her enthusiasm even if she was tone-deaf. Charles, on the other hand, became visibly irritated. He started mocking the woman and complaining about the quality of the music and begging to leave early. I can't remember whether we did leave at that point or stuck it out...but I do know that my enjoyment of the concert from that point on was much diminished. ("America the Beautiful" is not quite as beautiful with a heavy sigh inserted every thirty seconds.)
But the evening did not end there.
Charles had brought along some steaks to grill at the park (one of those "grandiose efforts" I had been taught to expect) and I sat down at a picnic table near the grill. He grumbled about the condition of the grates (looking back, it blows my mind that he didn't bring a grill brush) but placed the steaks on the grill anyway. I sipped my Vanilla Coke happily as he sat down next to me.
"I love you," he said.
I smiled, flattered but unprepared to repeat his words. "Thank you."
His expression changed, approaching anger. He repeated himself, and kept his eyes focused on me as his eyebrows threatened to climb past his hairline.
At this point, I was feeling a bit uncomfortable under the pressure. "I don't think I can say that right now." (We were still in the first week of courtship, mind you.)
He slid closer on the bench and posed a question. "Why can't you say it? It's just a word."
I fidgeted a bit, seeking the right words to explain. "Well, it's not 'just a word' to me. It means something. And I don't think we've known each other long enough to feel that way."
Apparently my words were not delicate enough. He snorted like a bull and - maybe this was my imagination - seemed to have taken on a red hue. "What do you mean we haven't known each other long enough? We've been talking since April." He paused. "I feel that way about you. Why can't you just say it? It's just a word."
Ultimately, I ended up saying the word that I knew at the core of my being was not just a word. I gave him what he wanted to stop from feeling like a predator's prey.
He smiled and turned back to the grill after I'd caved to the pressure. I watched him remove the ruined steaks from the grill and throw them at the nearest tree; I felt powerless. I watched the meat as it slid down the tree, unable to fight the pull of gravity through no fault of its own.
Charles turned away from the grill and picked up the case of Vanilla Coke. "Let's go get something to eat." I silently followed him to his truck, knowing - if only in that moment - that I had locked myself in a cage and given him the key.
The stage had been set, but it stood empty until my 17th birthday. Charles had just moved to Indiana, and brought with him a Southern mystique that went in line with my romantic ideals. I had heard stories of Southern hospitality and I automatically applied them to him because he hailed from Georgia. I was giddy over simple door-holding, forgetting the number of northerners that had done the same for me over the years. I was blind to the lack of hospitality he extended to my family and friends.
While I buried it shortly after it had occurred because it didn't fit into our "perfect" relationship," I remember one particular day at the very beginning of our three years together that challenged my definitions of love and romance.
It was the summer of 2002, and we had just started dating. We took a short drive to the city park, for a concert of the Kokomo Park Band - a local group I had thoroughly enjoyed in the past. We seated ourselves on folding chairs on the lawn and I eagerly awaited the patriotic songs heralding the upcoming holiday.
As the band played, a woman a few seats a way began to sing the words. I smiled, appreciating her enthusiasm even if she was tone-deaf. Charles, on the other hand, became visibly irritated. He started mocking the woman and complaining about the quality of the music and begging to leave early. I can't remember whether we did leave at that point or stuck it out...but I do know that my enjoyment of the concert from that point on was much diminished. ("America the Beautiful" is not quite as beautiful with a heavy sigh inserted every thirty seconds.)
But the evening did not end there.
Charles had brought along some steaks to grill at the park (one of those "grandiose efforts" I had been taught to expect) and I sat down at a picnic table near the grill. He grumbled about the condition of the grates (looking back, it blows my mind that he didn't bring a grill brush) but placed the steaks on the grill anyway. I sipped my Vanilla Coke happily as he sat down next to me.
"I love you," he said.
I smiled, flattered but unprepared to repeat his words. "Thank you."
His expression changed, approaching anger. He repeated himself, and kept his eyes focused on me as his eyebrows threatened to climb past his hairline.
At this point, I was feeling a bit uncomfortable under the pressure. "I don't think I can say that right now." (We were still in the first week of courtship, mind you.)
He slid closer on the bench and posed a question. "Why can't you say it? It's just a word."
I fidgeted a bit, seeking the right words to explain. "Well, it's not 'just a word' to me. It means something. And I don't think we've known each other long enough to feel that way."
Apparently my words were not delicate enough. He snorted like a bull and - maybe this was my imagination - seemed to have taken on a red hue. "What do you mean we haven't known each other long enough? We've been talking since April." He paused. "I feel that way about you. Why can't you just say it? It's just a word."
Ultimately, I ended up saying the word that I knew at the core of my being was not just a word. I gave him what he wanted to stop from feeling like a predator's prey.
He smiled and turned back to the grill after I'd caved to the pressure. I watched him remove the ruined steaks from the grill and throw them at the nearest tree; I felt powerless. I watched the meat as it slid down the tree, unable to fight the pull of gravity through no fault of its own.
Charles turned away from the grill and picked up the case of Vanilla Coke. "Let's go get something to eat." I silently followed him to his truck, knowing - if only in that moment - that I had locked myself in a cage and given him the key.
Criticism III
Maybe play up the meat idea. Use related ideas like "flesh" and "skin" and "muscle" and ...
Maybe more description of the park setting.
Maybe more description of the park setting.
