Paris

When your ex is flying to Paris
over Thanksgiving with some French au pair,
Try not to fantasize about
what they'll be doing there.

Don't picture them out strolling
dans le Jardin des Tuilleries,
Where they might pause a little
pour embrasser in les trees.

Or picnicking at Père Lachaise,
like my days à l'université,
Après, peut-être, a quiet visit
par le awesome Musée d'Orsay.

Then, lounging at Les Deux Magots;
sipping panaché for fun,
Arrêtez avant you see him watching
her warm her face dans le sun.

Don't see them stretch their legs, baiser,
et après, regard à la vue.
Then retournez to her atelier
to take un nap, or two.

The autumns leaves; d'or, magenta, et rouge
will beg them to awaken,
but even the smell of croque monsieur
will be pas possible to shake them.

For they are dans a ville magique;
far, far from les Etats-Unis.
Time will elude them, his life won't intrude on him.
He's one lucky bastard, mais, oui?

On Thanksgiving Day I'll prenez ma fourchette
and stab a creamed onion or two,
run it lazily through my piscine of Mom's gravy,
Honestly, what else can I do?

Then I'll help clear la table, grab my sweet fils
and snuggle on the rug for a while,
Maybe ride bicyclettes, then marchez sur la plage,
let the long jour unfold without guile,

Gaze out at la mer, and be thankful I'm here
because Paris isn't going anywhere,
"The trip is the trip," as my père used to say,
and my vie is beaucoup plus than fair.

Hot Damn

Found some money!
Right there in my pocket.
Fifteen bucks!
Hot damn.

Found some money
right out of the gate.
First thing in the morning.
What a day.

Reached in and there is was.
Waiting for me to find it.
Just waiting. No rush.
Like anything else lost,
or not yet found.

I felt the paper
with my two longest fingers,
that particular "money" paper,
--kinda soft, kinda friendly--
and I knew before I knew.
It was money!

Then I realized,
These pants are mine!
These pants I'm wearin' belong to me!
So this money must be mine!
I get to keep the money!
Yipee!

I guess it was my money
all along.
Not really extra, one could say.
But it's more fun
to think of it as a treat. So,
I'm gonna think of it that way.

Found some money.
Didn't even matter how much.
Coulda been two or coulda been twenty.
But I counted it, anyway.
Fifteen bucks.

Not a bad haul.
For reachin' in my pocket.
Day's lookin' up.
Hot damn.

Beer and Corn

A few years ago, the morning after a rather new babysitter sat, I turned on my computer to find right there, in the previous evening's history: porn. His brains lodged squarely in his pants, my new sitter didn't have the where-with-all to clear the history before I arrived home, so there it was. Porn, porn, porn. The very next day he became my former sitter and I began a "No computer usage" rule among my varied stable of high school sitters. I also had my laptop password protected. So much for, "Can I just borrow your computer to do my homework, Mrs. Chicky?" The answer was now, "No, you may not."

I'm still very pro boy babysitter for my son and always have been. Now that his father lives elsewhere and even when he technically lived here, it was the boy babysitter who taught Jimmy how to throw a frisbee and hold a lacrosse stick. It was the boy babysitter who shot hoops, played tag and sat on the floor with him for hours building lego ships and discussing plans for an outer space satellite sub station with duel action laser shields, blasting power and plenty of storage space for energy pellets. The girl sitters tended to watch, standing slouched with their hands on their hips telling him what to do and what not to do, but the boys sat down and did it with him.

Fast forward to this past summer to when a couple of teen brothers-- lovely young fellows whose parents are childhood friends of mine-- offered to babysit for my young son. They're good kids who actually like each other's company and so I offered them the gig together. I rattled off bedtimes and optimistic notions of book reading and teeth brushing and as I scribbled down my cell phone number said off-handedly, "If you get hungry, help yourself. No beer, no porn." And then I took my leave. I said it to be funny. I said it because I know their parents. At any rate, I said it.

Apparently what happened was, the older of the two let the comment roll of his back. What-ever, Old Lady. Do you even know what porn is? He was probably thinking. If he thought about it at all. But the younger of the two thought about it. He thought and thought. And the thing of it is, he thought I said, "Corn."

