Dry Grass

 

I knew this girl who loved a boy. They were so in love; they were going to get engaged (he told me).

But when he was away, she spent all her time with someone else. Another guy. Our group of friends started talking about how she must be cheating on her boyfriend. One girl remarked (astutely I think) that if she was not cheating on her boyfriend physically, she certainly was emotionally – in her mind. My heart went out to her, she was my friend after all. I knew she wasn’t that sort of girl, and to have sparked so much controversy and slander must’ve been an unintended mistake.

So I went to her. 

One sunny afternoon by the lake, I caught her out reading and took a seat beside her in the dry grass. I stilled my racing heart (confrontation, though a trademark of my personality, often makes me physically sick) and began as disarmingly as possible. I softly explained what people were saying and told her I knew she meant no harm. I told her I would want someone to come to me, so I knew she would want the same. Then, after a brief hesitation, I gently added that sometimes perception is reality and for all our friends… she was not painting a good picture.

She didn’t say much, but I felt better having told her.

I felt loyal.

Later that day, the boy she had been spending so much time with came to me. Instantly, I was reminded that he was not a boy. The girls all talked about how much he worked out, what a hunk he was. But when I observed his body that day it was not to admire how attractive it was, it was not to appreciate the structure of his muscles and sinews, but rather to fear the bulk of him.

I had just entered a dimly lit foyer when he approached me, no one was around. He backed me into a literal corner. I tried to step out of his way, but he just turned on me instead of passing. He told me I had no business partaking in gossip and telling her to stay away from him. He told me they were doing nothing wrong in the eyes of God or man. His red face quoted scripture to me – all I saw were the veins pulsing on his neck.  

The condescending tone in his voice accompanied a veiled rage and I am ashamed to say I felt weak. Literally, physically, weak in the knees and sweaty in my palms. I told him okay. I probably said okay five or six times. At every pause in the conversation, just “okay, okay, okay.”

You know how when you’re working the cash register at a shady gas station, they tell you the money in the drawer isn’t worth your life, and to always just do whatever the man with the gun tells you to do? Just be agreeable and get out alive?

Finally, he said his fill and stalked away, vindicated. It was the first time I had ever felt… Assaulted is the wrong word because of the weight it carries. But my mind comes up empty when I try to name this small, weak, helpless feeling.  All I can do is hope my sisters and my daughters never feel it.