F*ck Marriage(57)

I don’t know when exactly their relationship went south, but I distinctly remember noticing the way they started bending away from each other, the sweet looks they used to give each other replaced with arched eyebrow annoyance. Tonight though, tonight had been a flashback of those earlier years, and that made me worry: rosy retrospection.

Jules has fallen asleep in my bed. The covers are pushed down to her waist and her hands are pressed under her cheek as if they’re engaged in a prayer. She’s wearing the white silk nightgown she leaves at my condo. I can’t help but wonder if she chose the color to hint at the marriage she wants so desperately. The subtlety of women has always confounded me. Where men directly say what they want; women leave Easter eggs, making knowing their hearts a game. I suppose that’s why I’ve always been drawn to Billie; while she can play the games too, before long her directness wins out.

I get up quietly and move to the living room, making myself a drink.

We are made to suffer in this life. You can’t tell me otherwise. When we don’t get the things we want, they get us instead, becoming an obsession, controlling our thoughts and behavior. That’s what Billie is, I decided that long ago. I check my email, type up the responses. I think about texting her, but no, that wouldn’t be right, not with Jules sleeping in the next room. I pace across the window, the city sluggish below me. Woods, I could try him, but he probably wouldn’t answer. It’s none of your business, I tell myself. It’s the same thing I’ve told myself for years. And I’ve never been able to keep my hands out of her business: literally and figuratively. I glance at the clock: 4:49. I need to sleep. Billie is probably sleeping, having gone to bed hours ago. There is no need to worry. It’s then that I remember the button she placed in my hand at the party. I find my pants in the dry-cleaning pile and rummage around in the pockets until I feel the round hardness between my fingers. Holding it up to the light I study the button, trying to understand what she meant by giving it to me.

“Satcher…?”

I squeeze my eyes closed before I turn around, the button buried in my fist.

“Why are you up? What’s wrong?”

Jules leans against the doorframe. Her hair is tousled from her sleep. I watch as she props one foot on the shin of her other leg. I try to summon all the things I used to feel for her. The emotions had come so easily before ... before what? Billie. Billie had leaned against that same doorframe months ago, and when I’d lied to her she’d seen right through me.

“Nothing,” I say. “Just had some things to finish up.”

Jules nods. We’re both the type who think about work during all the times we shouldn’t be thinking about work. She smiles faintly before going back to the bedroom. Billie would have barked at me. Sent me back to bed. A small smile touches my lips at the thought. When she first found out she’d been surprised ... understanding, but then she’d chide me for not waking her up so she could “help me sleep.” I hate being powerless, especially over myself. I shake my head, trying to clear it. Regardless of what I feel, Billie made her decision. We sparked for a moment, even started to burn a little before that flame was doused out. It was a nice try, but it wasn’t enough. Her feelings for me weren’t enough.

I’m a businessman: I knew my odds going into it.



“Satcher ... earth to Satcher.” I jar awake.

I must have fallen asleep at my desk. Billie is standing in the doorway, her arms crossed like she’s not sure if she’s welcome to cross the threshold. She’s not dressed in one of her usual getups; instead, she’s wearing jeans with rips above the knees and an old sweater that hangs off her shoulder like it’s tired of hanging on. She looks exhausted and sexy, and if we were together I’d rub her shoulders and kiss my way down her alpine neck. I have a flash of memory: biting that shoulder while she writhed beneath me.

“What are you doing here?” I frown, more at the memory than her. “It’s the Christmas holidays. You should be holidaying.”

“Hello, pot, it’s nice to meet you. I’m kettle.”

She strolls in and glances at the green chair that used to be hers. Then she drags it right up to my desk and folds herself into it. I watch curiously as she leans her elbows on the desk and props her head in her hands, looking at me.

“Get real, Satch. Neither of us has anywhere to be.” Her fingers drum her cheeks and I am reminded of a night in college when we went to a diner together after a night of clubbing. The others had wanted to go home, but Billie and I were hungry so we visited an all-night chain. She’d propped her elbows on the table and ordered two breakfasts just for herself.



“You could go home,” I suggest.

I don’t want her to go home; I like the city better with her in it.

“I’ve been home for two years and change. I’ve had enough rain and weird parental looks to last me a lifetime.”

I laugh. “Well, it looks like we’ll be working through the holidays then.”

She wants to say something. I watch the struggle, her face creasing. Her fingers are splayed across her cheeks and her mouth is quirked up on one side. Her brown eyes meet mine, peat lashes blinking slowly.

“Spit it out, Billie.”

The corners of her mouth tuck in and she rolls her eyes. Her next words slice through me.