“No. None of those places were home, so I didn’t see the point,” I tell her.
Her brow furrows, and I can see she’s not sure if she should believe what I’m saying or not.
“How old are you?” she blurts, then slaps her hand over her mouth. “Sorry, none of my business.”
“How old your husband is is absolutely your business,” I tell her. “I’m thirty-eight.”
“I’m twenty-three.”
“I know.”
“Oh, yeah, you have all my information. I forgot.” Her tone takes on an acidic edge, and she tries to shuffle off my lap, but I band my arm around her back to hold her in place.
“What else do you want to know about me?” I ask her.
“Why are you so sure I’m yours?” she questions.
I believe that in situations like this, women usually expect a flowery poem or colorful declaration, but that’s not something I’m capable of offering her, so instead I give her the facts and reasons that make sense to me.
“I’ve had sex with women, I’ve experimented with men, but before you, the only thing I felt from the small amount of time I spent with them was physical release. The moment it was over, I was ready to leave with no intention or desire to prolong the encounter or ever see them again. The moment I saw you, I started planning our future. In the past, I’ve lived with no concern for what might happen next. But I want a family, a life, and a future with you. That’s why I’m so sure. Because you became my happy ever after the moment I laid eyes on you.”
My doll doesn’t speak, but her chest rises and falls in sharp pants as she stares at me.
“I’m a goth, and you’re not,” she says after several long, silent moments.
“I like the way you dress. Like a sexy porcelain doll.”
“I like things with bats and skulls and net skirts. I like stripy socks and wear too much eyeliner.”
“I’d like to fuck your cunt while you wear nothing but those socks,” I tell her, mentally adding another thing I’d like to do to her to my list.
“I wear ribbons in my hair.”
“I bought you ribbons.”
“You did?” she whispers, her eyes going glassy again.
“There’s a drawer full of them in the bathroom in our room.”
“This is insane.”
“I’m not insane—I have the medical report to prove it—and I don’t believe you are either.”
“I can’t just move in here.” She laughs.
“Why not?” I question seriously.
“Because…” She trails off.
“This is your home now. Where you go, I go. Where you sleep, I sleep. I built this house for us and our family, and I can’t think of a single reason why we shouldn’t start our life together, here in this place.”
“You’re making this all seem normal,” she says, her shoulders curled in.
“Normal is boring.”
A low, soft chuckle bubbles from her lips, growing steadily until it’s a booming laugh that somehow morphs into a sob. “Normal is boring,” she repeats as tears flow in rivers down her cheeks.
Unsure what to do, I act instinctually like I did when she started crying in Rapid City. Turning her, I pull her into my chest and hold her tightly while she cries, shaking with emotion. Her tears soak into my skin, burning a path toward my heart, which beats erratically in response to her pain.
