Revision: Mary Jane's Muse

I step down through the entrance of the wide living room filled with twenty to thirty-year-old singles mingling on couches and standing around the grand piano in the corner. With everyone dressed like they’re going to the symphony, nibbling on cheesecake, and sipping Martinelli’s sparkling cider, it’s a Mormon version of a cocktail party. Being male and single myself, I scan the room for prospects.

Since moving to Idaho Falls, I had learned quickly that eligible and, what I consider, desirable women were scarce here, and if I happened to stumble upon such a rarity, it would behoove me to act quickly.

The desired and subconscious criteria programmed into my synapses find a match, which causes my saccades to halt and focus.

“Whoa…who is that?” I quietly ask my friend Sheila.

“Hm? Oh, right. I thought you might think she was cute,” she replies after I nod my head towards my interest. “Her name is Janae. Want me to introduce you?”

Taking a sip of my drink and turning to face the other direction, I say, “Na. It’ll seem to forced and obvious. I’ll find a chance to talk to her, though.”

She smirks and chuckles. “Right…”

Janae appeared to be, at least physically and socially, the caliber of woman I had never had the confidence to pursue. Despite suffering the lingering effects of a psychological complex forged in middle school and reinforced in high school and five years of college (gorgeous girls are to be looked at, desired, lusted after, dreamed about, but never touched), in my mind I counter, “It’s about damn time you get over it, Sam.”

Taking care to keep her within my peripheral view, I notice her buzz and bounce with the grace of a practiced socialite. Hearing her laughter over the din, I already begin fantasizing about how it would feel to be the trigger of that laugh.

In time, I play nonchalant and make my way over to her circle of conversation. In reference to the talent show some of us had participated in earlier, I ask her, “So how come you didn’t play something for us?”

He light-blue eyes focus on me for the first time, and she laughs and shakes her head. “Mmm...no. I really don’t know how to play the piano that well.”

As the group continues to discuss experiences with taking piano lessons, I notice how she listens and responds to each person, seeming to make them feel like every word they say is engaging and merits her undivided attention.

Several minutes later, just the two of us are talking.
***
Janae’s face is inches from mine as we lie on the floor together sharing a fleece blanket. My lips brush her cream-hued cheek as I lean in to her neck and breathe in through her long wine-red hair. The drum in my chest thumps out beats in a slow, bass tone as she compresses her body against mine.

The last few weeks her behavior had been maddening, verbally denying commitment and interest while lying on my couch in a posture that Odysseus’ Calypso would admire.
Tonight, though, her affection feels genuine—like she wants to be with me.
***
She won’t keep eye contact with me for more than a few seconds. I would rather her look into my eyes and give me a warm smile than anything else, but she’s tired, and it’s time for her to go to bed.

I help her to her feet, pulling her off of the couch and in for an enveloping hug. She keeps her forehead on my shoulder instead of angling her mouth towards mine.

“I’ve got bad breath…” she says.

“Right,” I respond with mild impatience.

It’s becoming a pattern, but not worth discussing now. Anyway, it brings me more pain than pleasure when I kiss her some of the time, because she holds back, like she’s having to pay taxes. She pats my back instead of pulling herself into me.

I let her go and open the door for myself as she gives me a quick, courtesy smile and customary “G’night.”
***
I’m staring out the window in my cubicle, leaning back in my chair with my arms folded. I told her on the second date that if she didn’t want me to ask her out again, all she needed to do was say it, and I would graciously tap out. She still hasn’t told me to do so.

After dating for over three months, I still have no idea how Janae feels about me, and it’s hard for me to feel secure in her presence. I wonder if she thinks I’m not manly, handsome, funny, or spontaneous enough, or if she thinks I’m pathetic and needy.

I chide myself for my hyped insecurity. “My happiness doesn’t depend on her. If she doesn’t want me, it’s her loss,” I try to convince myself.

I continue to brood, chewing my tongue, “I should be adored as much as I adore her.”
Though I compliment her profusely, she occasionally says my shirt looks good with my pants. I say I miss her, and she coos, “Mmmm.” I say something silly or funny, and instead of laughing she offers a curt, “Hm,” which, in my mind, translates to, “Nice try, dork”—another criterion I haven’t met.

