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You should congratulate me. My husband and I have recently wed, and seemingly without incident. He indulges in his fishing pursuits—and with remarkable frequency, acquaints himself with new canine companions.
Yet one knows that peculiar sensation, do you not? An anticipation, for something to inevitably go wrong, because that’s just how life is when you’re too happy.
I find myself here, awaiting the jolt that will wake me from this beautiful reverie.
Before I was married, I had many partners all of which still harbor my respect yet I find now to be insignificant in the larger scheme of time. The last woman I was seeing, was a woman seemingly untethered from the world, estranged from her companions, and distanced even from my own existence. We were, both of us, detached together, so we fostered a camaraderie. Alana, the quintessential doyenne of the realm of psychology, stood out like a rare orchid in a field of common flora. In a profession scantily populated by her gender, one can only speculate on the bewitching repercussions that her stilettoed footsteps and meticulously chosen stockings exacted upon her male peers, driving them to the brink of frenzy.
Yet I with my distinct proclivities, found to be largely impervious to her sartorial charms. She possessed some innate sense of fashion, but refrained from indulging in a perpetual pursuit of novelty. Her wardrobe seemed to consist predominantly of relics from her intern days in the medical school annals. Her compact apartment was rented, not owned as seemingly many things in her life. Her attire while tasteful, struggled to harmonize with her physique’s idiosyncrasies. The cascade of her hair which she often wore long, bore the hallmarks of sparing expenditure, evincing little inclination toward regular salon visits or elaborate stylings. Evidently, her austere approach to personal expenditures had served her well in diminishing the shadow of her burgeoning student loans.
In moments of audacity, I dared to proffer recommendations regarding the refinement of her wardrobe, urging her to invest in the cultivation of her aesthetic allure. Such entreaties, however well-intentioned, unfailingly elicited torrents of anger and a defensive vehemence as impenetrable as the walls of Jericho.
Her exacting nature found fertile ground not only within our personal lives but also in our shared professional pursuits. The ceaseless admonishments and critiques she heaped upon my choices, interwoven with her relentless campaign against the citadel of my professionalism, served as an inexhaustible source of exasperation. Her and her constant battle with my ethicality. What a joke.
It was through such experiences that I arrived at the profound realization that happiness is akin to a time bomb, its detonation a matter of inevitability. The circumstances surrounding my encounter with my future husband came to pass precisely because I had firmly resolved to abstain from dating anyone henceforth, and so I was en route to yet another unendurable psychology conference in Washington. Under the obligation of my attendance, and the ever-present feeling of isolation, I walked into the sanctuary of the train’s bar car.
You know how sometimes one can be compelled to leave friends and sobriety behind for a few days.
And so in the dim-lit confines of the bar, the most arresting unfurled before me: a pair of blue eyes, frigid and unyielding, focused directly at me. An unfamiliar sensation gripped me, a departure from the labyrinthine narratives of my past liaisons, all of which had been woven solely with the opposite sex.
The essence of masculinity, often an enigma to my sensibilities, now seemed immaterial and inconsequential in the wake of this young man’s presence.
Oh, the androgynous deity that graced the room! Wearing a snug shirt that cut off to show his bared midriff, and his jeans which draped tantalizingly low on his hips, to a point where it revealed he wore no undergarments. He bore Mickey Mouse and Holly Hobbie rings around every digit, holding a beer to his beautiful lips and gazing at me at the extended length of the brown bottle.
And men such as I, possess intimate knowledge of the unspoken rules. The scenario is clear: unless one happens to embody the aesthetics of distinguishing beauty—no siren of such seduction shall ever ensnare you with their gaze, thus I know to look away from him in courtesy.
And though I can assure you that I am by no means unsightly; yet, in equal measure, I can assure you that I stray far from the type of person that would captivate this young gentleman’s interest. Him being the epitome of youth, a symphony of vivacity; and in stark contrast, I am bound by strict appearance, not to mention confined to the age of my late forties—a proximity to paternity that does not evade my discernment. “Know your limits,” I always say. Set your aspirations in the lower echelons, and disappointment shall remain an alien emotion.
Gently sidestepping him, I indulge myself in observing him covertly, and alas, fate proves unkind to me. His olfactory presence, redolent of some sweet dessert, infiltrates my senses. His scent, a captivating smell of cinnamon, inundates my consciousness, impervious to attempts at disregard.
Better yet, the beer bottle turns to track my step as I traverse down the aisle to the bar to order another round, and it’s not as if he and I stand as the last two people in this world. Many others in the backdrop with their plastic tables, going to Washington from the appearance of their harsh suits, and the cold ambition etched into their gazes.
I choose the most remote table, a distance far removed from the gentleman. But one knows that familiar feeling, when somebody’s watching, you can’t take one step without stumbling, particularly on a train in motion.
Just as I am moved to lift my drink, an untimely curve in the track disrupts the equilibrium, and beer spills down the patterned stripes of my waistcoat and suit. I pretend to feign an interest in the trees rushing past the window, in truth, from a secret agent angle I’m watching the young man’s reflection in the glass, and he’s still watching me.
