“Dear God, I’ve fucking had it!”
Clyde stands at the end of the conference table, clenches his fists, and loses his shit. And that shuts us up. That makes us all take a collective step back. Because the uncomfortable truth is that, while he is a very decent affable chap, Clyde has the power to drop this whole building on us if he wants to.
He looks away. “I’m s—” he starts, then cuts himself off. “No, you know what, I’m not actually sorry. You know. I probably should be, but I’m not.” He looks directly at Tabitha. The rest of us might as well not even exist.
“I try, Tabby,” he says. “I try, and I try, and I try. And I understand that you are upset, and hurt, and though you would never admit it, you are very afraid. The future is a terrifying place, and you carry it in your stomach, and it is precious to you, and it scares you, and you do not want to be scared, and you do not feel ready, and you blame me for every conflicted emotion, for every moment of dread that this thing has brought to you. I truly do understand, Tabby. I understand all of it. Because, as I have stated many times before… and actually maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I say it too much so that it no longer registers. It’s just some tic, and I have devalued the words. I don’t know. If so, then that is most definitely and squarely on me. But this is all to say, in fact I was saying it, the exact words. I understand. And I try to make allowances because I do understand. And I love you.”
Then he puts his hand to his head. “But Jesus fucking Christ. Could you give it a rest for a moment. Could you at least attempt to show that under the layers of hurt and blame there is a spark of compassion in you? And I know you display your affection differently. I know you. Intimately. In fact so intimately that one might consider that perhaps some degree of allowance might be allowed on your part rather than this total, cataclysmic shut down of affection. Because that is inappropriate.”
The way he says the last word makes it sound as if it is the word one should use to describe the act of smearing excrement on church walls.
“And I have made allowances. And maybe that’s a terribly patronizing thing to say. Maybe you want no allowances. Maybe if you hurt, you feel you should be allowed to express yourself in any which way you please. And maybe screaming ‘shut up’ was controlling and rude of me. But simply know that if your chosen form of expression is repeatedly shitting on me from as great a height as possible then that act is not without consequences. Your acts exist in a social context. Or more specifically, to be more concrete about the example, it is getting righteously on my tits. I am upset. I am angry. I am at the end of my fucking tether.”
He sweeps his arm around the room. “All this. Everything that happened in the last ten minutes. And my world is destroyed. Everything I thought I fought for is gone. And I reach out to you. Not unselfishly. I will admit that. It would be a dishonest moment to say that I wasn’t hoping for some comfort in return for trying to provide it. And again, it’s perhaps wrong to expect anything from someone. It’s not a right. But maybe it’s common social courtesy. Part of that whole social contract. The bit where we aren’t total selfish arses to each other. The bit that you seem to want to flagrantly ignore vis-à-vis me and everything that involves me.
“I tried, Tabby. I tried.” He is almost imploring. Even in his anger I think he’s looking for something, some forgiveness. But either Tabitha is too caught off guard, or too backed into a corner to give it to him. “But I can’t fucking take it any more. I just can’t. I’m swearing even. It’s all falling apart. I am. And I can’t take it. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.”
His argument is falling apart. His words collapsing in on each other. And it feels like this is it. The moment where the storm will pass, or whirl into a tornado and rip us all apart.
I search Clyde’s fingers for batteries. Thank God he’s not holding any.
Maybe he feels the moment too, and is neither willing to let the moment simply blow out, but nor does he want to inflict any more damage than he already has.
“I can’t take it,” he says one more time, then bolts for the door, and the path out that Felicity has forged.