What Monchie Wants
A Counterpoint by Ross Cunningham and Brenda Hubbard © 2006
The screen door slammed as he stormed off the porch heading for the creek. Bocephus knew when to take a walk, when to get out of the house, especially if his woman was rearranging the furniture, AGAIN. His bare feet slapped mud with a vengeance as he stomped his way towards serenity.
What had he said this time? He had no idea. He had tried to be “sensitive” and all that crap but no matter what, she kept ranting about him not “being there.” FINE! If that's what Monchie wants, that's what she can have.
Bo sat along the creek and dangled his feet in the icy water. He sat there all day till his feet were blue. He limped back to the house and peeked in the window. Sure'nuff, everything was neat, different, and quiet, like a picture in Better Homes & Gardens.
She watched as he slammed the screen door and headed off the porch. No doubt, Bocephus was headed for a walk to the creek. He always stomped off instead of listening, understanding, and jumped to conclusions faster than a frog from a lily pad to the water.
Why couldn't he understand she'd been upset? Bad news about her son's health had shaken her to the point where her thinking wasn't clear, her mind filled with fog thicker than that found in London. But instead of listening, he assumed her anger was directed towards him. If only he had listened, he would have understood it wasn't about him, it was about her feeling inadequate as a mother.
Often, he heard what he wanted to, took it personally, and forgot she was hurting. She began to tidy the house, trying to figure out why he couldn't speak plain English, why everything had to be in cryptic messages, and why she was always left to try and figure out what he meant or felt. Monchie wasn't sure he was the man she once knew. Then again, she wasn't sure about anything anymore, bit by bit her life was crumbling around her, and she wondered if he'd return from the creek this time, or just keep walking.