He wondered silently to himself why on earth I might forbid him to have corn. He though back on everything he knew about corn and considered that he may have missed a crucial piece of information, but how? And what?! Was she saving it for something? Was this corn super special? Maybe there's something very bad about corn and I don't know what it is, he thought. How could I not know? Does everyone else know but me? How could this have slipped me by? For two weeks he thought about corn and it's potentially damaging properties. Was it an age thing? Choking perhaps? Is corn illegal in some states? Is it poisonous? Maybe there are kids who are allergic? But he'd never heard of such a thing. It must be so obvious, something everyone accepts as common knowledge because his big brother didn't even flinch.

"Huh, corn," Little Brother mused. Who knew?

He had to find out but was too nervous to ask. Why else would he let two weeks get by? That's a long time to stew. And when was the right moment to ask about corn? He had to time it just right. Finally, he approached his dad while he was reading.

"Uh. Mm, Dad?"
"Yes, Dear."
"Um remember when we babysat for Jimmy?"
"When?"
"When we babysat for Jimmy that one night. Remember?"
"That was two weeks ago."
"Yes. Remember?"
"What's up? Everything okay?"
"Why is corn bad?"
"Yeah. Mrs. Chicky, she said, 'No beer. No corn.' Why is corn bad?"
"Why is-
"Why can't we have it?"

Well you can imagine my friend as he looked at his young son. The light bulb switched on. His face flushed red. He shook his head and a smile cracked so wide across his face that for a moment he looked like a muppet. His older son locked eyes with him and they both began to laugh hysterically.

"You've been thinking about this for two weeks?" Big Brother asked.
"What, Dad? C'mon tell me," said Little Brother. He chose to ignore his older brother and wait for his dad to answer but Dad was laughing too hard at this moment and wanted to compose himself so that his tone would be respectful enough that his young son wouldn't feel even more embarrassed than he already was.
"C'mon, jeeze, what?" his younger son implored. He, too, was starting to blush.
"Porn, not corn," Big Brother chided. My friend was still laughing.
"What? Porn?" Little Brother said.
"Yes, Dear," their Dad answered, "She said, 'No beer, no porn.' She didn't want you drinking beer and watching porn while you were babysitting."
Little Brother finally got it. His eyes seemed to leaf through the imaginary porn file in his mind and he inhaled deeply.
"Ohhhh," he said. He could relax now, mission accomplish. The anguish was over and all was right with the world once again. Porn not corn. Phew! Little Brother smiled, got up and left the room. Big Brother went back to what he was doing and Dad laughed about it to himself for the next two weeks.

Now, I'm told, whenever the boys are getting ready to go out somewhere; to a friend's house or a soccer game; a guitar lesson or movie; their dad reminds them of their curfew, reminds them to watch out for each other, then adds-- thanks to me-- "And remember, boys: No beer. No corn."

Pen Pals

I was at a movie tonight wherein our two bright stars-- love struck naïf’s with small pores and Hollywood hair-- scratched away, furiously, with stark, ink pens at stiff, white paper for the better part of the film. Besides being entertaining, the movie transported me back in time-- against my will and the will of the actors, who were fine, really, perfectly competent. Good teeth, nice hair.

In the beginning I watched, rapt, as their words hurried out from between blackened fingers, their scripted shapes arcing and slanting to keep pace with their nimble minds, faster and faster until their thoughts, like their hands, (and their doomed love affair) finally slowed to a stop. But then for moments towards the end I began to drift just above the movie-- still submerged in it's special brand of Jane Campion pathos, luxuriating in his fabulous lips and her incredible clothes-- and started to notice memories of my own hand crowding the story. Back before carpel tunnel, before word perfect, there were imperfect letters and I must have written hundreds in my heyday; between my first crush and my last crushing blow.

As she ran to her room and tore open the letter, I, too, remember walking briskly from the house to the back yard, lowering onto our swing set's bouncy seat then stilling myself as I turned over the envelope in order to confirm what I darn well knew-- that the addressee's handwriting was indeed his.

Nowadays it might be ages before I'll get to know some one's handwriting. Women still have a chance, buying and sending birthday cards as is our want, but men? Forget it. Back then you might know a suitor's handwriting long before you could recognize his smell. And the fantasies it conjured... well you remember. Forward-leaning letters meant confidence while broken Ts and Ks-- can't commit. Too loopy? Too daffy. Actually, most handwriting tags seemed to mean confidence or some synonym, and only cheerleaders and smokers dotted their I's with a circle. I paid close attention to whether or not the top of his T joined, headstrong, at the neck and was wary of indecipherable chicken scratch. Unfortunately, that described the bulk of the boys I wrote to, except for the gays and future architects, whose penmanship was like a fairytale.

