You Deserve Each Other

by Sarah Hogle

I’m a miserable cynic (a newer development) and a dreamy romantic (always have been), and it’s such a terrible combination that I don’t know how to tolerate myself.

It reminds me of my mother once saying that you can’t tell men about your unfixable problems, because they’ll want to fix them and not being able to do so fries their wiring.

I’ve endured so much awfulness for the sake of keeping the peace that I ought to qualify for sainthood.

I am actually marrying this man. Forty percent because I love him and sixty percent because I’m too afraid to call it off.

When I want him around, he’s never there. When I don’t want him around, he’s the devil on my shoulder.

The worst part about this whole evening is how quickly Nicholas forgets it. We’re at home now, where I’m still irritated and he isn’t. The man is baking cookies, and he’s promised to wash up all the dishes, and now I have nowhere to point my anger because he’s Over It, which means he’s won.

If he has a list about me, I’m sure it’s much shorter. I have no idea what I’m bringing to our relationship right now aside from the fact that I’m keeping dead Abigail’s frozen eggs at bay.

Our relationship might be the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, but when I go over it while in a positive frame of mind, it doesn’t look that bad, so then I’m unsure.

I see that he didn’t wash the dishes like he promised, and I almost admire the evil touch. Neglecting to wash dishes is one thing. Voluntarily saying you’re going to do it and then not doing it is an act of hostility.

but purchasing an enormous ball of fire for his mother—him, king of monologuing about the impracticality of gifts. If the galaxy imploded tomorrow, my last intelligible thought would be Ha ha, there goes your fucking star, you bitch!

Mrs. Rose wafts back into earshot, so I pick up a vase that used to belong to Harold’s mother and say, “I like this urn.” “That’s a vase, dear.” She pronounces it like vahz.

“We’re not having children,” I declare. “I’m barren. I lost my uterus in a Ponzi scheme.”

“We have to go get your car! What the fuck do you want for dinner?” “I fucking want pizza!” I holler. I’ve wanted some since the son of a bitch got it delivered. “Fine! I’ve got a fucking coupon for Benigno’s, anyway!” “Great! I fucking love Benigno’s!”

Real Nicholas hasn’t said any of this. But Imaginary Nicholas

an amalgamation of realistic predictions based on callous things he’s said to me in the past, so I easily hear his voice shape those words.

The beginnings are so sparkly, so effortless. You can imagine the other person to be whoever you want. In all the gaps of your knowledge about them, you can paint in whatever qualities you like as placeholders. You can paint the other person into a dream impossible for them to live up to.