Francis Levy - Erotomania - A Romance

After all the turmoil we had been through, we had finally settled into a routine, but God, if he exists, likes to play tricks. Just at the point when Monica and I achieved the kind of predictable existence that both of us desired-at least in one part of our beings-something came along to upset the apple cart. We were watching television while Monica ate and 1 rode the stationary bike. We'd been in a state of effortless contentment when Monica swallowed a bone. Whether it's a penis or a piece of food, Monica has always had to have something in her mouth. 1 had warned her time and time again eat slowly, chew your food carefully, but you can't control another person. As they say in the program, were powerless over people, places, and things. And speaking of things, she never listened to a thing I said. In all fairness, the accident might not have occurred if I hadn't mistakenly bought the regular Swanson's Fried Chicken dinner instead of the Boneless White Meat Fried Chicken Hungry-Man which Monica was more accustomed to. I've watched Monica enough to realize she doesn't think when she eats. She probably didn't even notice the difference. A normal person takes note of bones, gristle, and other impediments, but Monica was not likely to pay attention. Her mouth was like a garbage compactor grinding up anything that's put into it-except that unlike a garbage compactor, it was also attached to a human body. A bone was lodged in her trachea and she was gasping for air. I knew both of our lives were on the line. She was the one who looked as if she would die, and I knew I couldn't live without her.

I tried to pick her up so that I could apply the Heimlich maneuver, but she wouldn't budge. She was like a panicked drowning person who becomes a threat to the rescuer. Even as she was gagging, she was choking me to death with her big arms. Finally, I threw her off and came behind her back, but when I got there I realized my arms wouldn't fit around her. In desperation I began to shake her and pound her chest with my fists. She was turning purple. I gave her one final punch in the stomach. I knew I wasn't hurting her. Her stomach was like one of those fluffy but firm hotel pillows.

The punch had its desired effect. She heaved an enormous sigh that reminded me of King Kong. Then there was a rumbling reminiscent of the sound of waves building up on the eastern end of Long Island during hurricane season, and all of a sudden, a terrific recoil. I don't know what it sounds like when a volcano begins to spew lava, but I'll wager the rolling, undulating roar that emanated from Monica's stomach wasn't very far off, if only from the harmonic point of view. The bone cascaded out of her mouth along with what at first was a steady flow of vomit. The vomit looked like the cement that rolls down the chute of one of those big trucks with the rotating barrels. This initial even-handed outflow, which created a puddle in front of our television, then turned into a more violent spewing that covered the screen and all my exercise equipment. I was both aghast and relieved.

Finally, like all natural eruptions, the disturbance subsidedbut not without one final blast of fury that landed right in my face, dripping down to soil my clothes. At first I'd held my arms out to her and exclaimed, "Thank God you're alive." When, however, her vomit hit me right in the face like a gale-force wind, my instinctive disgust overcame the feelings of gratitude and 1 began a violent heaving all my own. I vomited right back in her face, but considering my superior mobility, I was able to propel myself to the bathroom to prevent an even further mess. 1 must have thrown up for a half an hour. I won't say I felt cleansed. It's hard to feel cleansed when, after having had your head stuck in a filthy toilet bowl, you walk out to see an almost 300-pound woman sitting prostrate, marooned in the remains of your regurgitated life together.

We looked at each other. Monica still had vomit all over the flowery smock dress that she perpetually wore, and I thought to myself what is she going to do? She loves that old smock dress, and I don't think they sell that style at Wal-Mart anymore. I myself was no fashion plate. When I gazed at myself in the plastic heart-shaped mirror that hung on our living room wall, in which we used to see the image of our writhing naked bodies, I noticed that vomit had caked into my hair. I walked closer to Monica, navigating my way to avoid the especially slippery areas. If she hadn't been sitting in her own puddle of vomit, I might have plunked myself right down next to her. I actually contemplated the possibility until the fumes got to me and I started to gag. I couldn't afford to start up once more. I'd already had the dry heaves. There was nothing left inside of me. So, like Romeo calling to his beloved as he stood on the street below her balcony, I sang my praises at arms length. I told Monica I loved her. I told her that the stinking mess in our living room only reminded me how much I cared about her and valued our life together. I also mentioned that we were going to need to call a professional cleaning service.

Monica looked dazed. Like most couples, we had our routines, and as the days and weeks passed, we had taken each other for granted. I knew Monica would be there. She could barely move. In fact, I was aware she would always be sitting on the living room sofa with her usual tray table full of goodies, and besides leaving for a day or two to work with a touring company, the only place I went was to my regular AA meeting. Monica knew I could be counted on to end up at home at X, Y, or Z hour. The desire for alcohol had long left me, though my alcoholic thinking was still there-as they say, I carne for the drinking and stayed for the thinking-and with the exception of that brief moment when Monica blew me, so had my desire for sex. Complacency had set in. But Monica's near-death experience had made it painfully clear how devastated 1 would have been if anything had happened to her. I still stumbled when it came to words. My caring feelings came out like little more than a slap on the wrist as I admonished her to chew more carefully, but I was worried. She ate too fast.

"I still have a sour taste in my throat. I need an Oreo or something before `judge Judy' comes on."

I wet a paper towel and cleaned off the screen of our TV. 1 turned up the volume, which we always do when one of our favorite programs is coming on. When I wiped away the vomit, we found ourselves in the middle of a commercial for Stay-Free Maxi Pads. Sometimes when Monica was watching, I wondered what she was thinking, since it was hard to detect the presence of emotion; the rolls of fat created a poker-face. She was so concentrated on the television that she'd already forgotten the mess in the apartment and the upchuck that covered her. And who was Ito puncture her balloon? I got a small paper plate out of the kitchen cabinet and carefully laid three of the doublefilled Oreos on it. And I brought her a glass of apple juice.

"Don't you have any of that ice-cold milk?" I would have brought her the cold milk she loved with cookies if her stomach hadn't been upset.

"I need a commitment. I need to know our relationship is going somewhere." Next week Dawn confronts Robert on "One Life to I looked over in Monica's direction to see if she was connecting the soap opera star's words to our situation, but she simply stuck another Oreo in her mouth. Monica was like those prisoners who build walls of muscle (in her case it was fat) to protect themselves from emotional pain. She fortified herself with her constant eating. Monica picked up the remote and switched the channel. Bob Dole was sitting in a garden, hyping the virtues of Viagra.

"James, these cookies are so good. Could you bring me a few more? And I don't think a little milk would hurt me."

It was uncanny how she and I were always on the same wave length. She'd guessed exactly why I hadn't brought the milk without my explaining anything. It was this unspoken rapport that had existed in our relationship from the first days of our fucking, and continued on today. In addition, she hadn't called me by my Christian name in a long time. I was touched. For a moment, I played with the idea of moving us to a motel until the place could be cleaned up. Then I realized Monica was already adjusting to the new conditions. By the time we packed up and found a place to stay, we'd both miss our favorite programs. She seemed happy. The cleanup would simply have to be done around her. I could see Monica was working up an appetite already. Despite the fact I'd vomited my guts out, I needed to work out. We had an institutional-grade slop bucket and mop I kept on hand for just these kinds of emergencies. I filled it with warm water and soap and started to work on the most egregious puddles myself. As I looked at Monica I was filled with gratitude about the life we'd created together. Yes, I had a few bones to pick with her here and there and we had a big mess on our hands now, but these kinds of details are incidental when you're in love.