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.

“Hey, boss.” Jake says, swooping me up for a hug.

“Hey, hey.”

“Hard weekend, huh?” He asks, pointing down the street to the coffee place.

“Yeah.” I follow him, noticing his converse are a nice warm gray, “Sorry for crazy-emailing last night. Up late having thoughts.”

“Don’t be silly. I LOVED your emails. Had no time to address your thoughts, I’m sorry.” Jake says, “So: Dean and Jess’s wedding?”

“Yeah.”

“Nick was there, right? With Sandy?” Jake knows everything and everyone.

“Yeah.” I say.

“Nick said there was a 9-course meal? Momofuku? Damn.” Jake certainly knows Nick, who is my Ex and Jake’s good friend from college. Once you know one St. Johns Annapolis alum, you know a hundred.

“Yeah, it was beautiful.” I say, “Incredible food. They cleared out Milk , so we had the whole shop to ourselves, eating under the glow of Milk’s pink neon sign. Dean gave the best speech ever. They were adorable. Nick loves her so so much. Also, I cried.”

“I haven’t even been to Momofuku. Everyone raves. I do enjoy cereal milk. But also it’s ridiculous.” Cereal milk is ridiculous. It’s what Milk serves by the glass. They make your basic cereal and milk, toss the cereal and sell the milk.

“Childhood in a glass,” I say. Jake is in line for caffeine, deciding on what to order, asking the barista a lot of questions. He snorts. “True story.” He says. I’m standing on his left reading my horoscope, which is taped down on the counter. It says something about reigning in my personality, which is what it always advises in some way to another. If you’re as bossy as you want to be it won’t get you anywhere this week or you’ll be itching to buy something totally unnecessary and frivolous – don’t do it, or whichever direction you move in, take it slowly, etc etc etc.

“Like: wedding cried?” Jake asks, handing the barista a five.

“Like I just moved back from Philly and I’m alone and Dean and Jess are getting married and Nick is engaged to Sandy. Reminder Jake, Sandy the first girl he met after we broke up, which is fine, it’s totally fine, that’s great for him, I’m happy he’s happy, he deserves it, good human being, and also: Really? Seriously? The first girl? And also: Why not me? Also: Fine. I get it. Nothing to do with me.” I say. “So: No?”

“Yikes….Yeah.”

“Okay, so”

“—Hold on.“ Jake hands me his coffee and bends to ties his cool gray colored shoe, gestures toward the McCarran park loop.

“Yeah, cool.” I say, hand him back his coffee and follow.

“Okay, go.”

“So.” I say, “this is not Dean and Jess’s fault or anything, obviously, I don’t have to even say that, I mean, I’m so grateful I was included in their wedding, I’m totally not complaining, but.”

“But.”

“Okay, but Nick and Sandy were sat next to Dean and Jess,” I say “and you know Nick only knows Dean because Nick and I were dating. Like, that’s why Nick knows Dean. One of my best friends getting married, my ex, sitting at the table with him. Which of course doesn’t matter. I mean who cares who sits next to who? We’re all lucky to be part of this thing, I know.”

“Right.” Jake says. “So, I gather you are not seated at the main table. Wait. Did you bring a date?”

“No date.”

“Shit.” Jake says.

“There were spots for 20 people total or something, I mean Dean and Jess shut down Milk to have a 9-course meal catered by Momofuku. Must have been a fortune. They had only family and closest friends, no other people, no dates. I get it. I get it. It sucks.,” I say, “But.”

“Right. Yeah. Okay, so where are you seated?” Jake asks.

“Yeah, okay, so because the way the tables are laid out, I’m sitting with my back to the main table that holds my very very very very — did I mention he was the first person I met in New York City when I knew no other soul here? — very dear friend Dean and his now-wife whom I love dearly, and my ex, and my ex’s fiancé. My back to the table with all my people.”

“Boss….” Jake looks down, shaking his head. I love that he doesn’t try to make it better or give me some upside. That the air just sits between us.

“Okay,” I say, “So granted as soon as I walked in the door, Dean accosts me to say he was how totally sorry he is about this set up, it wasn’t what he had planned, and he got to Milk and they told him it was the only way to fit the tables. He’d just found out himself. He felt awful.” 

“Right.”

“So you have a basic picture of the layout here, yeah?” I ask.

“Yeah, I think so. Wedding table behind you with everyone you know? No date.” Jake says. “Wait – do you know anyone else there?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

“Yeah, so all known humans behind me and across from me, for a 9-course, 4-hour meal , which was, in fact, amazing —“

“—Right.”

“— Is a blind guy.”

“Holy hell. This is kinda hilarious, E-dog. I mean, I’m sorry.” Jake runs his fingers through his hair. “Sucks, E. Also: fun-ny.”

“I know. Yeah. He was a really nice blind guy, too.” I laugh. “Wore these crazy-thick glasses because I guess he can see general shapes? Maybe color or something? But he definitely can’t see me. Which is fine because I hated my dress and felt fat.”

“Hilarious, e.” Jake says, tossing his empty coffee into the green trash can, “Also you’re not fat.”

