THE LOVE SONG OF LANGLEY MORAN

by

Wayne Scheer

Langley Moran told his wife, "I'd be happy if I was just pissing away my life. Instead, it's passing in dribbles and squirts. I'm like an old man with a prostate problem," he said as they prepared for bed.

"Then get it checked. Do you want me to make an appointment with Dr. Levy?"

"No, no. My prostate's fine. It's my…never mind."

She felt a little guilty not paying attention to him, but lately it was difficult to know when he was speaking to her or to himself.

She attended to her hair, wondering if she should continue the red highlight or if she should change to a darker shade.

"I'm a dinosaur, Aggie. Thirty years with the same firm."

Agnes turned sharply towards her husband as if pricked with a hairpin. She hated it when he called her 'Aggie.'

"Maybe they're right…I have lost interest. Maybe it's time for me to think about retire…"

"Oh, don't let me forget." Agnes put down her hairbrush. "Phyllis Ramsey left a message when I was out today. She and John want to get together for dinner this Saturday. We talked about it earlier."

"Talked about what?" Langley had taken off his clothes and was disappointed Agnes hadn't even noticed him standing naked before putting on his pajamas. When did he start wearing pajamas? Was it a year ago? Ten years ago? Langley recalled how they both used to sleep nude, no matter the temperature. Agnes would curl into his arms, pressing her flesh against his.

"…I'm talking about dinner with the Ramseys. Don't you listen?"

"Oh yes. Dinner with the Ramseys. How can I forget?"

"It's our turn to choose the restaurant. Perhaps Marcel's?"

"Fine."

"They have a lovely poached sea bass. You had the chicken breast stuffed with crabmeat last time. You thought it was a bit dry."

"Fine. Dry chicken sounds about right."

"We could go someplace else."

"Why bother?" Langley crawled into bed, his wife still sitting at the dressing table. "Good night, Aggie," he said.

Before getting into bed, Agnes decided to apply cream to her face.

*

Already awake, Langley turned off the alarm before it rang at six the next morning. Agnes had kicked the covers off herself during the night and her nightgown had ridden up exposing her rear end. In the glow of the morning light, Langley recalled how excited that sight once made him. He slipped out of bed covering her quickly with the blanket.

Agnes stirred, grateful for the protective gesture. Feeling bad about the night before, she offered to put up the coffee.

"No, I'll do it." Langley feared his response was a bit too quick, looking forward to the time alone.

Langley felt odd this morning, acutely aware of his every move as if he were an actor playing the role of a man brushing his teeth, showering, shaving and carefully combing his hair from one side to the other to cover his bald spot. Dressing in a dark blue suit and white shirt, he thought of putting on the brightly colored tie his son had bought him for Christmas, but reached for the familiar blue and maroon striped one instead.

Langley stared at his reflection in the mirror and stifled the urge to weep.

Instead, he thought of his son, his two daughters and his grandchildren, a thirty-two year marriage and an impressive title at work-Director of Research. He was a comfortable man in a comfortable life. What right did he have to be unhappy?

But happiness isn't measured in years married or titles, he thought. His children made him happy, but they had followed jobs to other parts of the country, as he once did, and he saw them only occasionally. Agnes once made him happy, but they hadn't laughed or cried together in years. Sipping coffee at the kitchen counter, Langley tried remembering the last time they made love.

His work was all he really had, and it bored him. Yet the thought of not leaving for the office each morning scared him senseless.

Hints were being dropped. At yesterday's weekly meeting, he was asked about his retirement plans. He joked, saying he was too young to wear Bermuda shorts. But as he looked around, only old man Thompson was his age. Most of the others could be his children.

Thompson's kid, Peter, talked of the new MBA program at Yale in Opposition Research. The bastard put him on the spot by asking what he knew of their approach.

"I'm…er…looking into it," Langley remembered saying. "I'll have a full report and get back to you next week."

He saw the smirk on Peter's face, especially the look he and Dave Simmons gave each other.

Langley unclenched his fist and sipped his coffee imagining what he would do if he had the strength to act on his impulses. Would he put a gun to Peter's head bringing the snot-nosed twit to his knees? Would he put a gun to his own head? Would he tell Agnes he never stopped loving her or would he simply walk out of the house and never look back?

Agnes padded barefoot into the kitchen, her robe loose exposing part of her breasts. "Coffee smells delicious," she said, pouring herself a cup. "How'd you sleep?"

"Fine, just fine." Langley looked at his wife. She was still an attractive woman, still shapely. He stared at her face, glimpsing the girl he married, and recalling how afraid she was after giving birth the first time that her breasts would never again be round and firm.

"I'll sag like an old washerwoman and you'll lose interest," he recalled her saying. Langley wanted to tell her how much more beautiful she was now, how much more sensual and womanly her breasts were now.

More than anything, he wanted to share with her how afraid he was. But he didn't know how to begin. Would she understand? It had been so long since either of them really spoke to the other.

They had met in college. Back then they'd spend hours discussing poetry, arguing politics. Langley remembered his dream of writing a novel based on T. S. Eliot's poem, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." He would tell the story of a middle-aged man who sees himself as others see him, and although profoundly disgusted at the sight, is too set in his ways to do anything about it.

Again, the urge to weep nearly overwhelmed him.

Langley felt Agnes take his hand. "Are you all right? You've been so distant lately."

"I've been measuring my life with coffee spoons."

"What?"

"It's a line from…"

"Prufrock."

"You remember it?"

"Of course I do, Lee," she said, using the nickname he hadn't heard in years. "Of course, I do."

Langley wasn't sure what to say. He felt the back of his throat burn as he recalled another line from the poem: 'I should have been a pair of ragged claws/Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.' For the first time, he understood.

This was his chance to tell her…to tell her what? That his life bored him? That she bored him? That he wanted to do something daring. Something unexpected.

"What?" he imagined she would ask. "What do you want to do? Do you want to quit your job? Travel? Climb mountains? Take up with a younger woman? Is that it? Is there someone else?"

Langley tried to picture Cheryl, his new assistant. She was young, attractive. He was surprised how long her hair was when she let it down at her desk the other day. But Langley couldn't deceive himself into thinking she was attracted to him. She saw him as an old man, a sad old man.

Instead, he remembered how long Agnes's hair used to be, how it tickled his body when she…

He stared at his wife and held back his tears.

"Marcel's will be fine, Agnes. Be sure to call Phyllis and make arrangements." He added with a sigh, "I think I'll give the chicken another try."

§ § §

After teaching college writing and literature for twenty-five years, Wayne Scheer recently retired to follow his own advice and write. Some of his fiction and essays have appeared in Flashquake, Bovine Free Wyoming, Blue Magnolia, Seven Seas Magazine and The Phone-Book and was nominated for a 2002 Pushcart Prize. He lives in Atlanta with his wife. Wayne can be contacted at wvscheer@aol.com. .

Send the URL for this work to a friend!

GO TO NEXT PAGE