Memorial(75)

When Mike steps into the bedroom, he says, Young love, and I tell him to fuck off.

Shouldn’t you be packing? I say.

Don’t look so excited to see me go, he says, grinning, but not really.

Mike sits on the floor, rearranging his clothes. It’s been months since we sat in the same room without speaking. And I know I should follow that up with an apology, some declaration of affection and appreciation.

But I don’t.

I don’t know why.

So the moment passes.



* * *





And a few hours later, Omar replies. The text is littered with emojis.

It says: Should be fun!!!!





6.



The eighth I love you came after a fight, our last big one before Mike left.

I’d thrown a candle at the wall. Mike picked it up and threw it right back at me. He shoved my shoulder, and then I grabbed his arm, which brought us to the floor, where he latched on to me as I slapped at his face. Eventually, I stopped squirming, and Mike stopped squeezing, and I tugged at his shirt, and he pulled at my shorts. He slid down my body, grabbing at my hair, and afterward, we stayed on the wood, sweaty and stinking, not talking, falling asleep.

I woke up to Mike sweeping at the candle’s cracked remains. He was bare except for boxers, hunched over the broom. I watched him sweep in silence, with the moon against his back, and I knew, right then, I think, clear as day, that eventually our moment would end.

I also realized I didn’t want it to.

And it was okay for me not to want it to.

And maybe okay for it not to end right now.

But it had to.

Probably.

And that’s when Mike stepped on broken glass. He yelped, hopping around.

Stop, I said, you’re only gonna make it worse.

You can’t be fucking serious, said Mike.

So I told him to sit. We kept some gauze in the bathroom. I wiped the area around his instep with alcohol and grabbed a knife from the kitchen. It was the sharpest one I saw, and Mike’s eyes glowed when I fondled it, so I told him to relax, and Mike said he wouldn’t blame me if I cut him.

I’d blame myself, I said.

When my palms shook, I took breaks. I moved the blade slowly, incrementally. It took ten minutes, but the shards came out.

Afterward, I wiped down Mike’s foot with antiseptic, wrapping it with the gauze, and when I looked up, my partner had literally, totally, fallen asleep.

I don’t know if he heard me say it, but his body tensed, loosened, settled.





7.



Two mornings before Mitsuko leaves America, I find her washing rice in the kitchen. She nods my way, sifting her hands through the pot, and I sit down on a stool across from her, and she’s looking down at her hands again.

Mike’s out making arrangements with his coworkers. He hasn’t told me what he’s going to tell them, but I know it’s not going to go well.

When Mitsuko’s finished washing the grains, she sets her pot on the stove. She crosses her arms, keeping her eyes on the ceiling.

So Mike’s going home, I say, and Mitsuko looks my way.

You could also say he’s leaving it, she says.

You’ll be happy to have him closer though?

I’m always happy to see the child that I made.

For fifteen minutes, neither of us moves. I watch Mitsuko transfer her rice from the pot to the eggs in the frying pan. She’s crowded it around sweet potatoes, cheddar, a radish, and garlic, and Mitsuko folds the omelette until it encases everything. The omurice simmers gently, until we’re staring at what looks like the beginnings of a meal.

She asks, Were you waiting for something else?

No, I say, I’m leaving.

But you haven’t eaten, says Mitsuko, grabbing a bowl.

She sets one across the table for me.

I couldn’t, I say.

You could, says Mitsuko. You don’t have many of these left to look forward to.

I could always cook one myself.

If you say so, Benson.

I sit across from Mitsuko, and she settles across from me.

I’m sorry, I say.

About?

You know, I say, and that’s when it starts—and the crying floods my cheeks. I don’t know where the tears are falling from until they finally leave my face. I’m shaking, a little bit, and then a lot. The chair dances underneath me. Sounds leave my mouth, animal noises I don’t recognize, and as I try to choke them down, they turn into something else. My hands sit on the table. Ten fingers form two fists. My thumb digs into the pit of my palm, rooting for blood, and then Mitsuko’s hand is on top of mine, slowly pulling it out.

Benson, says Mitsuko. Look at me.

Look at me, she says, a second time, and I cover my face.

I know, says Mitsuko.

You don’t, I say.

I do. You did nothing wrong. Nothing.

That’s what Mike says his dad told him, I say, wiping my face.

I’m sure he did, says Mitsuko. That is a thing that my husband would have said.

At some point, the shaking stops. My breathing settles. I am looking at Mitsuko, again, and now she’s watching me watch her.

She picks up her spoon, smearing ketchup over my omelette.

Eventually, I pick up my spoon.

We eat.

You should talk to my son, says Mitsuko, chewing.