“What the hell?”
“What?”
I’m inflating like a puffer fish, filled to the gills with that warm confusion I first discovered when he texted me about the miso. “Why are you doing all this crap for me?”
He blinks.
“Seriously.” I’m literally pulling at my hair. “I don’t get it. You’re texting me about miso. You’ll go feed Surya’s fish?Do you want me or not?”
He puts the house keys back on the hook and says the only thing that it’s possible for him to say in this scenario:
“What?”
I do understand this reaction, even if it utterly infuriatesme.
“No, because let’s do some math here, okay?” I’m standing now, ticking things off on my fingers. “You decide to move out without any conversation. Right after you move to the guest roomwithout any conversation.So I’m thinking, okay he wants out. He’s over me.”
Vin inflates. He’s suddenly grown three inches. He takes a step toward me but I hold up a stop sign and plunge on.
“But then, a couple weeks later, you’re all of two seconds away from pulling a wedding night Edward Cullen on me in bed. So, maybenotso over me.”
“Who is Edward Cullen? Wait, the vampire?”
“You wanted to fuck the headboard off the bed, Vin! I was there! You can’t fool me! So…you want me but you’re leaving. You want space but…you’ll run errands for me at ten o’clock at night? You’ll feed the fish at Surya’s house, Vin? At 131st and Amsterdam Avenue? Are you kidding me? What is this? Do you want me or not?What am I to you?”
His mouth opens and then closes. He throws his hands up and then lands them at his sides. He very obviously cannot find the words. Eventually, instead of answering my question verbally, he lifts his left hand and shows me his wedding ring.
It’s gold and substantial, used to be his grandfather’s. Vittoria brought it to him after we eloped. I don’t wear one and never have. It never seemed important to me. And besides, I like to switch up my jewelry. There was never something I could imagine wearing forever.
I’m shaking my head. “No.No, that’s not an actual answer.”
“It’s…it’s a symbol.”
“Vin. I don’t want to be a symbol. Symbols can be interpreted in a million different…And I just want to know whatyou…You know what? Let me explain something I learned in my art class.” I reach across the counter and grab the lined pad of paper we use for the grocery list. It’s a clean sheet. On it I draw a stick figure with a skirt on. “See that?”
“A stick figure?”
“You know what my teacher said about them? That even a bad drawing, even a laughable attempt at drawing what you’re seeing, what’s really there, is superior to a stick figure. Even if your drawing is so deformed you can’t even tell what it is.” I’m pointing at myself. I’m the thing that’s gotten so deformed. “You know why? Because even if a stick figure, or any symbol, is instantly recognizable, it’s nothonest.It doesn’t show you what’s actually there.”
“You’re saying—”
“You can’t even say the wordwifeout loud. You show me your ring and think I should just get it? How you feel? Maybe if you weren’tmoving out.But…Vin. I mean. Sure, sure, youwear the ring and it’s recognizable to the whole world what exactly it means. But to us? To you and to me. Is ithonest,Vin? Does showing me that ring sayanythingabout how much we’ve changed this past year?”
His mouth opens and then closes. He twists his wedding ring one full revolution around his finger. “I…never imagined…the symbol of it…would make you feel dishonest.”
“Well…” I hesitate. I almost don’t ask. But…There are no lamentable attempts.“How does it makeyoufeel?”
He scrubs his hands over his head and then twists his ring again, his eyes glued to it. “Calm…Settled…It…for me, it doesn’tneedwords.”
Draw and don’t waste time.“For me it does.”
He flinches, his face staying all crunched down on itself, then he lets out a long breath. “I get that you need me to say…to tell you…and I’m practicing. I swear to God I’m practicing. But whenyoufeel something you just tell me. But my thoughts…don’t…go in a straight line…You want answers…But that’s not what comes. What comes…is a cloud. Feelings I don’t have words for.”
This is not news to me. We’ve been married for eight years. I know that my husband is not a verbal processor. Insights into his thoughts and feelings historically only come when he’s relaxed and open, not when I’m demanding answers. Right, it’s not news, it’s not a pivotally new piece of information. But…hearing him say it out loud. Hearing him reach for a description that feels accurate to him…My breath is catching. Holy shit, Michelangelo was really onto something. Drawing is the only time you’re actually getting better at drawing. Well…turns out talking with Vin is the only time I’m actually getting better at talking with Vin. There is genuine traction in this conversation.
“Roz,” he says in a low voice. His eyes are suddenly red andslitted. “I know…it’s bad with…” He points at his heart and then at mine. “And usually I…” He points at his heart again, and then, again at mine. “But since…since the accident…the cloud…” He taps his temple. “It’s like a tornado.”
I’m immediately winded. Aching for him. I think of his inscrutable exterior, thoughts like a tornado on the inside. How painful it must be to keep that permanently contained.
