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Ethan lowered the gravy boat. “Naomi says breakups are inevitable, and the kindest thing we can do is give people tools to survive them.”
“No one ever teaches us how to let go. How to rebuild. How to move on.”
“The tricky thing about grief,” his mom said, “is that even when we know it’s coming, we underestimate our own capacity for suffering.”
“The world is cruel and unrelenting, full of pain and injustice,” she said again, leaning just slightly toward him, “and I am a stick of dynamite.”
“Sometimes ineffectual, other times unnecessarily destructive, but, on occasion, enough to at least temporarily disrupt the rhythm of the patriarchal abyss threatening to suck down everything I care about and hold it hostage.”
Naomi took a bit of perverse pleasure in his discomfort. “Oh, come on. I heard Rabbi Cohen was finally thinking about finding a Mrs. Rabbi.”
LOL
“I forgot that love is essential. That even in its absence, you occupy yourself with the lack of it.”
“You don’t like to lose?” Never in a million years would she have pegged Millennial Moses as a poor sport. Metaphorical insects took up residence in her belly.
Dead
“I think I could be good at loving you,” he said, “if you let me.” Adrenaline raced under the surface of his skin, urgent and electric. “That’s a lot. It’s a big thing to say, and it’s a bigger thing to deliver. I promise that I know that, but I still want you to give me a shot.”
“There’s this Hebrew meditation I read about. It’s called husa, and it means, roughly, ‘compassion for something that is flawed.’ Husa is acceptance, devoid of judgment. The kind of love an artist has for their creation, even as they recognize its imperfection. To practice the meditation, we ask God for husa in prayer.” He lowered his voice as he recited, “‘The soul is Yours, the body is Your creation, husa, have compassion for Your work.’”
“What I’m trying to articulate, probably a little poorly, is that you’re precious,” Ethan said, “not in spite of, but because of all the ways you believe you’re broken.”
“This world is full of people who would rather hate you than examine the pain in their own hearts. They will try to limit who you can love, who you can spend time with, who you can fuck. Some of these people will act like their condemnation is in your best interest. Like one day you’ll thank them for showing you the error of your ways. Some of them feel better about their own lives when they can deny the validity of yours.”
He’d felt like he should tell someone. You were supposed to call for help while drowning.
“You’ve always struggled to accept that sacrifice is an inherent part of love. That it’s inevitably going to hurt sometimes if you care enough.”
“One of the best things about love, real love, is that it doesn’t demand perfection. It simply invites us to live up to our potential.”
“I . . . I don’t know. I’m still hurt. Aren’t you?” “Yeah,” she conceded. “I am. But I’ve realized that life allows for those multitudes. Our actions, the future we choose—more often than not, it all comes down to one simple question. What are you gonna let win—your love or your pain?”
She won’t even let me mention the time I walked in on them dry-humping, even though I’ve told her a million times it was the most romantic dry-humping I’ve ever seen.”
