Yes,’ I told Heather. Yes, I would rather eat delicious falafel at the joint around the corner than flatter my way to an intimacy with someone for whom marriage is a financial transaction, young flesh for old, security for heirs. Yes, I would rather enjoy creamy tahini, a soft pita, those perfectly fried little balls, than torture myself about what was or was not happening in my life when my life was good. Yes, I rejected marriage—as an abstract, arbitrary signifier, as a legal and social status that determined my value, as a bullshitty benchmark I’d blown past years ago anyway. Yes!” She
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