He’s started picking up trash at the beach, an effort that would be noble if it didn’t feel so hollow.
He comes home, his bucket full of discarded debris, glowing with self-satisfaction.
Sometimes, as a joke, he’ll put his hands out wide and do a little jig, yelling in a sing-song voice, “Look what I can do!” And I don’t think there’s anything else that could sum up his behavior more accurately.
“All the aunties and uncles tell me I’mamazing,” he says, grinning like a child showing off a gold star. “I’mreallymaking a difference.”
“That’s nice, Timmy,” I reply, forcing a smile.
This time, he returns with a business card.
“I was helping the guys who were doing this for their community service,” he smiles proudly. “The supervisor gave me a packed lunch, and said that I could use him as a reference for any upcoming court appearances.”
“Oh okay, that’s… good?” I say, my voice rising involuntarily.
I want to believe in his good intentions, but it’s hard not to feel resentful. He has all this energy to help strangers, but none to help me. His kindness feels performative, a way to garner praise rather than make a genuine impact.
I can’t help but wish he’d put a fraction of his effort in here at home. Working on building our relationship, minimizing conflict. Being healthy and loving and kind.
At home, he’s cruel and dismissive. The man who beams at strangers for their approval is the same one who spits venom at me, telling me I’m the problem, that I’m the reason his life isn’t better.
I’ve been too depressed to go out and mix and mingle in our community. And I’m scared to walk up the street because of all the drugs and violence.
I’m the odd one out here—the pale redhead with a funny accent.
I’m an outsider.
The locals have their own language, their own rhythm, their own way of seeing life.
I’ve been pouring all my energy into our relationship, and trying to keep my writing going, while Timmy has seamlessly integrated himself into the local community.
He wants the accolades for an hour of work here or there, helping the environment and random strangers.
He doesn’t give a shit about developing the consistency to show up each and every day—whether that’s going to work or being a nice and kind human being to his partner. He’s a show pony, and I’m his caregiver.
No matter what the rest of the world thinks, I’ve stopped believing the facade.
The man who picks up trash to save the oceans isn’t real.
The man who cuts me down with his words is.
And I’m tired of pretending otherwise.
My doctor calls, her voice bright and full of purpose.
“Hey,” she says. “Just following up. I see you haven’t made the orientation appointment at the gym yet?”
Another gentle nudge. Another push in the right direction.
Checking in.
She doesn’t have to do this, but she does, and it feels like someone, somewhere, cares.
“Oh, yeah,” I say, trying to match her energy. “I’ve been meaning to do that.”
“Okay, just making sure. Everything okay?”
I glance at Timmy lounging on the bed, his eyes flickering between me and the muted TV. His mood today is uncertain—a coin spinning in the air.