Dukkha the Suffering. Loren W. Christensen

like chopping off a dog’s tail. Now she wants to talk about it. Why do women always want to talk about it?

      She removes her hands and grips her trembling right one with her trembling left. “Our politics are different. We’ve talked about it a lot. Joked about it. You see the world as a violent place, or at least that’s the part you choose to live in. I abhor that. The very thought of it makes me ill.”

      Okay, I’m not going to let her make me feel bad about my life. “Look, Tiff, you don’t like who I am or what I do, but who I am is who I am. And what I do is what I do, and it’s also who I damn well am. Okay, that sounds dumb, I know.”

      “It makes a lot of sense, Sam,” she says, shaking her head. “And it’s that very thing that is the problem. It’s the ugliness of what you do.”

      “Life would be a lot uglier if men and women like me weren’t out there trying to keep a lid on it. I don’t think you get that or maybe you simply choose not to accept it.”

      “Then you should have let other men and women do it, Sam. Not you.” She shakes her head and sits down on the edge of the recliner’s cushion, as if sitting any farther back would make it hard for her to get away quickly. “I’m sorry. That’s not right for me to say that. It’s selfish and I don’t want to be that way. It’s just that sometimes I think we could have made it work. But then logic enters and it’s so perfectly obvious that there was never a way.”

      Reminds me of something I read on one of those funny cards you give to people. It said: I love you, you’re perfect. Now change.

      Tiff stands quickly, moves over to the window and lifts one of the mini blinds, then releases it without looking out. She looks down at her feet.

      I take a long, deep calming breath. We’re two different people, plain and simple, both of us rigid in our beliefs. Tiff ’s right on some points and, I’m convinced, wrong on others. I suppose I am, too. I look at her as she toes the carpet. Maybe she’s thinking the same thing. A minute passes, the only sound a far off jet.

      “A child! Sam… I just… can’t. I can’t.” She turns quickly and in two strides she’s turning the doorknob.

      “Thanks, Tiff!” I say to her sarcastically to her back. “Thanks a whole hell of a lot.” She opens the door three or four inches and then stops. She doesn’t turn around but just stands there, holding the doorknob. I shake my head and look away. “I need to think about all this. I need to put the shooting, the shootings, into some kind of perspective.”

      She turns part way around but doesn’t look at me. “I don’t see how you can.”

      “Damn-it, Tiff!” I blurt. “Are you so rigid in your… Damn!” I’m squeezing the arm of the sofa so hard that I’m about to rip the leather off. “You have no idea how awful—You don’t even want to know how awful. You live in a la la land. A nice, tidy, and violence-free la la land. Well, life isn’t that way, goddamn-it.”

      A few seconds pass and I forget that she’s in the room. “My head wants to explode right now,” I say, or maybe I just think it. “Last night I… My mind…” I shake my head again.

      She moves and I snap my head up, startled. She’s turned part way toward me but she’s still looking at the floor. “I…” It’s her turn to shake her head, then she turns away and opens the door far enough for her to pass through it. “I did love you.” She leaves without looking back.

      I don’t get up from the sofa; I just stare at the closed door for a while. “Well, that sucked,” I say aloud. At least today’s ending was more civil than last night’s. Still, I could do without having to talk about it anymore. I’m not cold hearted; I just don’t see the point. We both know we’re over. Let’s don’t rub salt in our wounds.

      I scoot down into the sofa more comfortably, fold my hands in my lap and release a long breath of stress. What I wouldn’t give for a normal day where I’m chasing a burglar through a briar patch or settling a family fight between two vomiting newlyweds. Police work is a lot of boredom punctuated with moments of high stress. My police job of late has been heavy on the tsunami adrenaline dumps.

      I read an article once that said the top stressors that tear people down are separation from a spouse, serious health issues, and expensive problems with one’s home. The piece didn’t mention anything about killing people, especially children, but I can attest that it’s number one. My relationship just went down the toilet, everyone in town hates me, a lawsuit is a matter of course, and I just got my ass kicked in front of a bunch of latte drinkers. I’m guessing that I’ll be diagnosed with gangrene next followed by my house burning to the ground.

      Oh man, I need some ice cream and cake with my pity party.

      I jump at the shrill ring of the phone. Still looking at the closed door, I fumble for the receiver on the end table. “Sam here.”

      “It’s me. Sup?”

      “Mark,” I say, more like a sigh than a greeting.

      “You hanging in there, my friend?”

      “Yeah.”

      “You want the good news or bad news first?”

      “Shit.”

      “Sam, you sound awful. You need anything? You want me to come by?”

      “I’m… fine. Just tired.”

      “Okay. Well, the good news is that you can take off as much time as you want before coming back to work. The boss wants you to see the shrink again. It’s mandatory. You know all that.

      “Yeah,” I say softly. What was that word the man in the park used? Some word that meant suffering. I’m starting to understand what he meant.