You know that it is a truth rarely universally acknowledged that the straights, once they’ve coupled, are very dramatic about their breakups. Take, for example, your friend Linda. Blond, Botoxed absolute darling who, despite living in Irvine, still has a rich inner life. When she found out that her husband was fucking their neighbor—who was also a friend, who every summer Friday had sat by Linda’s side at her pool, in her backyard, drinking the sangria that she had made—well, she marched right up to that backstabbing floozie’s door, her husband’s dirty laundry in hand, threw it on the floor and said, Why don’t you do his fucking laundry, bitch.
Or when your aunt and uncle finally decided to cut the knot, they didn’t know it would take seven full years of fucking each other in attorney fees. In year two and a half, something snapped inside him: he broke into her house, shut off the hot lamp keeping the two iguanas alive, then smoked a cigarette and left it in the ashtray like a giant middle finger for her to discover. (And the poor iguanas, Bob and Marley, may they rest in peace.)
You never imagine that it will happen to you. Your partner of six years, Victor, is a level-headed infectious disease researcher. He is working on the newest iteration of PrEP, a shot people can have administered at a clinic every two months. He explains the science but you never fully comprehend it, other than that there will no longer be a need for a daily pill. You love how smart he is, and how he has used his intelligence for the betterment of mankind. You, on the other hand, are an artist of moderate success. You sometimes feel guilty about this and wonder what role oil paintings play in society, especially when the world feels like it is calling out like a dumpster fire.
Still, you paint. You say to yourself, At least I’m not Thomas Kinkade.
There is the day you catch Victor looking at an unfinished canvas in your studio, an oil portrait of a Pomeranian named Biscuit whose dog-parents in Palo Alto have commissioned you to complete for three thousand dollars plus materials. (The money is nothing to balk at, but you joke that the task is so absurd, it might turn you into a Marxist.) When you walk in, Victor turns to you and says, This is exquisite. And he kisses you with such passion that you feel lucky.
And you should feel lucky because the two of you have an Instagrammable life—a small modern apartment in the Bay that gets amazing natural light, the occasional vacation, a solid credit score, healthy bodies that say gym membership. You are both in your early thirties and in love. You dream of the day he will present you with a ring and you can craft your registry at Bloomingdale’s. All the flatware and vases and frames you will ask people to shower you with. Neither of you has student loans and you both make sure to never bring this up at dinner parties.
But now, in a blinding turn of events, it does happen to you.
Or when your aunt and uncle finally decided to cut the knot, they didn’t know it would take seven full years of fucking each other in attorney fees. In year two and a half, something snapped inside him: he broke into her house, shut off the hot lamp keeping the two iguanas alive, then smoked a cigarette and left it in the ashtray like a giant middle finger for her to discover. (And the poor iguanas, Bob and Marley, may they rest in peace.)
You never imagine that it will happen to you. Your partner of six years, Victor, is a level-headed infectious disease researcher. He is working on the newest iteration of PrEP, a shot people can have administered at a clinic every two months. He explains the science but you never fully comprehend it, other than that there will no longer be a need for a daily pill. You love how smart he is, and how he has used his intelligence for the betterment of mankind. You, on the other hand, are an artist of moderate success. You sometimes feel guilty about this and wonder what role oil paintings play in society, especially when the world feels like it is calling out like a dumpster fire.Still, you paint. You say to yourself, At least I’m not Thomas Kinkade.
There is the day you catch Victor looking at an unfinished canvas in your studio, an oil portrait of a Pomeranian named Biscuit whose dog-parents in Palo Alto have commissioned you to complete for three thousand dollars plus materials. (The money is nothing to balk at, but you joke that the task is so absurd, it might turn you into a Marxist.) When you walk in, Victor turns to you and says, This is exquisite. And he kisses you with such passion that you feel lucky.
And you should feel lucky because the two of you have an Instagrammable life—a small modern apartment in the Bay that gets amazing natural light, the occasional vacation, a solid credit score, healthy bodies that say gym membership. You are both in your early thirties and in love. You dream of the day he will present you with a ring and you can craft your registry at Bloomingdale’s. All the flatware and vases and frames you will ask people to shower you with. Neither of you has student loans and you both make sure to never bring this up at dinner parties.
But now, in a blinding turn of events, it does happen to you.
by Joseph Cassara, Boston Review | Read more:
Image: Erik Cooper
