Tuesday Mooney Talks To Ghosts

by Kate Racculia

When I suggested we bag the mixer and hit the falafel joint around the corner so the night wasn’t a total waste, Heather got—riled. She said to me, ‘You would rather eat falafel than get married.’” Dex snorted. He covered it up, not sure if he was being rude. “No, it’s hilarious,” said Lila. She chewed a few more bites of Booty. “It was the worst insult Heather could imagine. When she said it, her face went still as an assassin’s. She shot to kill. And we hardly knew each other! But I heard those words, and I knew they were the truth, and they set me free. “‘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 raised a fist in the air. “I wanted pleasure. Yes, I wanted companionship. Yes, I wanted a life of meaning. Yes, this was thirty-six, goddammit, tonight I wanted falafel and tonight it would be mine. I would rather eat falafel than get married.” Dex said, “I want to clap. Can I clap?” Lila continued. “It wasn’t Heather’s fault—she did...