Soon, I learned to decipher chicken scratch as I replied, filling pages (double sided) of Ziggy stationery. Sets were particularly exciting-- with their cardboard pockets and matching lined envelopes-- and I received scads of them at birthday parties and for holidays. Pens became more important to me the more I wrote and I finally ended up eschewing ball points after brief and, I'm sure, annoying phases where I swapped out colored pens (turquoise and pink, every other line) and later, in college, wrote with pen and ink. Eventually I would begin what would become my long-time, monogamous, love affair with Paper-Mate roller balls. To this day I wander the house in search of the right pen for the right occasion. Note to teacher? Roller ball fine. Note to self? Fat Sharpie. Health forms in triplicate? Okay, you got me where you want me. I'll use a ball point, but I won't be happy about it. Borrow my roller ball? I'll watch you like a hawk.

I could traverse oceans and ravines with the pages I wrote, and get nauseous with the stamps I licked. Hyperbole, you say? How can I be so sure of myself, so certain of missives sent? Very simple, I say, for I've saved every friggin' letter I've ever received. Horrifying but true. They're all tucked away in the attic in jars, suitcases and files. Every note passed. Every thought scribbled. Letters from boys and letters from Europe. Letters from girlfriends, pen pals and Mom.

Mom used to write me letters at college, even though it was only an hour away. Sometimes she'd just xerox a mention from the local police blotter, something really dumb that some incompetent spaz had gotten caught doing. And then dash off a remark, a three-word retort, and mail it off to my dorm room. I laughed every time I glanced at them and hung them on my wall. Friends would read them and comment on how funny my mom was. "Yes," I'd say, "She's hilarious."

Dad's letters were more intense. Why we should vote for someone or other, or why the country's going to pot. He'd write exhilarating monologues if he'd just come from an art opening or heard a particularly inspirational seminar on oneness and being, let's say. I never wrote him back. It didn't occur me to. I'd call or email, or bring it up the next time I saw him. We'd talk about it some more, Dad reiterating what he'd written. I'd agree and that would be that. Maybe I should have written him back. It's fun to get mail. My mom knew that. I'm sure my dad did, too. But I didn't.

Sadly, there have been few letters since my first email account rendered my stellar stationery collection null and void. All that monogramming for naught; rainbows and lightening bolts ignored.

I did write a letter recently, though, to a friend, just for fun. It had been so long and yet, I remembered all at once as I searched for the absolute best place to compose, with adequate light and proper ventilation. I made some tea and found my pen. I put on wordless, classical, letter writing music. I took pains to chose the right stationery, aware that it would set the tone, of what it would convey. Then I headed off.

I ran headlong into my spelling, crashed into punctuation and ran after after-thoughts. Then made small, yet thoughtful decisions about how my cross-outs should look. Hash marks or scribbles? To block out or slash? I made great, sweeping, arrogant capitals and wrote quickly, drunk on my own penmanship-- I've always been complimented on my penmanship-- until E came before I and I was humbled. Now I'd gone too far. I had to slow down. Time to wrap up; in conclusion.

I chose the right stamp-- hyper aware that there are wrong ones-- and dropped it into the void. I waited, forgot, then remembered before feeling that long-ago familiar rush of adrenaline. I knew the handwriting. It was exciting to get mail. I waited until the time was right then searched the house for the right chair-- the swing set long ago dismantled-- and, peeling back the sealed envelope, sunk further into the page. I read the letter slowly, like eating ice cream in September. I'd embarked on a familiar journey full of chicken scratch and pathos. Full of hurried thoughts and cross-outs. Full of long ago desire.

Billy Collins

How does he know when to break
at the end of the line then begin again
with the next simple, elegant thought?
I count the syllables and eye the stanzas
but it's all Greek to me.
I'll tell you how he knows,
he went to poet school, that's how.

He probably spent every waking moment
inhaling the classics, skinny and pale,
a preference for his father's upholstered
reading chair, legs dangling,
while I frittered away my youth
making up dance routines to the Carpenters
on the back stoop
of a neighborhood pal's patio
in bare feet.

Then perhaps his career really took off
with creative writing classes, his teachers
noticing a spark of genius, mentioning his wit
to one another over cobb salad,
while I nurtured my hand by passing notes to
friends during quizzes and wrote
ten page tomes to pen-pals in the same county.

All I remember from senior English poetry
was having to work too hard to figure out
what they meant. Underlining and re-reading,
I didn't care that Man had a thing against Nature.
I just wished my hair could look as voluminous
as that cheerleader's at the away game,
second to last from the right.