“Now, yes, funny.” I concede. “At the time… Okay, still semi-funny. Anyway, I spend four hours describing what’s on the little plates in front of us, pretty badly I’m sure since I’m not a foodie at all. Poor blind guy. And trying to make conversation while I hear Nick, loud-as-hell, you know how he is, laughing away with my friends.”

“Aw.” Jake gives me a sad face and a half-hug.

I rest my head on his shoulder. “…also Dean’s friend, I know I don’t own friendship here. It’s great they became friends, I know. It’s just a lot all at once. Marriage, engagements, physical locations, and proximity of important things. Sandy looked amazing, as usual. Skinny.”

“She is pretty,” Jake says. “Also you’re not fat.”

I heart Jake for not, but kinda, babysitting me. “So, I went outside and called my sister but she wasn’t there. And I started crying. And some guy from the wedding party swaggers up, smoking a cigar, and I say: ‘Oh, I’m just so happy for those two!’ you know—“

“—To explain the tears.”

“Yeah, to explain the tears so I don’t look like a psycho.”

What mattered?, she wondered.

Did it matter that Mark was three inches taller than her, 5’11, which was the same height as her father? Or that he called cilantro “coriander?” Or that he was a fan of Liverpool?

He never worked out. Was that important? He wasn’t at all fat, but it was something she found peculiar since everyone else exercised, even his own brother. Everyone knew it was healthy to exercise. Yet he was not too concerned.

He was younger than his brother, but he seemed the older of the two if that helped? He was bald, but in a sweet way. He wore glasses with thick, black frames. They were rectangular in shape. Handsome, they suited him. He played bass and wrote very good lyrics that were structurally interesting. Or she thought so. They were all too often inspired by 17th and 18th-century plays and novels, always dark and usually, somehow, funny. Clever.

Her favorite was: Tie our hands to the railroad track / and twirl your wax mustache. The sound of it. The words “mustache” and “wax.” Or the image? She didn’t know what it was about the lines, but she liked them. Also: I’m wearing the clothes of my last victim. A great line inspired by how he described his costumeless-ness one Halloween to get into a costume-only party. That Halloween, he stood outside in the cold, hopping from one foot to the next, cupping his hands to blow them warm, wearing his regular jeans and button-down, and said: I’m wearing the clothes of my last victim.

After much prodding by her to write a song that wasn’t 1) completely depressing or 2) related to a play from ages ago that most people hadn’t read, didn’t want to read, or read only under requirement, he wrote her a song for their anniversary called: A Sorry, Sorry Song. In it he apologized for many heartfelt and hilarious things, including for instance, an apology for a singing about old plays and an apology for singing such a long-winded apology. So British, she thought. Annoying and also: very funny.

He it sang to her, sitting on the old blue Ikea couch he had back then. It made her both sad and happy. That he had written a song for her and also that the song was apology. She felt it might be saying something.

He wore an ill-fitting coat. But thankfully he, at some point, tossed out the v-neck cardigan sweater which was the worst color blue imaginable, too bright — glaring — a strange wardrobe choice, she had thought, for someone so unobtrusive. He met her dear friend Dean wearing that sweater, she remembered vividly, at the bar on Metropolitan.

Did it matter he was a professor of literature, that he went to Cambridge and other very fancy institutions and was writing a book about “the Absence of Things on Stages during the 16th and 17th centuries,” (or 17th and 18th?, she forgot), which would likely be published by Cambridge or Oxford? Or that he grew up in London, in the same house his parents hosted Christmas each year? That his room remained a shrine of sorts, untouched since childhood. Red Liverpool football wallpaper, if peeling in places, still lining the walls. He had friends who he had known since he was in primary school, something she envied: ties to youth, some barometer of self and past selves.

He was skillful at crosswords. She attributed this to the fact that his family played games of all sorts. Except on her first visit to London when she met them. That Christmas they didn’t play games at all, because, she found out only later, Mark had told them that she was afraid of games. It was in fact true, her being very shy, or at least socially anxious. Also: she worried about being found out. She didn’t know the things she should. Like the U.S. Presidents or the dates of the Civil War. Or who so and so was, what they did or said. Or the order of things, when this or that happened. Her mind could not be trusted on-demand. It chose when and where it would appear and what it would think about, with little regard for her.

He liked key lime pie and red velvet cupcakes, just like her, and often brought them home for her, but also actually also for himself because he always ended up eating half of them, of course. He wasn’t shy about taking the big half of whatever it was, which for some strange reason fundamentally upset her. How could he live with himself? But he did.

Once he surprised her with tickets to see Messi play, Argentina against Brazil, a friendly game at Giant’s Stadium. It was the largest crowd the stadium had ever seen. She loved Barca football and also Messi. Messi’s big floppy feet in those bright shoes. How he loved to play. That day Mark didn’t tell her where they were going but he did make sure she ate beforehand and wore the proper shoes. Probably as much for himself as for her — but also very much for her. He also brought her a sweater in his bag in case she got cold. He thought of things like that. That was important, wasn’t it?