We're All Damaged

by Matthew Norman

You dodged a bullet, if you ask me. You’ve managed to skate through life this long without kids. Congrats.” But then he looks at Emma and Bryce and scolds himself. “I don’t really mean that. I love them. I kind of hate them, too. It’s complicated.

Marriage isn’t about agreeing. It’s about staying.

I suspect scotch is something you have to convince yourself to enjoy, like sushi or the last few Radiohead albums, but I can’t deny the result is nice.

I’ve just had sex for the first time in more than a year, and the effect is dizziness and a vague sense of shame. That second one I blame mostly on Catholicism.

In the hallway, leading up the stairs, we stop at a particularly somber portrait of Jesus. We’ve had it for as long as I can remember. It hung in our old house, and now it hangs in this one. He—capital H—is perfectly Caucasian with great cheekbones and a beautifully trimmed beard. He’s serious, staring off into the middle distance. “Who’s this handsome guy?” says Daisy. “Friend of yours?” “No, actually,” I say. “It’s Barry Gibb. My parents are huge Bee Gees fans.”