And that, in a nutshell, is why Billy Collins
is a U.S. Poet Laureate,
and I am not.
He was probably an English Major,
devoured the masters,
read and read and you-name-it-he's-read-it
while I ended up majoring in acting and film
but waited tables, mostly,
and fretted about men.

Then I learned to diaper and garden and spackle.
And maybe he has learned to as well, Old Bill,
but can he do the time step
and a pretty decent cartwheel?

Probably not and who cares because he
can write the pants off a poem
and not just because he has a drawer full
of heavy medals on think, shiny ribbons,
but because his poems are fun to read and easy-as-pie and
feel as though you've just hung around a bit
with that wise older guy from up the street
who doesn't say much, and pretends to shoo kids
off his lawn in the summer,
but you know to be funny-as-hell when he invites you up
onto his porch for a beer, and you listen, wrapped,
mostly because you love his lilting Irish brogue.

But none of that is true.
He was born in Manhattan and went to high school in
White Plains. He's friends with Bill Murray
which makes sense. Just a regular schmo
who likes to write
and does so with grace and aplomb,
so that some oaf like me can read his poems,
and feel smug while saying, "Do I read poetry?
Why, yes, love it. Why do you ask?"

But no one ever does, which is fine by me
because that's not the only reason I read them.

I'm able to understand and get a huge kick out of
his poems. I use them to get out of my head
when I haven't much time,
just a minute here and there
to whisk myself away, slow my breath, quiet my mind.
Anyone can. Many people do.

Then I close my book-- it's easy to stop--
and picture Billy Collins sitting, groggy, stubbled,
at his kitchen table,
a wreath of laurel balanced, askew on his bed-head head.
With one finger he moves the medal hanging
around his neck, just out of reach so that it
doesn't clink against his mug
then pours a smidge of milk into his morning coffee.

He starts to stir with his wrong hand then,
without looking, reaches the other forward
and gently slides all the awards out of the way,
groping for the sugar bowl.
Just another day in Poet-Laureateville.

Mom vs. Ants

My summer has come to this: my mother is Sartre in drag and I'm living in the front row of a kitchen production of "No Exit."

"L'enfer, c'est les autres," Jean Paul supposedly said, but, "Hell is other ants," is what Mom would answer aloud to herself if asked in the Times crossword puzzle. If only they would ask.

We have an ant problem at my parents' vacation home. Actually, it's my mom who has the problem. The ants appear to be mind-numbingly chipper. They don't react in the least to her when she pads into the kitchen each morning in her powder pink, old-school, bathrobe and slippers. I've noticed, living with her this summer, that her hair always looks great in the morning, but I think it’s safe to say that the ants don’t notice her at all. My mom, however, goes bullshit when she sees them.

"Goddamn ants," she says in her throaty first-words-of-the-day morning voice as she squashes away in rapid succession like Godzilla with her mighty index fingertip. "Shit," she adds to her original ire in case they didn't hear her the fist time. They laugh their noiseless, flippant cackle before going down in a firestorm of flesh and formica. My mom squishes them with the guiltless panache befitting a woman who’s reached the age of Don’t-Mess-With-Me-Fella. For a moment there is silence and triumph as she measures out her cup of coffee but two to ten minutes from now, they’ll send in a phalanx of fresh-faced recruits and her co-dependant, Sisyphusian struggle will start anew.

I imagine what she's really thinking when she comes into her kitchen and spies the merry dance of the fairy ants: six to twelve tiny black drones tracing manic loops on her clean, snow-white counter tops. "You are not welcome," she might rather say, "this is my house and my life and you are uninvited guests. You, my snide little friends, are the worst kind of crashers. You bring nothing to the party save for inestimable stress and the constant reminder that I am not in control of my life. You mock me and I hate you, and you and you and you and everything you all collectively stand for. Now, all of you, go take a long walk off a short pier!"

But she doesn’t say any of that. “Shit,” is her profanity of choice and she uses it to punctuate each and every smoting. The imaginary foreign exchange student in our home would nod and then later on, while standing on the sidewalk in front of a CVS, might look down and say without hesitation, “Look! Look at the shits on the ground near my popsicle drip. So many shits. Many hundreds of shits.”
“Yes,” my mother would say, putting out a cigarette in her traveling purse ashtray, “many, many shits.”

