“Do you think that all mothers are disappointed with their sons? I mean do you think it's hardwired into their DNA?” There followed a brief pause. I imagine if you had bat-like levels of superior hearing you might be able to detect the sound of the cogs grinding away right now between the ears, not yet fully in sync with one another. Finally the clutch is engaged and we're back in gear.
“I mean to love and be disappointed cannot be mutually exclusive surely and I'm assuming every mother loves their son and yet, well…” Michael’s rambling words tail off again and silently head off somewhere into the abyss. If the poorly constructed thought process and sentence continues in his head then Jane isn't entirely sure. She sits and studies the furrowed brow and look of pained thought etched across his face.
Even after a decade of marriage she's still never entirely sure what her husband is thinking at any given point in the day. Sharing full sentiments isn't one of his strongest points it must be noted. Actually he's not even that great at sharing completed sentences come to think of it.
“Should I ask?” I take it the visit didn't go well?” Jane asks once enough time had passed to ensure no more words were about to follow. Talking to her husband at points was like talking to a baby in the earliest stages of development, you have to allow at least twenty seconds for a response to form at these critical stages.
“Hmmmm,” is his first response with which he chooses to follow up with a large sigh. He takes the tumbler containing a large drop of 16 year old single malt Lagavulin whiskey from the side table to the right of his favourite Queen Anne brown leather armchair. Both things bring him solace in life especially following his weekly visits to his mother. Michael will tell you that the Lagavulin is purely for medicinal purposes of course. Moving his right hand now under the tumbler he swirls it so the ice clinks against the sides which provides a level of comfort for him that he could probably never put into words for anyone else as to why, so like most things in life he never bothers to try. It's his form of self soothing, the inner child still thrilled at having ice cubes included with a drink. Some simple pleasures in life never leave us no matter how old we get, especially in the males of the species. He lifts the tumbler up under his nose and breathes in deeply, inhaling the combination of vanilla, peat and sweet spices which are like a massage on his soul. Closing his eyes he feels a calmness wash over him and the irritations of the past couple of hours are carried away on the tides of the Atlantic Ocean from Islay. Sooner or later they'll be down on the Giants Causeway being battered into submission and he can forget about them for another seven days at least. Being battered into submission for the purposes of clarity may also have been an apt description of those weekly visits to his mother.
Jane stares at Michael with his eyes closed and wonders to herself if she really ever wants to be let in or whether the mystique is part of his charm and she's simply better off not knowing sometimes. The left hand side of his mouth starts to twitch which is usually the first tell tale sign that he's about to smile, amused at something that's knocked at the front door of his mind ready to be let in. Shoes off, let me take your coat and I'll hang it up here for you. Now do come in and follow me into the front room. As sure as day turns into night the twitch spreads out into a smile. Michael you are so incredibly predictable you silly old sod she thinks to herself but I do love you.
“Jane dear, what was the name of that hotel we stayed in with the American bar?”
Jane thinks for no more than a second or two before replying confidently “The Beaumont.” Unlike her husband there's no dilly dallying, she likes to be straight to the point and thorough as if compensating for his many deficiencies.
Michael slaps his left hand across his thigh causing the ice to clink in the tumbler clasped firmly in his right hand still awaiting the contents to pass his lips for the first time since he made it. He chuckles to himself somewhat contentedly for a few seconds before finally helping himself to a sip of his favourite poison but once more doesn't reveal the reasons as to why he'd asked or why it had seemingly provided him with amusement upon receiving the answer.
For once Jane played the part of the cat, curiosity having gotten the better of her. “Go on then spill the beans, what tickled you then?”
Michael turns his head and gazes over at Jane. His eyes lock onto hers and he's instantly lost in them as he always is, hypnotised by their chameleon-like ability to change colour in the light. All men hate to ever admit that they're ever lost but Michael has no such qualms when it comes to Jane's beautiful emerald green eyes. “Jane, if I've said it once I'll say it a thousand times…”
and they both say the same thing in unison “If someone hands me a map for your eyes it will break my heart. May I get lost in them until the day I die.”
“I love you,” Jane starts her next sentence with, before finishing with “now stop avoiding the bloody question you silly old sod. What were you laughing at!”
“Well I love you too dear,” Michael replies and he chortles at his wife's wonderful sense of humour, always fully appreciative that she doesn't know how funny she actually is.
“Do you remember the barman? Is a barman the right term for someone who makes cocktails? Maybe? I guess so. Hmmm maybe not. Best not to interrupt if you know the answer which I'm sure you do, you know how my mind wanders. There he was in that white number with the black bow tie, showing off about how knowledgeable he was when it came to making drinks and telling me the best way to make an old fashioned. Something about bourbon or … maybe rye and then… yes … Angostura bitters I think over ice and an orange slice and I said …”
Jane claps her hands together and laughs and finishes his sentence “Oh I don't need to go to all that fuss young man I just go to visit my mother once a week! You left him with the most confused face I think I've ever seen on someone before. He was totally befuddled wasn't he?”
The shared memory of which has the two of them falling about laughing. Michael quickly places his tumbler back on the table realising he came quite close to spilling a few bob’s worth down the front of this shirt instead of down his throat. The laughter continues for quite some time as it tends to do with private jokes. Private jokes of course being the best type of jokes there are. No point in ever trying to explain them to anyone else you see because they'll never hit the same mark. You had to be there when they were birthed into this world to fully appreciate the subtle nuances … and the not so subtle ones that make a particular moment in time such a good hoot even many years later. A good laugh comes like an earthquake; There's the main tremor, then the aftershocks where you think you're done but then you start to chuckle again and compose yourself, only for another bout to start a few seconds later. Then finally it's all over and you feel much better for laughing even if your cheeks might now be aching, your forehead wet with perspiration and your ribs slightly sore from having bent forward and crunched everything up.
Michael lets out a huge sigh and purses his lips, inhales deeply through his nose and slowly exhales again. He turns and looks at Jane once more. “Jane..” he starts but before he has a chance to even say another word she finishes his sentence for him already completely aware of the apology that was about to come. The same one she'd heard dozens of times before which she felt he never had to make anyway.
“I know. It's not your fault Michael. You can't help the way she was brought up. The sanctity of marriage clearly means a lot to her and she was brought up in a time where you stayed together and didn't get divorced. I do understand. I don't take it personally. Besides you're the one who's the disappointment remember!”
For some reason those last words rather than cutting deep as they'd done when he'd sat down minutes earlier feeling exactly that, one huge disappointment, now amused him greatly. When she put it like that maybe the fact that his mother disapproved of his marriage to a divorcee didn't matter at all. Sometimes you just can't win. Most men find that generally you never win with women at all. So if you're always on a losing battle with one's mother, find yourself the love of a good woman who'll at least let you think you're winning occasionally even when in fact you're not.
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