That she could not make a decision was upsetting—not even a decision about her own desires, arguably something that should not take deciding at all.

It was true she had chosen the rug and the couch, she had united the room herself. Still, it was in moments like this that she worried she was just like him.

She was often frustrated that Mark had so little to say, that he was so uncertain about things. For instance, whether to have children or not, or whether or not he should leave. Like her, always able to parse things out one way, then the other, unable to come down on anything firm.

He seemed to like everything about his life, which to her was unthinkable. His job, the band, his friends, of course, their apartment, the city, even his own family—he seemed to be happy with all of it just as it was. He did not worry much, at least not aloud. He never spoke about change or the future.

Mark seemed to have even fewer desires than she did.

Which incensed her. He ought to be more ambitious, she thought, he ought not to be so content. He ought to desire something outside of what already was, or what was the point of anything, at all? She wished he would worry or say Fuck You.

Fuck That or Fuck This. Fuck something.

She knew she wanted him to want things so that she might know what to want.

It was entirely unfair, she knew. She knew she ought to have her own desires, regardless of him and his, she ought not look to others to define things for her, to tell her who she was.

Who was she after all if she didn’t even know her own desires? Where was the center of things, the center of her?

She knew she was angry with him only for being like her.

When she needed to, she could still trace examples to demonstrate it was not a proper comparison at all, that she was in fact very decisive, unlike him. Decisions being reflective of some sort of desire, she reasoned. She had moved to New York City on her own, for instance, gone to graduate school, gotten a variety of good jobs with respectable employers. She had traveled. She had lived with men. Sometimes she had left, or chosen to stay. Although choosing to stay never felt like a decision, did it, having no clear marker to point to. Either way, she was not incapable of decisions, she told herself.

And still, she wondered why it was she had done any of these things. Had she desired them? She wondered what that had felt like. She could not remember.

She did not think about the obvious, equivalent examples in his life, not then. For instance, how he had moved from London to Michigan to New York City on his own, earned a doctorate, or how he had written so many articles. Had she forgotten his book was slotted to be published by Oxford University Press? Instead, she saw only his contentment; she heard only a silence where the sound of a future might have been.

•

What did it feel like? Desire. Was it something you carried always, but noticed rarely? Finger and toe? Breath and heartbeat? Was it conscious? Did it rise like hunger—all full of biology and

Was it something you carried always, but noticed rarely? Finger and toe? Breath and heartbeat? Was it conscious? Did it rise like hunger—all full of biology and present-tense. Or was it subtle, easily mistaken. Tugging, like thirst? Or sleep?

What was it, exactly? How could you recognize it when it was there?

There would not be children if she left. She thought about it sitting on the black-and-beige-speckled couch that was not particularly suitable for children. She was quickly becoming too old. She was nearly 37. She knew this because earlier in the year, in a moment of panic, she called out to Mark—Mark! I’m thirty-seven!

I’m
Thirty.
Seven.
Years.
Old.

Mark peeked into the living room to remind her that she was actually 36, which he knew, he said, because they were the same age. This came as quite a relief. Though she was not sure she believed him and proceeded to count out the years on her fingers until she realized there was a little more time.

She didn’t actually know if there would be children if she stayed either. What she did know was that all her friends were having children, and she sometimes felt left behind. Which wasn’t true, she knew that. There was nothing wrong with not having children, there was nothing wrong with her, yet she still felt as if she was failing somehow, not completely grown despite being old, not taking on the responsibilities of age, not contributing as she ought to.

When she walked through the neighborhood park on the way to their apartment, sometimes she felt a sting of longing at the sight of children on swing sets or a father holding his daughter’s tiny hand. She also thought the play area was terribly loud. She could really do without all the noise and chaos. Invariably there was some loud argument over the Title of a scooter, or some child with a scraped knee crying as though something had been amputated. She cringed at the idea of things like playdates and mommy-and-me-whatevers, even ones at the park where at least there was sun and grass and trees; a sense of space, the fantasy of flight.

