Okay, Content, Balanced and Happy

Sylvia watched intently as her husband played the piano. Her eyes were a much better gauge than her ears when it came to Robert's performances. They all sounded great to her, but his perception was all in his hazel eyes. They would light up, flash brightly and dart to and fro, if he was pleased. If he was disappointed, his eyes would glare ferociously through the keys as if it was all he could do to recall where his fingers should tap next. Tonight was a triumph! The excitement of the crowd was palatable, roses were strewn across the wooden planks of the stage; Sylvia tried unsuccessfully to count them between the watchful glances of Robert's dancing eyes. He would be up all night. He was always up all night. But on good nights he wanted company. On bad nights, he wanted to be alone to beseech the sun. Why, how could you leave me so? The sun would console him with a ray of light and in a decided fashion reprimand him for still being up and hurry him off to sleep the day away. 

Sylvia would need coffee tonight. If she dozed off, Robert would nudge her gently, "Are you sleep?" as if they were teenagers who made a pact to stay up until dawn trolling social media, raiding the fridge, and having experimental sex. 

"No, no, I'm up my love," Sylvia would reach for him, "I'm here," and kiss his countenance back to security. Sylvia wasn't 100% sure Robert even enjoyed performing anymore. "You know you don't owe anything to anyone. We don't need the money," she would urge.

"I know my love. Thank you for being so sweet. It's really not that bad, though. My fans give me energy; they remind me that I'm alive: a rocker with a classical shtick," Robert would laugh at his favorite motto.

Sylvia continued, "But Robert, you get so manic, and the crash is always so hard. I think the medicine is helpful." 

"Look, even if I didn't perform, I wouldn't allow myself to be drugged and out of it for the rest of my days. I don't want to be pleasant. Pleasant is for luncheons. I don't eat lunch." 

"I don't want you to be pleasant; I want you to be okay. Content. Balanced. Happy," Sylvia's words sounded foreign even to her as they trickled off her tongue.

Sylvia could have sworn there was a time when Robert was happy. It was impossible that he had always been such a brooding child. She would not have married him, would she? They had been together nineteen years and Sylvia loved Robert more today than she had the day they exchanged vows, but she was exhausted. If he was up, he could go weeks without sleeping. He would literally, write, play, practice, and perform for days on end. If he was down, his body would curl in on itself. At night, she would just rap her form around his because she could not penetrate his being.

Some nights she would cry with him, others she would swear under her breadth just audible enough for him to glean, if he ever did care to listen. But most nights she would lie next to him awaiting marching orders. I'm cold; it’s too hot; I'm hungry; I feel sick; I can't sleep; I can't wake up. It took time but now she understood each code. She would be up and down three/four times a night adjusting the temperature, making sandwiches, mixing cocktails, escorting him to the restroom to purge or just pee and bringing him chamomile tea to help him relax or caffeine to help him wake. 

Then out of nowhere Robert would show up. Sylvia would awake to the smell of coffee, orange juice, omelets and toast. Robert would bring her breakfast in bed, run her a hot bath and massage her feet with oil.

"Wow, you are so beautiful in the morning. God blessed me with an angel," he would announce to the world through their condominium walls as he wiped a single tear. Sylvia and Robert would make love, he would prepare her favorite foods, they'd watch obscure movies, and most of all he would be attentive. He would listen to her words, get lost in her brown eyes, and attend to her every whim. On rare occasions he would even go out; shopping, dancing, dinner parties, visiting family, errands. You name it.

In the beginning Sylvia loved these days that would peak through the clouds and emerge as tangible evidence of good times and better memories. But as the years stuttered, jerked, and grind to a halt resentment anxiously awaited its turn. I better enjoy this while it lasts. No telling the next time he will press his body instinctively against mine, walk with me in the park, wash a dish or even brush his teeth. And why is it always when I am ready to leave, the letter written, apologies rehearsed? 

Hate was next in line, but thankfully it never got its full turn. Ten years into the marriage, Robert had a concert one evening and Sylvia watched as his stony eyes stared intently at every press of each key. The crowd was amazed, roses scattered across the wooden boards, and even Sylvia would have floated on each note if her ears were given permission to listen, but only her eyes watched.

Robert would only give stark one word answers in response to Sylvia’s attempts to be reassuring, “The crowd loved you. The sound was the best I’ve heard in a long time. Your timing was impeccable.” Doors to the car, apartment, restroom and guestroom would slam. Early in the marriage, Sylvia would try to get him to come around, but he made it painfully clear that he wanted/needed to be alone. It was the only time he ever yelled at Sylvia. She had already decided on this particular evening, if her husband's eyes didn't shine brightly off into the distance, she wouldn't say a damn thing to Robert, she would ignore his brooding, and enjoy an evening to herself. Robert was quiet and all the doors slammed on cue. 

Sylvia planned to wash and deep condition her thick, kinky locs, use the mani/pedi system that was still new in the box, marathon watch "The Real Housewives of Atlanta", and binge eat whatever sweet treats would fit in her gut. Oh, and she had a good mind to compose a five page "Dear John" letter. But despite all her preparation, she sat and thought about Robert. She gave considerable thought to Tom, the butcher at the plaza. How his eyes would light up whenever she walked in. 

