Rocky Coast
After five years of marriage, Cynthia’s expectations of her relationship have dissolved into disappointment and resentment. Aaron stubbornly resists compromise and doesn’t have any desire to reflect on his thoughts and feelings. He looks at life from his perspective and counts every dollar they spend. Cynthia wants to avoid conflict and often puts Aaron’s needs before her own. The irony is that her greatest conflict is within herself. She enjoys spending the money they make and welcomes introspection. Intrigued by a man of a different culture who seemed captivated by the books she constantly read; Cynthia wanted to marry since at forty-two she thought it would never happen. The stories of Cynthia and Aaron soon come crashing together like two continental plates, forcing them further apart.
One evening in May, Cynthia cooks Aaron’s favorite meal of veal and eggplant stew. While sitting at the Ikea kitchen table she asks, “Any ideas about a summer vacation?” Hoping that a romantic getaway will reawaken their love.
“Let’s go to the country. I want to see green grass and trees.”
She plates him another serving of stew. “How about Ireland? That’s really green and I read that Aer Lingus has cheap flights and some great deals on hotels.” Cynthia knew the word cheap would capture his attention.
He dunks pita into the sauce. “I’m not sure, what about the Catskills?”
“We went there for the last two years. I really want to travel abroad.”
“What’s the big deal about going overseas? There are lots of problems there, why go?”
“Before we got married, I spent many summer vacations traveling overseas. One time I went to Ireland and I loved it, the people are so friendly. I think you’d like it.”
Cynthia and Aaron spent their honeymoon in Greece, his native country. They stayed in an upstairs bedroom in his family’s home and shared the bathroom with his older brother. They woke up early every morning to visit Aaron’s friends and family. Some days they had a few private moments together walking to the market, traveling on a bus, or swimming in the Mediterranean Sea. Cynthia longed to be cooled by an air conditioner, sleep late and order room service.
Aaron continues eating dinner in silence as Cynthia’s appetite diminishes. “The last few years we’ve traveled in the US and you always complain about crowds and people with pot bellies. Let’s see something different and besides, I hear Ireland is really cheap.” She uses the word to coax him.
“Let’s see what deals we can get. But I want to stay in B & B’s, not fancy hotels.” Aaron sips ice water.
“We could use points for one ticket.” She hopes he will acquiesce and maybe later, she can get him to agree to at least one night at a nice hotel.
Weeks go by without a decision for their summer vacation. On the first day in June, Cynthia prepares roast chicken and sets the table with candles and wine. Aaron pours wine into their glasses. “Yasuo.”
Cynthia sits next to him, in a seductive voice she says, “In college, I studied literature and W.B. Yeats was my favorite poet. His home is a museum in Connemara on the western coast of Ireland. I would really love to visit.”
Aaron sips chilled pinot grigio. “Let’s see what deals we can get.”
Cynthia toys with saying thank you, but why should she? Isn’t marriage a mutual decision, a compromise, why does she have to ask permission to have what she wants and then thank him?
Time passes quickly as it usually does when Cynthia anticipates something she is looking forward to doing. She arranges for a discounted rental car at Shannon airport, researches museums, searches for moderately priced restaurants and struggles to pack light so Aaron won’t complain about the weight of her suitcase. In early July, they go to Kennedy airport and board Aer Lingus, en route to Shannon, Ireland. On the plane, the passenger sitting in front of Cynthia reclines his seat. Her knees squash against her groin and she’s annoyed and frustrated. She wishes she would’ve spent the extra money and booked more comfortable seats. Aaron leans his head on her shoulder and lightly snores, his breath smelling like the metal bucket he uses for loose change. She thinks to herself; is this whom I want to spend the rest of my life with? I want marriage to be easier, with more pleasure, and fewer conflicts. Can I have that kind of marriage with Aaron?
In the early morning, Cynthia and Aaron arrive at the airport and rent the car she reserved. The driver’s side is on the right. After a few trials of swiveling his head to the left, Aaron quickly adjusts to the antipodal driving conditions. It’s a wild scramble with Irish drivers leaving the airport, and Aaron takes to the opposite side of the road like a race car driver in the Indy 500.
Cynthia checks that her seat belt is securely fastened. “Aaron, please remember to keep your side close to the center stripe on the road.”
“Hey, did I bring along my private defensive driving instructor?” Cynthia snickers at his sarcasm but his attitude towards her is just another rejection. He sees her familiar frowning expression. “Cynthia you always take things too personally.”
“You always dismiss everything without any consideration of me.” They often strike out at one another with the force of bulls butting heads.
Aaron drives in silence past acres of emerald green grass, large piles of peat spaced evenly across the rocky paths. They come to a small house with a thatched roof, colorful wildflowers line the walkway, and a small sign hangs in the garden, Kieran’s B&B.
“Let’s try it.”
“OK.” Cynthia is too tired to argue.
In the morning with a typical Irish tourist breakfast of pork sausages, fried eggs, white pudding, and brown soda bread, Aaron devours a slice of a bacon rasher. Cynthia leans into him. “I’m ready to move on. I want to stay in a place with my own bathroom. Last night I had to take a flashlight in the middle of the night just to pee.”
“This is a great place, why look for something else?”
“Because I don’t want a shared bathroom at the end of the hall on my vacation.” She adds more cream to her tea. “I saw a lovely hotel at the end of the road.”
Aaron hesitates. “I heard about a B&B with beautiful views of the ocean. Let’s try that first.”
They drive a few miles closer to the sea, Cynthia is quiet and is soothed by the pastoral views of this unfamiliar geography.
“Look,” Aaron breaks her calm. “There’s the B&B I told you about. Let’s go and look at the room.”
He drives the car onto a gravel road near the front door and rings the bell. A husky woman, cheeks spotted with rosacea. “Please come in, why don’t ye.”
Aaron’s smile is warm and inviting. His black eyelashes profile his attentive dark eyes, the familiar expression that attracted Cynthia to him when they first met. He asks, “Do you have a room with an ocean view?”
“Aye, we do.” The innkeeper waves them in through the parlor, pamphlets advertising local sights cluttered on pine wood tables. They follow her up a narrow staircase, her ponytail swaying in the direction of her steps. She opens the door to a small room, white lace curtains billowing from the sea breezes. A double bed with linens smelling of Clorox and a simple three-drawer dresser, besides it. In the corner, Cynthia spots the tiny bathroom with a prefab shower.