I’m in the bedroom, about to begin one of my exercise routines. I’m holding a jump rope in the ready position. K is in bed with her binky (iPhone).
Me: I hate my life. Help me make this fun.
K: You can pretend you’re someone else.
Me: Someone happy?
Me: Who says Stephan is happy?
K: Well, he has nice hair.
Last night, as we lay in bed, K said she would kill all the angry and stupid people for me.
I asked her, “Sweetie, will you kill all the angry and stupid people for me?”
“Yes,” she said, without looking up from her binky1.
Sometimes I ask her ridiculous, impossible questions, because it seems a funny thing to do. Recently she’s taken to answering yes to whatever I ask, to try to get me to stop bothering her.
I think this is what love is like.
Today is the tenth anniversary of my first date with K. I’m not sure how this happened. Ten years ago I went on a date with a woman named K, and when it was over I asked to see her again. Then we had a second date, and a third, and so on, and now today is ten years of one day following the next with this one woman, K.
I don’t believe there’s a word for the kind of disorientation I feel. K says, only half-joking, that there must be one in German.
In the simplest sense I know exactly what happened. But those are merely the facts of the case – one day followed the next, and so on. At the same time there’s another, deeper sense in which the facts are beside the point.
Whenever I fly cross-country there’s always that unsettling moment when I suddenly find myself several thousand miles from where I woke that day.
Sometimes when K and I are talking, I try to retrace how we arrived at the current subject. Rarely do I manage it.
But then, really, what does it matter? We arrived.