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“You idiot!” she shouts, clenching her fists at her sides. “I don’t want our marriage to have potential. I wanted it to die dead on the floor of that office. I wanted us hemorrhaging up there. I wanted there to be no ability to resuscitate.”
“You were high off apple cider doughnuts and fresh country air. You just got off the hayride, so your hair was tousled, and your cheeks were bright pink. You were irresistible.”
She runs her tongue over her teeth and says, “First of all, your dick doesn’t have taste buds; there’s no way you’d have been able to know that my mouth was a fall festival. Second of all, I’d never do anything like that in public.”
The consensus I hear about a troubled marriage is that it ends in divorce. There isn’t enough light shed on couples actually working through their troubles and rifts.
“Who doesn’t have baggage?” I ask. “There isn’t one person on this earth who hasn’t opened a metaphorical suitcase and dumped in it. No life is perfect, no journey unmarred. Everyone’s carrying around something. So there’s absolutely no need to apologize.”
“Have you always been like this? Up for anything?” “Not always,” I say as I stay inside her, loving this connection as I still live off the high of our orgasm. “When my dad passed, I kind of made a promise to him to do as much as I could, to always say yes. That’s why I got into improv, not just because I needed more to do but because the rule is ‘yes, and’… I wanted to build that into my brain, that I’m a yes-man, that I will live life to its fullest, because you never know when it’s going to end.”
“Should I start humming ‘Unchained Melody’? Have a Ghost moment with you?” “How do you even know that movie?” “I’m cultured, Pips. So what do you think?” “I think the other couples would hate us.” “Jealousy looks ugly on them.” “It sure does,” she says and starts me off with a hum.
