shopping together.
Over time, it seemed that Charles became unusually moody, sometimes to the point
of not talking when he got home or speaking in one-word sentences. When the weekend
arrived, he was too tired to do anything. “You go,” he’d say. “I don’t need the hassle of
117
all those crazy people mauling through the oranges.” Either that or he’d blow up over
minor things; throw a shoe across the room or something more frightening. I had never
seen this side of him. If I questioned him about the cause of his stress, he clammed up or
leave the apartment, slamming the door behind him.
I chose to keep a blind eye to these mood swings, telling myself he just missed our
former routine at the Broadway and, perhaps, his ego was suffering a bit from his having
to set up house in my apartment. Then he’d come home with his arms laden with
packages. “Look what I bought, Carol! I’ve always wanted one of these gadgets. The
store had a sale today. Look at this gorgeous neck scarf. It matches your favorite color
lipstick.” On occasions like this, his buying spree was unrestrained. I loved seeing him so
excited and upbeat and joyfully exclaimed over each purchase. Of course it put a definite
strain on our budget.
One day, Charles would be unusually talkative, bragging about the superiority of his
work ethic at the store compared to his peers. A few days later, he’d be irritable to the
point of finding fault with everyone and with everything I did. Or he’d slump on the
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