"I need something special tonight," Sylvia would announce to the market and not just the man behind the counter.

"Why yes, Mrs. Luttrelle. I read in the paper about the concert tomorrow night, so I already have a special cut of lean roast ready. I know Mr. Luttrelle loves his turkey sliced thicker, so I'm going to carve that for you now,” Tom paused and added with sincerity, “Tell him I said, hello."

"Definitely, Tom, I will. Robert is always so grateful for the special attention you give to his discriminating palate,” Mrs. Lutrelle lied. "I'm sure he will probably be with me next time I come out," her voice cracked on the words "be with me" and she cleared her throat. 

"Oh, no I understand. He is a busy, important man. Jet setting across the country, entertaining the masses. I'll see him one of these days, I’m sure." Robert was world renown among the classical sect and that made Sylvia somewhat of a local celebrity in the small town where they lived. 

She thought about La’Bel, the boutique where she bought her gowns for his performances.

"Oh, Mrs. Luttrelle, I'm so glad you are here! You know we saw you in the blogs, and you were wearing a redo. Beautiful yes, but you’re kind of a big deal and represent our brand, as well,” Claire, the shop owner, spoke with urgency in her voice. “I have a few dresses already pulled for you in the back - straight off the runway! Amber, go get the dresses for Mrs. Luttrelle," She shooed her intern toward the back. 

Sylvia smiled broadly, "Yes, you're right.  I am kind of a big deal." The ladies both laughed. 

“And where is Mr. Luttrelle?” Amber chimed in a little too eager as she emerged with a rack of dresses. Sylvia watched in horror as she pushed in enough dresses to adorn a whole audience at the opera. Sylvia would pick out two or three without trying them on and be on her way.

“He’s busy preparing for Saturday night’s show.” Robert was actually rolled up in a ball on the walk-in closet floor two shots of whiskey away from a coma.  

When Robert shopped with Sylvia, it was always a bigger, better production. Tom insisted he try an elaborate tray of twenty new meats sliced so thin that they melted in your mouth before you could chew, and then he would order a thick cut of turkey.

"How can meats be new?" Robert would question Sylvia under his breath, and they would snicker - both of their eyes sparkling brightly. 

The ladies at Boutique La’Bel would pull out bottles of champagne and chocolate covered strawberries just for Robert, while Sylvia modeled dresses for what seemed to her hours. As more drinks were poured, the dresses would get shorter, neck lines lower and his hands freer. It was reminiscent of the early days, when all of her ensembles were deemed “inappropriate” for polite company.

"We'll take them all! Some for the public and some for the private show," Robert would declare whimsically. Sylvia would kick her leg up high, spin round, or bend low for everyone to get a peak. 

Sylvia also thought about rubbing Robert's back, cheering him on to pee, or sponge bathing him when the bed sheets began to reek.

Robert hadn't changed. It was Sylvia who had changed. She got out of the bed and walked passed the mani/pedi system still in the box; the shampoo and conditioner that guaranteed thick and shiny twenty something ringlets on middle aged women's hair; the television ready to deliver drama and more drama; and the bejeweled floor length gown she had dazzled in just hours earlier. Downstairs, she opened the fridge and pulled out the meat still wrapped in white deli paper. She made a sandwich fit for a king or a rocker with a classical shtick. Sylvia headed back upstairs and stopped at the guest room door and sat down. She scarfed down the sandwich and a pickle and drank a bottle of sparkling water. She burped long and loud and then listened intently for any movement behind the door.

Her last thoughts before dozing off to sleep were the early days in their marriage - when Sylvia would cuss out Robert’s fans if they were too flirtatious or the vodka had won the night. When she would fall asleep at the symphony, and he would assure her it was okay. "Just try to stay awake next time because the optics aren't good," he'd urge in a delicate tone. Sylvia remembered how Robert defended her when his mother called her a tramp, and a tear rolled down her cheek when she recalled how he had forgiven her when the pictures surfaced of her affair with the violinist. "He's not even the first chair," Robert chided.

She longed for the man behind the drywall who was probably just sitting wide awake waiting on the sun to promise him it was okay to rest his tired hazel eyes. She would never leave, hand him one of those stupid letters, or allow hate to creep in her spirit. That night even resentment died a slow but necessary death.

The next morning, Robert found Sylvia sleep on the floor in front of their guestroom door. He picked her up and carried her to bed. He cleared the dishes in the hallway and went down to cook breakfast. Sylvia awoke to see Robert bright as the morning sun. She knew he would probably need a day to sleep, but by the look of things this mood would probably last a full week at least. Sylvia learned to appreciate all of him, but this was the Robert she could show off in public. It would be a great time to visit with Tom, see the ladies at La’Bel and even spend a day with his mother. She was getting older and more forgetful. Thank God. 

Sylvia sat up and leaned against the pillows. Robert sat the tray down over her lap with a glass of orange juice and a breakfast fit for an angel married to a rocker with a classical shtick. "Oh, thank you, Love," Sylvia chimed childlike. It was her turn to be spoiled. Robert reached over and grabbed the pill organizer that sat on Sylvia’s bedside table. He opened the dispenser that read Sunday, and handed Sylvia her orange juice, so she could wash down okay, content, balanced and happy.