We've contracted all manor of exterminators for purposes of elimination, but like disillusioned suitors, none of them has worked out. I finally took to the yellow pages myself and called the local bakery for their personal and professional recommendation. Never having seen a single ant in 40 years of ordering glazed donuts there, I thought for sure that this was going to be the ticket. But, no. Nice guy. But. No.

Once, after a particularly robust morning verbal assault, I suggested to my mom that she embrace the ants. I’m not saying that I applaud the ants. They’re a bonafide pain in the ass. But like adult acne and the DMV, they’re a part of life that is never going away.
"They're never going away," I said.
"I know," she said. Her shoulders slumped.
"We're going to have to live with them for as long as we own this house."
"I know," she said then sighed and reached for her bottle of Windex.

Ever since the second Ant Man told us to squirt them with Windex instead of Raid, we have the cleanest counters on the Eastern seaboard. But it's a tepid consolation and Mom wiped the counter down with heavy heart.

I suggested, "Maybe we should embrace the ants, Mom. Welcome them into our lives like loyal companions."
"What, and give them names?" she said. I could tell she wasn't going for it, but I tried anyway.

She put down the "ant sponge" and, tired of rinsing dead ants out of its nooks and crannies, tore off a new post-it note. Mom got the idea to use the sticky edge of post-it notes as a sort of grim reaper-meets-lint brush, thereby not only flattening them, but lifting them off the counter in one fell swoop. So now instead of having to grind ant carcasses into her slacks as she wipes them off her fingertips, we live with upside-down post-it notes, speckled with dead ants, littering our landscape. Once the post-it note is full, it's unceremoniously tossed and a new one is peeled off and put into action. It's a small price to pay for a summer vacation home. At least that's how I'm choosing to look at it.

"Sure, Mom, good idea. Let's give them all names." Maybe I'd hit on a solution after all.
"How about Aunt Bea and Auntie Mame?" she said and squished another ant.
"Sure," I said, "or Aunt Edna and Aunt Jemima." I could do this all day.
"Yeah, well," she said. Squish, squish.
"Yeah, I suppose that's not your style."
"Nope." Squish, squish, squish.
Game over. So much for the reincarnation angle. Maybe they're Dad, I thought of saying. It might have made her laugh. Or cry. Hard to tell.

All I know is that I need an angle. I've got to spin it or else I'll also go slowly out of my gourd, stressing out over my mother's stress, which, let's face it, is every dutiful daughter's star-spangled birthright. Or albatross, depending on the overhead light and mirror in the dressing room. There must be other solutions. If everything's a gift, as my Chinese acupuncturist, Jason, once told me, then what are these ants to me? Are they in my life to teach me to allow Mom to choose her own battles and not suit up on her behalf? Are they offering me the bonus challenge of a double dose of detachment? Yowza! Or are they my Dad, come back as a cosmic joke-- ants in the summer, squirrels in the spring. Thanks, Dad. Hilarious.

I secretly think that the ants arrived to keep us company, to help smooth the transition after Dad would die. They're kind of nice the way they keep the energy moving in what will be now be a mostly still home. So many hearts beating and minds whirring, walking in circles, looking to keep busy, not unlike you-know-who when he was alive. Mom couldn't ignore him either even if she'd wanted to. So will the ants keep coming until she learns to put them out of her mind and tend to her own life? It might be her second chance at a near impossible feat. Will she take it? She's got the sense of humor for it. The salt and pepper shakers on the table are naturally, giant, shiny black ants.

My question is this, are they really taking their toll on Mom or serving an important function in her life? They've done wonders as an outlet for whatever pent up rage and frustration she's toting around these days. Dad did die, after all, with only a week's notice. A dozen or so mini-ventings a day for the price of a stack of post-it notes and a bottle of Windex is a pretty good deal in most parts. The grieving process was never so clean cut; with such clear objectives. And visible results! (Remember our counter tops.) Such a deal. Not to mention much easier than kick boxing. And ultimately a whole lot less trouble and quieter than a foreign exchange student.

I think we'll keep them.

Sex-y Spouses

Seems there are well-worn paths and covert plans of action that coupling parents must engage in in order to have clandestine sex when sharing the house with teenagers-- teenagers who are too drunk on their own hormones to question why they're miraculously getting another thirty minutes to stay out after curfew.

I have one very young son and no husband to speak of, so at a dinner party this summer, I was enlightened. We sat, thigh to thigh, six or so couples and myself surrounding a centerpiece of white, summer garden hydrangea. No strangers among us, we were all friends; old friends married to childhood friends. The comments grew ribald, the laughter rolled and crescendoed and I had little to add on the subject, so I listened.

