Brian Lawrence - Leanne's Space

Leanne's Space
by Brian Lawrence

“Let’s do it in that little room tonight,” Marty said, the fading evening light aglow on his bald pate.

Leanne and Marty sat as one, curled together on the tan sofa, watching the sunset outside the bay window of the house they’d shared since marrying four years earlier. They had waited to marry until they could afford their dream house. Their house. A wonderful house they shared, sitting atop a bluff, looking over the Meramec river flats. Each evening, like that evening, the sunset cast spectacular reds, oranges, and yellows through the living room window. Each morning, the sunrise filtered through lace curtains to greet the lovers entwined in the double bed they shared.

“No, Marty. Please, you know how I feel about that room.”

“Yeah, but we’ve done it everywhere else. Let’s do it there and the consummation of the house will be complete.”

She grimaced at the slight whine in his voice, then slipped her pencil thin arm from around Marty’s rugby thick neck. She moved her leg off his soft stomach and leaned back regarding his round face. He smiled at her, his deep dark eyes imploring.

She looked away, out at the fading daylight, the sun an orange-red semi-circle on the horizon. It was their house, but it was her room. Her retreat.

The little alcove, visible from where they sat, was off the front entrance, separated from the living room by a tiny patch of dark gray slate. It was no larger than a walk-in closet, but still had its own bay window. She had moved in a small antique writing desk, the one thing she’d kept from her grandmother on her mother’s side. Keeping the desk company was a daybed she had scrounged at a flea market. It had a brass frame and a pull out trundle. She’d piled it with flowery pillows and covered it with a handmade afghan from her other grandmother. Marty hated the afghan. She loved it.

Rounding out the room was her private bookcase, stuffed on all three shelves with racy romance novels and lurid detective stories, not at all appropriate books for proper women; so her mother had once told her.

“You know how I feel about that room, Marty. Please, let’s watch the sunset.”

Marty sighed, slumped back in the sofa, and crossed his arms, his thick brows knotted, his lips pressed together. The pair remained silent, watching the retreating ball of fire. Leanne twirled a lock of her dark, tightly curled hair, relieved the confrontation was past.

When the sun was only a glowing tip above the flatlands, Marty buried his head in Leanne’s neck and whispered, “Your room?” One callused hand caressed her outer thigh, slipping under her running shorts.

The last remnant of the sun disappeared leaving behind a dying ember glow. Leanne pushed Marty’s head away, unfurled from his embrace, and slid to the end of the sofa.

“Come on, Marty. Why do you keep pushing me? That’s my place, okay. Can’t you understand?” She struggled to keep the desperation out of her voice.

Our cars, our house, our marriage, our life together. But my room. Her head swirled. Her vision clouded, as it always did when they had this conversation, more frequently of late as Marty’s insistence had blossomed when the last room to be consummated was hers. She’d gone along with his obsession for some time, even shared in it. Eventually, though, she only tolerated it. Until now. She tugged at the collar of her T-shirt. Suddenly, the warm evening air felt stifling.

Undeterred, Marty slid close to her and said, “I understand it’s your room, Leanne. It’s just that...The house isn’t complete yet. It’s not all ours yet.”

Slowly shaking her head, she clung to her conviction. Like a single pylon driven into the face of a cliff, preventing the climber from plummeting into the chasm below, her room was the last vestige of individuality, preventing her from becoming nothing more than Marty’s wife.

“My wife." That was the way Marty always introduced her to his friends. “Hello, nice to see you. Have you met my wife?” Usually, he didn’t even look at her when he introduced her. She warranted no more than a casual backhand gesture.

The last red winked out on the horizon and dark gray spread over the valley like a cancer.

Leanne eased off the couch and walked to the window. Without turning around she said, “That’s the point, Marty. Don’t you see? I need one tiny space that’s mine.” She bowed her head to the oncoming night.

How do I make him understand, she wondered. He’s got his weekend a month to play golf, his pool table, his poker night. God forbid I should wander into his workshop in the garage to borrow a screw driver to fix the cabinet that’s been broken for six months.

“Oh, come on. It’s still yours.” She heard Marty push off the couch. She felt his thick arms entangle her, his paws playfully exploring her breasts, his chin resting on the top of her head. He smelled of stale cigarette smoke and day old cologne.

“Your room, darling?” he said, nibbling on her ear.

The gray gave over to complete black spattered with specks of white. Another day relinquished its turn to night, always sharing the world, the perfect relationship, over time everything fifty-fifty.

Leanne slipped out of Marty’s arms. She faced him, her wide brown eyes blazing, but hidden by the night.
"Dammit, Marty. The answer’s no.”

“But...”

In several quick strides she was in her room. The tiny alcove that was a part of the house yet separate, a part of them, yet not. Leanne struggled with the catch on the sliding door while fighting to keep the tears away. Finally, she gained her purchase and yanked the door closed. She was alone.

She sat on her daybed and stared into the blackness. Tears slid down her cheeks. She tasted their saltiness, their bitterness, but did nothing to stanch their flow. Out the window, masked by the night, was the same view she and Marty shared every evening, but for now, the view was hers and hers alone.

Marty stomped up the stairs. During her solitude, she listened to the sounds of her frustrated and childish husband. He tramped from the bedroom to the bathroom. She heard the toilet flush then the softer gurgling of the sink. He tramped back to the bedroom. Then silence.

About a half hour later, or so she thought, time having lost its meaning in the darkness, she heard the soft padding of bare feet on the carpeted stairs, the creak of the fourth one from the bottom. Then a reticent wrap at her door.

“Leanne?” Marty tentatively said. “Leanne, look, um, I’m sorry.”

She held her breath and clutched at the afghan. Would he breech her sanctity by coming into the room uninvited? Violate her solitude? Disrespect her space?

“Come on Leanne. Don’t be this way.”

Her stomach stiffened as she heard the door start to slide, ever so slowly, ever so quietly. But he stopped and gently closed the door again.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

She again heard the soft plodding of bare feet on the carpet. Releasing her hold on the afghan, relaxing her entire body, she smiled, pushed off the daybed, and went to join her husband.

Top of Page