Colm in Rehearsal

Colm’s collapse comes at a very inconvenient time for both of us. We’re staggering towards the end of the semester, there are projects due, papers to grade, advisee meltdowns, and Colm’s fragile mental state, coupled with his view that sleep is for the weak, has made us both husks. Now that Colm has taken up residence on my couch a typical evening begins with his version of dinner, conference room deli platter leavings of withered fruit and crusted hummus, followed by hours of unguarded rending of what’s left of his marriage. The dinner and the unlicensed therapy are fueled by too much gin and not nearly enough unflinching honesty, resulting in little beyond assurances that we both love each other and that The Clash were the best fucking band ever.

I was greatly relieved last night when I arrived home a bit later than usual and heard him talking. Great, I thought to myself, he found his phone. There was a measured, thoughtful tone to his voice; if he was talking to Mira this was a positive step. I headed into the living room and was about to invoke the silent I won’t interrupt gesture, when I noticed Colm gesticulating with both hands. His phone was nowhere in sight. I was confused.

Turdling:
What the fuck are you doing?
Colm:
Rehearsing.
Turdling:
For what?
Colm:
We have therapy tomorrow, I wanted to go over a few things in advance.
Turdling:
Don’t you think that might be part of the problem?
Colm:
I want to make sure I get my points across.
Turdling:
It’s not a debate . . .
Colm:
It is when Mira’s involved.
Turdling:
Why don’t you try going in without, you know, a specific objective. Maybe start with a conversation. . .
Colm:
That’s a terrible idea.
Turdling:
No, this is a terrible idea.
Colm:
Free flowing, agenda free conversations is that what you did, is that why your marriages worked out so well?

And so began the night of the long knives.