“Maybe I’m just being selfish, expecting too much. Maybe I’m being irrational… maybe I’m the problem,” I try to be objective, but end up sarcastic.

My knee starts bouncing up and down at a violent pace, and my jaw clenches.

John.

John, the ever-hovering menace. The kind, supportive, and six-figure ex-boyfriend that offered her diamond earrings the night before our first date. Just a friend, he calls her almost every time I’m with her. He does things for her, looks out for her, always there…making her remember him.
John is patient, the worst kind of competition, and the faithful backup. He knows her, knows how to prick her compassion for him. He imperceptibly casts the flaxen cords over her neck. “I’m just being your friend,” he says all the while. She notices the cords, but they’re smooth and comforting, asking for harmless concessions here and there. She says to herself, “I can break them off anytime I want. Anytime….”

She doesn’t break them. Not for her sake. Not for his. Not for me.
***
I’m sitting in the tub with my arms draped around my legs while taking a hot shower. I stare at the water circling around and disappearing into the drain as drops form and fall from my eyelashes. She has been in Hawaii on a trip for over a week now and hasn’t called since she left. I know she’s probably busy…but still.

“I would’ve called her,” I blurt out as I raise my head up to peer into my distorted reflection in the metal faucet.

I start to wonder if she’s using this opportunity to cut things off. After all, she’s probably going to take the job in Utah.

“Why do I try?” I chuckle and force a tight grin.

In my mind, I compare her to the gorgeous Mary Jane Watson and myself to the struggling Peter Parker, except without the bravery, “spidey” powers, and happy ending. I think about how Peter always feels like he’s letting Mary Jane down, even though all he wants to do is keep her safe. He’s not like the ever-stoic Superman or the rich, mysterious Batman. Peter lacks confidence, tries to make enough money to buy M.J. a single flower, and doesn’t say all the right things. Like every superhero, though, he struggles to live up to impossible expectations.

The comparison between Peter and me doesn’t work out though. No. In this story, my role is more like that of Flash, the high school boyfriend who plays her meathead muse, distracting Mary Jane from her loneliness while she waits for the man she really wants.
***
About one year later, I’m walking past the pillars and kiosks of the Idaho Falls Shopping Mall, smiling as I listen to how the smacking of my flip-flops echoes through the un-crowed hall. I’m sporting aviator glasses and my first beard while searching novelty shops for Chinese baoding balls.

While cursing the establishment’s failure to meet my needs, I start back towards the exit closest to my car, but my pace slows as I see Janae walking down the hall towards me.

After cutting contact with her a year earlier, I had spiraled. Our failed relationship became the critical-mass-enabling catalyst that all my other demons of despair had been waiting for. Following months of shivering through the darker symptoms of depression, I managed to weave a blanket of numbness composed of media bombardment, detachment from social networks, and a balance of salt and sugar. Even more months later, I had gone to see a councilor who helped me find and sew shut the maw that had been howling self-shaming propaganda to every corner of my walls of perception.

Janae doesn’t seem to recognize me as she comes closer. I stop walking and, after a split-second coup against my flight impulse, I say under my breath, “Ah, what the hell.”

“Hi, Janae.”

She stops in mid-stride and turns towards me. As I take off my sunglasses, within seconds her face, first, creases into confusion, then her eyes widen in shock, and then her face settles into a restrained frown.

“Sam…uh…how are you? I thought you’d moved back to Utah already.”

I hide my own surprise at seeing how uncomfortable she looks and how she can’t seem to muster even a fake smile. As we continue to force our way through superficial pleasantries, I feel both sorry for her and no desire to be with her. Soon after, I wrap up our pained chat in a last effort to show her goodwill and mercy.

As I drive away from the mall, I reflect back on Mary Jane again, and how she is just as much, or more, a victim of the situation as Flash and any of M.J.’s other stand-ins. She doesn’t consciously seek to hurt any of them.

Janae and I were just lonely souls looking for super-humans with god-like characteristics to meet our needs. But no human we find will suffice. Given this anthropomorphic equation, the story will always end up as a tragedy.