Written by Charles Pineda
Content Warning: Brief mention of child loss
FIRST YEAR
The first time she said she loved me, I asked her why she said it, and there wasn’t much
by way of reply. I think that should have given me pause, in hindsight. But life is a funny thing.
Sometimes, the stranger an idea, the more curious the minds that create it, the more plausible the
absurd can start to seem.
So I told her I loved her, too.
It may have even been true.
SECOND YEAR
Kissing ass is an art. There are as many variances of it as there are to painting. Acrylics,
watercolors, pastels or oils, each a little different, all to create an illusion. Yes-men, lackeys,
go’fers, and sidekicks, all the same in the corporate world, all creating an illusion for the highest
bidder.
That year was good. We both learned to kiss ass well at mindless jobs, and that seemed
okay. Four whiskies a night for each of us was okay.
THIRD YEAR
“I’m not saying it’s your fault; I’m just saying that the problem never would have
happened to begin with if you had just done what you said you were going to do!”
“How in the fuck is that remotely different from saying it’s all my fault?”
Rain fell on both of us steadily. She glared at me, her broken umbrella useless in one hand.
“It isn’t, BECAUSE IT IS YOUR FAULT,” she stated, and threw the broken umbrella at
me.
The third year was rough.
FOURTH YEAR
We kissed on New Year’s Eve and it was unfamiliar. When we pulled our faces away
from each other, it seemed like looking at someone for the first time.
“Do I know you?” she asked, a starburst of fireworks lighting up the sky behind her.
“I don’t know. Do you?”
She took a sip of champagne.
“Do I?”
We made love that night for the first time in 464 days.
In the morning, she was gone to pilates before I woke.
FIFTH YEAR
Why is there always another form or signature needed at the end of every doctor’s
appointment? Here’s the worst news of your life, thank you, now please fill this out in triplicate.
Stupidly, I spoke to fill the silence as she scribbled.
“It’s not necessarily an ending, you know. We don’t have to think of it as a door shutting,
it’s more—”
“I swear if you say something about a window or any-fucking-thing opening I will shove
this pen through my own neck because I. Cannot. Not right now. Alright? Do you understand? I
cannot listen to a ‘get back on the fucking horse’ speech while our daughter is dead inside of me.
Do you understand that? Do you, you fuck?”
I didn’t, but when I put my arms around her, she let me.
Let’s not…I’d rather not talk, really, about that year.
SIXTH YEAR
“Is this even working anymore?”
“Is what?”
“Any of it.”
A moment. A breath.
“It functions. There’s that.”
“Does it though?”
“Economically, anyway.”
“Economically,” repeated, monotone.
“Economically.”
A raised mug of tea, half-empty and gone cold, toasting nothing.
“Here’s to economically functional.”
SEVENTH YEAR
A weekend morning, for the first time in ages neither of us stirring rapidly from bed.
I was quiet, enjoying the pleasantly blank white of the ceiling. I wasn’t even aware she
was awake, not fully, until she spoke.
“We are deeply fucked up.”
Joints in my neck popped as I nodded.
“Yes, we are.”
I think we both nodded then.
“This isn’t quite the end, though, is it?” She said, “Almost maybe. But not yet.”
Sitting up, then standing; I took the bottle of whiskey from my nightstand and washed
down the last swallow. Such a beautiful burn.
“To quote a guy, it is, maybe, the beginning of an end.”
I stepped into the bathroom, craving steam and aspirin and as soon as possible, more
whiskey.
“You said that quote wrong,” she called as I stepped under the shower, her voice lighter
than I’d heard it in years.
In the last month of the seventh year I stopped drinking. That part was hard.
She didn’t. I said nothing.
EIGHTH YEAR
Two months in, that holiday of Hallmark and chocolate. We knew it was the last one
together the way a dove senses its mate is about to disappear.
She asked if we could split the creme brulee for dessert, and I said sure. We hadn’t done
that since our honeymoon.
“So,” she said, spooning out the last dollop, “what now?”
“Well, we pay and go home I guess.”
She wiped her mouth. How did she always make that look so neat?
“Is that what we want?”
“Is it what you want?”
“Jesus. Is it what either of us wants?”
“Probably not,” I said, unaware I was saying it. And then we realized we were both
laughing.
I felt her fingers slide across my own, a gentle touch I remembered more than felt
familiar with.
“Hey,” she said, “we had some good times, didn’t we?”
“Yeah. Yeah, we did. We had some damn good times.”
She smiled at me. I smiled back.
NINTH YEAR
Halfway through this year, with ink on legal paper long dry, I walk into a small art
gallery alone to look at a painting of a woman staring at the ocean. You can’t see her face in the
painting, and that’s what drew me toward it.
It’s beautiful, and too-expensive, but I buy it because after all the years of kissing ass, I
can. The woman who sells it to me is about my age, and she laughs when she knows she does not
need to, well after the sale is done. Surprises me when she asks me if I’d like to have coffee—
things have changed, I guess.
I say ‘yes,’ and I mean it.
Unexpectedly, I find myself smiling at nothing for the first time in longer than I care to
remember.
Things can change.
.
Charles Pineda is a queer author currently studying for an MFA in creative writing at Boise State University. His work can be seen from such varied outlets as The Hooghly Review, Shotgun Honey Press, Quibble Lit, and numerous others. Feel free to follow on twitter: @cp8723 or Instagram: @cip59587.