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?