Liars

by Sarah Manguso

John would make a lot of money, and I’d still be a writer, alone with my thoughts. It would be like having two lives. Instead of adding hot water to a cupful of dehydrated chili, I’d eat sushi with John. The dream money swirled around us. I was an island of thrift within it, but it still touched me. The money felt like dress-up. It was a costume. I didn’t need it, but it was good to have.

I wrote to Hannah, Tonight I learned why my mother always squealed and shrank away when my father tried to touch her: She was a fortress. And inside that fortress was rage, and in the center of that rage was the pain of the insult of being treated like a stupid maid. My fortress is the same, with smaller hips, surrounded by a corona of migraine.

John said he would do the dishes and be in bed by eleven to fuck. At eleven o’clock, alone in the house, I did the dishes.

I decided to examine my rage, determine what I needed, and rely on John for no part of it. I imagined never needing to ask him for anything ever again. By noon I’d showered, dressed, tidied the house of John’s shoes and clothes, put away laundry, swept the floor, watered the garden, moved boxes to the garage, cooked breakfast, eaten, done the dishes, taken out the recycling, handled correspondence, and made the bed. John had gotten up and taken a shit.

Once the child was down for a nap I didn’t know what to do other than clean the house. There was no self left.

Romance is nothing but a cheap craft-store decoration made to sanitize a desire to fuck.