She gives me a smile that’s as thin and sharp as a razor, then glides out the door.
Olivia has moved in for good. I can tell by how there are even more photos of her and Chris peppered around the place and some stereotypically feminine touches. Lavender throw pillows, lacy white drapes filtering light from the windows. I let Arnie chew on one of the throw pillows. He’s been through a lot and has expensive taste. That’s not his fault; he’s a by-product of how he’s been raised. Aren’t we all?
Chris gets back soon after that. He bursts through the door, a ball of sweat and stress. Getting down on his knees in front of the couch, he examines Arnie up and down to make sure it really is just the little boot on the paw, that nothing else is wrong with him. Arnie is wagging his tail like crazy and nudging the pillow toward Chris to show off just how much of the expensive fabric he’s ripped through.Look, Dad, aren’t you proud?I can basically hear him saying it.
“See,” I tell Chris. “He’s all good. The same little troublemaker as always.”
Chris’s face scrunches up like he’s trying not to cry. I remind him that real men express emotions, but he just goes into the bathroom, and when he comes out, his face looks like it was just splashed with cold water. He thanks me for being there today, launches into theapology I thought I wanted about how he’s sorry he hasn’t been in touch recently.
“I’ve been a shitty friend too,” I say, because I’m in a generous mood. Nearly losing Arnie has put things in perspective, I guess. “Let’s call it even?”
Chris nods. “Maybe someone was watching over Arnie today,” he says.
“Maybe,” I say, wanting to soothe Chris but not delude.
We sit there on the couch for a while, not talking. It’s not awkward silence or sexually charged silence, just comfortable silence. I don’t usually like being comfortable given how routine it feels, but I like this.
“So Hal’s gone off and gotten married,” I tell Chris because making it all about me and my problems should help distract from his harrowing day. I’m empathetic like that. “Another one bites the dust.”
He asks who she married so I tell him a bit about Astrid.
“I didn’t know Hal was lesbian,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say. “Though we don’t really love the LGBTQIAXYZ labels. Celebrating liberated love and yet jamming it into those little boxes. The hypocrisy.”
“I thought it helped people feel seen, to have those labels?” Chris says, like he’s reciting something from one of thoseHow to Be an Allycorporate handbooks.
“It was probably a helpful stage, sure, but we’re beyond that now, or should be. The labels just affirm that being straight is the default, that being anything else is the ‘other’ and in need of a disclaimer. Which is hilarious because everyone’s a little bit gay. No one’s really fully straight.”
“I am,” Chris says. His internalized homophobia stands between us like a wall, relying on me to disassemble it brick by brick, scraping off the mortar with my fingernails.
“Right,” I say, deciding today is not the day to enlighten him on compulsory heteronormativity and how he was conditioned to bestraight, how it was chosen for him just like everything in his life was. “So you’re proposing to Olivia at Christmas?”
It’s a guess but it’s not a wild one. That’s the next step for people like Chris who like things to follow a linear path. And I can only imagine the hints Olivia has been dropping on him. She seems like someone who’d have a complete meltdown if she wasn’t married by thirty.
Chris fidgets. “Did Olivia tell you that?” he asks, confirming I’m right.
“No, Olivia didn’t say anything. I’ve just gotten good at sensing when a wedding is around the corner after I’ve lost my best friends to matrimony. It’s sort of like a sixth sense I’ve acquired. I don’t wish it on anyone.”
Chris admits that yes, he’s planning a holiday proposal so long as the ring gets finished in time. I make a scoffing sound that insinuates how ridiculous it is to have a rock symbolize love. Even if I were into monogamy and marriage, I wouldn’t be on the diamond ring bandwagon. The industry is the worst culprit of child labor; everyone knows that. Not to mention the environmental calamity of ravaging the earth with mining.
“I’m sure you’ll be very content marrying Olivia,” I tell Chris. The kindest thing I can say without being fake.
“You say it like it’s a bad thing,” Chris says.
“Well, contentment is basically a synonym for complacency, isn’t it?” I say. “Real happiness has an intensity that’s impossible to sustain over a long-term romantic relationship. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news; it’s just my personal view. There’s a statistically insignificant chance that I’m wrong, so don’t read into it too much.”
It’s clear that Chris is reading into it, though, which is pretty flattering. “But can’t you live a content life with moments of more intense happiness?” he asks. “They’re not mutually exclusive.”
“Theoretically, maybe, but I don’t see it playing out in real life,”I say. “From my research, I’ve found that married people are either never fighting or always fighting. They have no passion or they have vindictive passion. They’re totally bored of each other or wanting to chop off each other’s heads. Or both, like my parents. But hey, maybe your marriage will be better. There’s always hope.”
Chris goes on defense. “Olivia’s not boring,” he says.
“I never said she was,” I point out. “But if you’re asking for my opinion, then I’d say yes, she definitely is. There’s really nothing controversial about that observation.”
“You’re wrong,” Chris says, and I like how he’s really taking a stance on this. “Boring is in the eye of the beholder. If you think someone’s boring, it says more about you than it does about them. No one is actually boring; you just need to get to know them deeply enough to understand how interesting they are.”
It’s a nice little rant but I’m not buying it. Some people are objectively dull. Most people are, actually. It’s just a fact, but I don’t feel like arguing anymore. I’m too tired for that.