And when that little boy threw wide, hitting her smack in the thigh with that enormous yellow water balloon, she thought: children were sometimes as insufferable as the parents that birthed them. Insufferable, like the boy’s mother, who yelled It’s just a water balloon! What’s the big deal?, from her position on the bench, as she walked by, now drenched. This despite her tact, having only nodded at the boy after being walloped, having not made a big deal about her sopping clothes or the red welt emerging on her thigh. She guessed she could have been more ebullient in forgiveness when the boy ran past mumbling an apology.

On days like that, she was uncertain she wanted to be a part of it any more than she already was, regardless of the rest.

He could leave her first, she knew this. But she wondered if he really had it in him to leave.

It was something that upset her: Would Mark stay even if he wanted to leave? What did it mean to be with someone who couldn’t leave.

It nearly occurred to her that perhaps that was exactly what she was doing, too. Staying, unable to leave. But the thought was slippery and didn’t stick. When she tried to remember what it was she had just been thinking, she couldn’t recall. Something about leaving, she thought, sprawled out across the jagged cream diamonds, studying the grooves of ceiling tiles.

She wondered what it was they were both staying in, what they were staying for. Exactly.

She could leave.

One afternoon, sitting together in the living room, they had even playfully considered who would take what. “I will take the couch,” she said, “if we get a divorce,” by which she meant ‘if they split up’ because they were not actually married. “I will take the bed,” Mark said, because he was more intelligent or at least more practical.

I could leave. The thought entered her mind only to be brushed under by the next: But what about the rug? The room had finally been pulled together.

•••

The rug was supposed to connect the disparate pieces, and the truth was, while its addition wasn’t as life-changing as she’d imagined, things had improved. The old rocking chair, the new black-and-beige-speckled couch—and even the big puffy chair, orange with blue diamond shapes, the one that she’d inherited from Jake — they were all more united than before.

It felt good to sit on the speckled couch, sized perfectly for their small Brooklyn apartment; to stare across at empty off-white walls; the large, jagged black and cream diamonds of woven rug beneath her feet. She liked the sparseness, the muted tones, the contrasting patterns and textures, the quiet zigzags and stripes; each piece in the room its own character and contribution, completing the whole. So much had been thrown out or given away. The things that remained each had purpose. Fewer distractions, she thought. Calm, now, this room, which had felt so unsettled.

The apartment finally felt harmonious, but the truth was she still couldn’t seem to get herself together. She was immobilized, despite, and now perhaps because, of the rug. She knew this.

There remained an absence of desire. Hers. And also: His.

Or more precisely his seeming lack of desire. After all, she didn’t know what Mark actually felt. They hadn’t spoken to the counselor about it, or each other. And although she was committed to seeing it through, to counseling and what came of it, sometimes she wondered if talking was of any use at all.

•

What happened, when she brought it up, was: he would say I know and that is all he would say.

In response to the engagement, her father emailed a series of Mark-related questions:

---

e-

1.  Do I have to play catch with him now?

2.  Will we have to spend time in the garage fixing cars?

3.  Can I boss him around, and make him get things for me, like hammers and beers?

4.  Do I have to give you away?  I won’t do it!  You’re MY daughter.

5.  (Why’s he so graspy anyway?)

6.  Will he be driving recklessly and causing me to stay up late, worrying?

7.  Do I have to make sure he knows how to shoot a gun?

8.  Will I be going to Disneyland with him?

9.  Do I have to buy him an ice cream every time I buy you one?

10.  I don’t have to talk to him about girls or anything like that, do I?  I don’t want to.

-j

---

 

She very much loved these questions, which were especially funny since her father did not play catch or fix cars or drink beers or shoot guns — although it was true he did love Disneyland and worried very much about reckless driving. Or any form of driving, as she was not that reckless, and he still would not allow her to drive him anywhere.

She emailed him back with her own set of questions.

---

 

1. Do I have to cook actual meals?

                   1a. If so, does Instant StoveTop count? (I remind the jury:
It did for our thanksgivings.)

2. Will we still get to sit around the kitchen table, talk for hours, and laugh until our stomachs hurt? 

3. Will we still get to play hangman with Odelia, who I hope will continue to misspell words like “moron,” so it’s impossible to avoid the hanging?  

