Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 124320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
She loops her arms around my neck and lifts up to whisper in my ear. ”Even if I fuck someone else, I’ll always want to fuck you. I still want you, Ezra, and you still want me. Remember Taco Tuesday?”
Our whole neighborhood gathers for tacos every Tuesday, and one night a few weeks ago the patio bartender had a heavy hand. Wednesday morning, I had a hangover, hazy memories and regret to show for it. I’m not a monk. Every morning in the shower, my sexual frustration goes down the drain. I can’t explain it other than we’ve been living like roommates for so long, practically platonically, that sex with Aiko just doesn’t feel right anymore. Something can feel good, but not feel right. That night, we may have managed to feel good for a few moments, but I can’t remember the last time we felt right together.
“It was the margaritas.” I reach up to gently disentangle her hand from around my neck. Her arms flop to her side and she looks up at me, her expression earnest.
“It was beautiful. We slept together and it was beautiful again,” Aiko says, though I don’t know if she even believes that. I was too wasted to remember if it was beautiful or not. “I just want to get back to us.”
“And this is your solution?” I shake my head. “Not interested. I don’t want an open relationship. Or one that feels like…”
A prison.
I don’t say it because I don’t want to hurt her, but our life together, that bed when we’re beside each other, feels like a cell. I still care about her deeply, admire her. But I want to be her friend again, not her inmate.
“Remember in counseling when we talked about what we saw growing up?” I ask, taking a different tack. “What we saw in our parents and how it affects us?”
“Yeah,” she says, her eyes resigned because she knows my history—probably knows what I’m going to say.
“We’ve been struggling for a while, but I wanted to make this work for so many reasons. I wanted us to be a family for Noah. I wanted it to work because you’re fantastic, and who wouldn’t want to spend their life with you?” I sit on the edge of the window sill, looking out at our backyard, the garden Noah and I planted, the memories we’ve made here as a family.
“But you know what I’ve come to realize?” I ask, shifting my gaze back to Aiko. “I also tried to make it work because I grew up seeing my parents trying to make it work. Saw this huge gulf between them grow bigger and bigger, and the love that brought them together in the first place wasn’t enough to fill it. They never gave up on the marriage, but somewhere along the way, they gave up on each other.”
I take her hand and look into the familiar dark eyes swimming with bright tears. “I’d rather give up on this relationship than give up on you, Ko, and if we continue down this road, I’m afraid we’ll keep going through the motions but end up resenting each other.”
“You resent me?”
“No, but I think there’s something you need that I’m not giving you and something I need that I’m not getting.”
“Is it that piece of paper?” Her voice is dismissive, her tone bordering on derisive. “You’re such a traditionalist. If we’d gotten married, would you be ‘getting what you needed’?”
She’s right. In a lot of ways I am traditional. I did always think I’d get married, even when I was young. In the midst of this thorny conversation, a memory sprouts, a fragile bud that opens, reminding me of my earliest ideas of marriage and family and what it meant to choose one person for the rest of your life.
When I was six years old, I got married on a spring day in my backyard. The bride wore a Paula Abdul T-shirt that declared Straight Up on the front. There was a tiny hole in the toe of her Keds, and her pink sock poked through it. Her hair was artfully arranged into two afro puffs. The groom wore a Superman cape and swimming trunks. Who knows why six-year-old Ezra was obsessed with swimming trunks, but there you have it. Mama had taken me to Aunt Rose’s wedding in New York, and I knew as soon as I got back to Atlanta, my best friend and I should get married.
For once, Kimba let me have my way.
The low-hanging branches of the elm tree out back formed our chuppah. I couldn’t remember any of the Sheva Brachot, so I made up my own seven blessings. I’m pretty sure they were things like all-you-can-eat pizza and Super Mario Brothers high scores. I grabbed two tabs from cans of Coke in the refrigerator for our rings. I can still feel the cold metal encircling my finger. I couldn’t remember why they broke the glass at Aunt Rose’s wedding, but we dropped one of Mama’s mason jars on a rock, jumping back and laughing when it shattered everywhere.