woman walking beside us as my husband was saying, Elyria, it’s like this, you have two options— and I was thinking, Fuck you so much, Husband, it’s not like that and I have a lot more than two options —and this was what was in my head when I missed that first step and began the tumble, which just seemed so deeply appropriate, such a good end to our argument about attitudes and the two options I supposedly had and what I was usually like . And after the fall as I was splayed and shocked at the bottom of the stairs, a sturdy bellhop was the first to reach me— Señorita, señorita —and my husband was the second person to reach me, but it was too late because the bellhop was already scooping me up and carrying me the few blocks to the little clinic and all my husband could do was trail along behind us, he and his It’s like this and his You have two options .
* * *
That night, what was supposed to be a romantic dinner became a silent dinner.
I stared, nauseated, at the paella, which seemed putrid, spoiled. I ran the edge of a fork along a gaping mussel shell stabbed in the rice, and I considered picking up a knife for no good reason, but I did not pick up the knife because I knew I would have likely been unable not to stab the ciabatta out of its stupid basket and fling it across the restaurant, so I didn’t pick up the knife because I knew that throwing anything during the middle of a romantic-turned-silent dinner was not appropriate and would create more problems than the satisfaction of stabbing and throwing something would have given.
My husband was staring at me with this brand-new look of his, one I had never seen before but would see much more of in the future; he was looking at me like I was a very nice thing of his that wasn’t working quite like it should, like he’d found a defect, a defect that was extremely disappointing because he had spent a lot of time doing his research and believed he had gotten a thing that was guaranteed against these kinds of defects, and maybe there was some kind of glitch in the system and maybe he needed to have a professional assess the situation, give him an estimate.
I looked at him, extremely silent, and I wanted to say, Husband, I dare you, I dare you to —but I didn’t know what I was daring him to do, just that I was daring him— I dare you, I dare you —and I wondered about how many other sides of him I had not yet seen and that was exciting in a way and terrifying in a way and I didn’t want to feel both excited and terrified right then—I just wanted to feel calm, to feel like a sedated animal on a honeymoon, or to feel like a drunk and beautiful Spanish woman, but I was not drunk or beautiful or Spanish and I wondered if there was a side of my husband who wanted to demolish me, who wanted to turn me into a fine dust, who would bring his solid hands against my throat, who would rend my muscles from the bone without a flinch, in a moment of passion, if he had that kind of passion in him, if that kind of passion was quietly growing in him like an undiscovered tumor. And if so, did I have that tumor, too? Was there some part of me that would rip his arm off his body if I was given the chance and ability? And if I did have that part of me would it be the kind of thing that just healed on its own? Was it a broken-rib thing? The kind of thing you can’t do a damn thing about but try not to cough or laugh for a few months? Maybe I should try to just hold still for a year or so, I thought, and this feeling would mend itself—unless this wasn’t a broken-rib kind of thing but more like an internal-bleeding kind of thing and maybe this bleeding was going to rot us from the inside, hot blood swishing around into corners of us that it should never be. Or maybe it was nothing and I was overreacting and I should just be who I was expected to be—be the senseful and just fine and reliable woman who had fallen in love with my husband and whom my husband
* * *
That night, what was supposed to be a romantic dinner became a silent dinner.
I stared, nauseated, at the paella, which seemed putrid, spoiled. I ran the edge of a fork along a gaping mussel shell stabbed in the rice, and I considered picking up a knife for no good reason, but I did not pick up the knife because I knew I would have likely been unable not to stab the ciabatta out of its stupid basket and fling it across the restaurant, so I didn’t pick up the knife because I knew that throwing anything during the middle of a romantic-turned-silent dinner was not appropriate and would create more problems than the satisfaction of stabbing and throwing something would have given.
My husband was staring at me with this brand-new look of his, one I had never seen before but would see much more of in the future; he was looking at me like I was a very nice thing of his that wasn’t working quite like it should, like he’d found a defect, a defect that was extremely disappointing because he had spent a lot of time doing his research and believed he had gotten a thing that was guaranteed against these kinds of defects, and maybe there was some kind of glitch in the system and maybe he needed to have a professional assess the situation, give him an estimate.
I looked at him, extremely silent, and I wanted to say, Husband, I dare you, I dare you to —but I didn’t know what I was daring him to do, just that I was daring him— I dare you, I dare you —and I wondered about how many other sides of him I had not yet seen and that was exciting in a way and terrifying in a way and I didn’t want to feel both excited and terrified right then—I just wanted to feel calm, to feel like a sedated animal on a honeymoon, or to feel like a drunk and beautiful Spanish woman, but I was not drunk or beautiful or Spanish and I wondered if there was a side of my husband who wanted to demolish me, who wanted to turn me into a fine dust, who would bring his solid hands against my throat, who would rend my muscles from the bone without a flinch, in a moment of passion, if he had that kind of passion in him, if that kind of passion was quietly growing in him like an undiscovered tumor. And if so, did I have that tumor, too? Was there some part of me that would rip his arm off his body if I was given the chance and ability? And if I did have that part of me would it be the kind of thing that just healed on its own? Was it a broken-rib thing? The kind of thing you can’t do a damn thing about but try not to cough or laugh for a few months? Maybe I should try to just hold still for a year or so, I thought, and this feeling would mend itself—unless this wasn’t a broken-rib kind of thing but more like an internal-bleeding kind of thing and maybe this bleeding was going to rot us from the inside, hot blood swishing around into corners of us that it should never be. Or maybe it was nothing and I was overreacting and I should just be who I was expected to be—be the senseful and just fine and reliable woman who had fallen in love with my husband and whom my husband
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