I listened carefully to their tone and noticed when they reached for their wine glasses. I looked at their spouses and tried to catch the signals-- shifts in posture, the timing of their sips, small smiles lit by candlelight-- and took it all in. I scanned the long, rectangular table and looked at their eyes for traces of something that might tell me more than what was being said. But I caught nothing because there was nothing to catch. Their smiles remained genuine and no one snapped or scolded. Maybe they do at home-- in fact I'm sure of it-- but here, at this dinner party, they laughed. They were simply folks who'd married their best friends. Under a spectacular seashell chandelier, rubbing elbows as they carved their fillet, they were well-fed and contented, and at this moment, they were in love.

Not dewy-eyed in love or Hey-world-we're-in-love, these couples had logged twelve, sixteen, eighteen years of marriage. They weren't trying to get pregnant and they weren't in competition, they just enjoy having sex with each other and so they do from time to time. They drive each other batty and go through painful, dark, rough patches but they work it out somehow and eventually wind up giggling together as they sneak around, in the dead of night, to the far guest bathroom while their in-laws lay sleeping.

The candles burned down as their banter trailed off. Then one of them announced that they'd all gotten together and hatched a plan to fix me up with one of the local, universally-understood-to-be-closeted gay men. I reached for my wine glass, took a breath, then a sip. I asked them why, if this man is such a catch, didn't any of them snap him up? For ten years, while they were all single and dating they could have had him. "How did such a gem of a guy slip by every single one of you," I asked, "and why is he so perfect for me?"

I know that they just want to see me happy and that their suggestion comes with the best of intentions, but haven't I illustrated, quite dramatically at times, that being married to the wrong person makes me unhappy? Don't they get that being with Any Guy or Some Guy is not the solution to being single? And isn't the greater problem the possible issue that being single, in their eyes, seems to be something that needs a solution and must be fixed at all costs and right away? Like that adhesive stripping that people stick around the cracks in their window jams in the winter. Quick, do something, anything.

I put down my glass and collected my thoughts. I explained that if I were going to be fixed up with a gay man that he'd better be a big queen. He'd better be hi-larious, love to dance and do my hair for special occasions. He'd better want to cook for me, travel with me and stop at every single yard sale from here to Bora-Bora. He'd better be gay with a capital G so loud that it jumps out of a cake wearing pasties. Otherwise, I'll pass on the mearly whelming patch job, thank you.

In the meantime, I find comfort knowing that there are husbands who go home to their families on Friday nights or who dance with their wives the whole time. I relish the minutia, I'm thrilled it exists. I see husbands cross the lawns at bar-b-ques with a glass in each hand and wordlessly give their wives the drink they didn't have to ask for. "It's cold, take my jacket." "When you're tired, we'll go." I'm privy to their pleases, thank- yous and, "Great haircut, Honey,"s and I log these moments with invisible ink. They've been doing it for so long that it's rote now: the non-verbal endearments; their knee-jerk kindness; the quiet, faceless kisses. The love.

I have a friend who's so crazy for his wife-- after seventeen years-- so flabbergasted that he caught such a dish, that he'll tell you outright, "I'm the luckiest bastard." Then shake his head in wonderment. Another guy I know was describing his life to me a while ago. He said offhandedly, "I get to commute in to work with my wife every day." He didn't say, "I commute in," or, "I have to commute in," but "I get to commute in." With my wife. Every day. What fortune, what a coup, what a life.

I know that their arguments have been fierce and their venom can be strong. I know there is imbalance and want. I can spot a floundering marriage from fifty yards away now, so attuned is my misery-dar in light of it's recent recalibration. But when a man touches the small of his wife's back as they cross a quiet street with no car in sight, or burrows his feet under her warm thigh from the chair next to the couch, where she's turning the page, just to be touching her, just to be near, just because he likes her, I'm comforted. That's my goal, if I must have one, to like and be liked. The love is easy.

Back at the dinner party, birthday candles were being blown out. When given the chance to sit anywhere, my friends had all chosen to sit next to their spouses. And why not, (they don't wonder), this is the person I chose. So until some one chooses me and I them, until that some one finds that sort of comfort in me, I'll pass. The view from where I'm sitting has it's fair share of perks. It may not be my first choice, but it's my choice at last and my standards haven't been lowered. On the contrary. The bar's been raised by the very same childhood friends passing plates of cake counter-clockwise. I want my cake and will eat it, too. Until then, I'm just fine.