4. Will Mark and Odelia fight over who gets to make the tea now?

5. Can I have more time? I need more time. I can’t be grown up yet. 

6. What if our families can’t stand each other? Can I let you all fight it out yourselves? 

7. Are you still going to lecture me about flossing and brushing my teeth? 

8. Will I ever learn to look for the hand towel in the kitchen before dripping all over the floor? Will Mark get irritated with me and hand me the towel now? Because I’ll miss bugging you.

9. Do I really have to wash my socks every time I wear them?

10.  Does anyone know what am I supposed to do now? 

11. Can we all go to the planetarium instead of having a wedding? 

12. Alternatively: Can Whoopie Goldberg be the Voice Of God at the wedding? She does a great job at the planetarium.

-e

---

 

She wished she could keep emailing questions forever.

The Engagement was something larger than herself or him, and even the two of them together, she would quickly realize. 

As she wandered around the apartment, making calls, she was astonished to find that other people seemed to know what to say and do, offering responses similar-yet-particular-to-themselves, when she offered the news. She found, also, they offered up feelings and opinions about her and her life, which were often different from her own.

It seemed she and everyone else diverged in punctuation; in meter and pitch. For instance, it was unclear to her exactly what was so new about her life — since nothing felt different from the day before, or the week before, not really, there wasn’t even a new ring or any other reminder of some supposed seismic shift — yet, others seemed to have divided her life into a New Chapter.

Congratulations on this New Chapter., they said with a period.

While she continued to be full of ellipses, avoidant of periods, as always, the voices through the receiver were full of exclamation marks, such that they sounded physically higher than her, no longer touching the ground, reminding her of that high-pitched flute the old church lady played most Sundays when she was little.

Eeeekkkk!!
Congratulations!!!!
How did he AAAASSSK!!??

She’d always dreaded Flute-Sundays, even worse: Flute-Sundays with that accompanying soprano Opera Singer. Slipping into the family’s regular pew, she’d open the Sunday program and scan for “Music,” hoping that Scott the Organist would be listed there, filling in for one reason or another. She liked Scott, from the angle and distance she knew him, which amounted to the back of his head and about 15 pews. But it was the organ she longed for. The organ’s sound so comforting, grounded in space and time. Closer to God, she’d thought, if anything or any sound was. She wondered why God allowed the existence of flutes. And Opera Singers.

Now, over the receiver, everyone seemed out-of-reach, while she remained her usual organ or oboe. Did God cringe, like her, at these high-pitched, assuming voices? However well intended? She imagined God’s rolling eyes.

But she was happy others were happy for her — and grateful. Which did make her think, if not swiftly enough. At some point, she would realize too slowly for it to be of much use, that it was possible she the one out of tune, punctuated all wrong. Perhaps her connection to others was different than she had imagined.

She supposed she was indeed joining the group, or confirming a place in it. Moving forward as others did, through observable lines and patterns. Which is what she had wanted, after all. Some movement. Trajectory. Didn’t she? To have something in common. Some metric of progression recognizable to others. If only, perhaps, so that it may be recognizable to herself.

It registered also, at some point, that she had not known what to say or do when the situation was reversed. She was sat in the orange puffy chair, under the light of the window, when a rush of memories overwhelmed her — the occasions when she had not said or done the right things.

She had not, for instance, taken the time to stop and take note, as others were now doing for her. To exclaim some new chapter, to underline or accent or mark the moment. Not at all. She recalled, in particular, being very absent during her best friend Aida’s engagement. In fact, hadn’t she gone to Aida’s wedding on a lunch break? She recalled she hadn’t even taken an extra hour off that day to join in celebration. She suddenly felt quite stupid, unobservant, and sad. Had she failed the closest of friends? Mistakenly thinking she was the one who had it all right? Cringing at those unlike her? Full of pride.

She had an impulse to call Aida and apologize, to ask what she seemed like from out there, where the in-tune, well-punctuated people resided. To ask if she had been mistaken all along. Did everyone else already know? Was she just catching up? To say she was so sorry.

She wondered what they must think of her. 

But she could not bring herself to ask.