Nectarines

My wife says she loves me, but I need to try harder. I’m not putting enough effort into our marriage.

In what sense? I ask, hoping Isabel lacks evidence.

Looking at my phone when we were in the restaurant two nights ago is an example of my lack of effort, she says.

I say she’s triggering me. She’s like my second-grade teacher, Ms. Wicks, who always accused me of not trying hard. I remind Isabel about my then-undiagnosed ADD.

She objects. Scrolling through my phone at the restaurant instead of paying attention to her has nothing to do with ADD, or my anxiety, or any other disability that I might pull out of my ass.

I say she should have told me to put away my phone at the time, instead of bringing it up days later as proof I’m the shittiest husband alive.

She tells me not to exaggerate. Besides, she did tell me to put away my phone, but I said I was just looking up Manchester United scores. She says I need to give a shit.

I say I never understood that expression. Who would want to be given shit?

She agrees that it’s a peculiar expression, but that’s beside the point. She says she’s sick of doing all the emotional labor. I’m not a puppy she needs to train. She says there are men out there who don’t need so much fucking guidance.

I say, Oh, like Peter from accounting? That dude sticks in my craw.

She wonders what sort of body part is a “craw.” She says she wonders this every time she hears the word “craw,” which is admittedly not often, but then the thought drifts out of her mind.

I propose Googling it.

She warns me not to take out my damn phone. Besides, she prefers the mystery.

Then I say, I just thought of proof of me making an effort! Yesterday, while Isabel slept in, I walked to the farmers’ market and got nectarines.

She concedes. But now that I’ve brought them up, the nectarines aren’t as good as usual. They’re sweet but not particularly flavorful. She wants to know if I got them from the right farmer, the one with the kind smile.

I say that isn’t a very helpful description.

He has a beard, says Isabel.

I say Yeah, I got them from that dude, and now that she mentions it, he does have a warm smile.

She says, Huh. They were less delicious than usual. She asks if I chose the nectarines carefully. She explains that when she goes to the farmers’ market alone, she takes a lot of time selecting stone fruit. She picks up a plum, sniffs it, and often puts it back, rooting for a superior plum. You have to be selective, she admonishes.

“I am! I selected you.”

She says maybe I just got lucky.

 

 

The Between Man

I call him the Between Man because we hooked up between relationships, after I’d dumped someone or been dumped, before the next guy rolled along. But also, because it first started when I was shuttlecocking between the estranged husband I loved (but no longer wanted) and the boyfriend I wanted (but didn’t, when I was honest with myself, really love). The boyfriend lived two states away; the soon-to-be ex-husband made me feel like I’d wasted a decade of my life.

What I’m trying to say is I was lost, in those days.

So the Between Man materialized like a vision I’d manifested: a friend who took me out for hand rolls and greasy pupusas, and one night, after two many margaritas, rolled into my bed. That’s how things went, for months—sleeping with the Between Man when I couldn’t decide between the man I loved and the man I wanted. And later, for years, between the relationships that sprouted but never rooted. The Between Man was more than a friend and less than a lover.

If I’d regarded the Between Man as boyfriend material, I would’ve had reservations. He could be toxic with women. He loved the chase but got bored with possession. He was obsessed with a woman whom he once fucked in a Banana Republic dressing room. She was trying on dresses for a wedding she was going to with her boyfriend. Her name was Anastasia, ridiculous. But when Anastasia finally broke up with her boyfriend, the Between Man quickly lost interest in her, this woman he’d been talking my ear off about for years. He only wanted what he couldn’t have.

So, there were those red flags, had I wanted to upgrade the Between Man into something other than he was—someone both more than and less than, someone to keep me company when I floated from there to here.