The only time his gaze deviates, during a momentary respite, is when he turns to the bar, exchanging cash for a brew. Then, a metamorphosis from mere reflection to physical presence transpires with an eerie celerity, until he towers lifelike, a conjured apparition beside my table, and greets me with a simple, “Hi,” followed by а lexical disarray of incoherent words.
To which I say, “What?”
He extends his finger to point at the waistcoat beneath my suit, where the residue of beer has embellished its fibers, and he says, “I like your plastic buttons…shiny.”
I tilt my chin a bit to glance downward, my attention ensnared by the sheen of polished Italian buttons—crafted not from plastic, mind you, but from corozo, a curious nut. But I say nothing, wanting to hold onto this moment, let it linger without any interference.
Even in initial moments of our conversations, it strikes me how he occasionally slips his fingers into his mouth—alright, he does so with an unusually high frequency—accompanied by a vocal cadence that marries breathiness and diminutive words, reminiscent of infantile speech; using ‘buh-sketti,’ in turn of ‘spaghetti,’ and ‘skissors’ in lieu of ‘scissors.’ But within the contours of conventional allure, such nuances merely constitute as classic, textbook flirtation.
He gives me a conspiratorial wink, a languorous flicker over his lips with his tongue; an artful display that leaves the gloss of moisture like an iridescent promise upon his lips. ‘Will Graham,’ he calls himself, yet the syllables meld into an unbroken, unintelligible stream as they cross his mouth.
A coquettish provocateur he is—an undeniable truth. True, he is pretty tipsy. And truth be told, by now, we have taken to drinking those tiny bottles of tequila, and it’s not as if we’re commanding this train. So exactly ‘Willgrahnm,’ he is not, but his physical allure orchestrates an aria that focusing on his words becomes a mental acrobatic feat. I see through his little game, though—toying with my strings, but in a way that feels right. You don’t need a manual to read his signals; a single glance tells you all you need to know.
My sole attempt at holding on to Will’s attention is to oscillate between reciprocating the playful flirtation and buying him drinks. I watch as Will inquires about my destination. A quick response paints a picture of my commute to work. His fingers, like nimble dancers, ascend the canvas of my vest, stepping from button to button, ascending up slow from belt to throat, and then walking himself back down. Inside, my heart thunders, hoping he cannot perceive its erratic rhythm.
With eyes of azure mischief, he plays with me by cutting his gaze from side to side, or batting his long, flirtatious eyelashes in my direction. Will is clearly miles, and miles, and miles ahead of me in liquor, because his sentences often dangle, unfinished. And sometimes, he points through the window’s glass as he spots a fleeting scene—“A dog!”, he shouts. Another time, when we pass a train station, Will screams “Slug Bug!” as his hand, adorned with a collection of rings with various cartoonish animals, clobbers on my shoulder, and I silently wish the bruise stays with me for the entirety of my life.
Our escapade leads us to Washington’s embrace. Abandoning my work duties completely, we saunter through streets drenched in affection. Arriving at a resting place, I, in gentlemanly accord, accommodate him and make no sexual advances yet. And Will is so inebriated, that when he wakes up next morning, he’s still drunk. And no matter how much alcohol I drink, or marijuana I smoke, I have trouble matching up to his pace. And perhaps it’s due to his slender frame, he appears to metabolize the buzz, a contact high from my exhaled clouds.
Our journey echoes tales one might seek on digital screens, a classic romance ripe for indulgence. The difference lies in the fact that it’s all happening to me.
Time unspools, knitting six months, bridging into the arms of Christmas. Will’s life melds with my space, as I help him move to my condominium, and I keep awaiting the morning when he will awake sober and break away from this intoxicated reverie, but he still hasn’t.
Thanksgiving compels us to congregate within my mother’s haven, and I must explain to her; it’s not as if Will is a picky eater. Rather, his slender frame can be attributed to his peculiar want for the one only thing he can eat; a zucchini, sliced right down the middle, its core scooped out, and to make into a miniature Iroquois dugout canoe, etched with knife strokes mimicking tribal inscriptions, and a whole tribe of little braves carved out of raw carrot but with green peas for their heads, lined up and rowing the war canoe across a dinner plate covered generously in a slick coat of chocolate syrup. Oddly enough, you would be surprised that this niche culinary dish isn’t a on the menus of most restaurants, which results in that I often find myself in the role of a chef, investing half my day to make this for Will. And then, as you’d expect, he has to embark on an extended playtime session with his vegetable armada on the living room carpet for another hour, and that’s why he never seems to gain an ounce. As for my mother, she’s just thrilled to witness my return to the dating scene.
In the ethereal pursuit of rapture, no substance ingested or injected could ever rival the euphoria of strolling down the avenue, clasping hands with a supermodel, a complete stone-cold fox, like my cunning boy Will. Like winning the biggest lottery, stumbling upon the embodiment of my dreams; a doll of perfection, whose very existence is reliant solely upon me.
On weekends, I indulge him and I by dolling him up; whether it be suits and ties, or skirts and frocks, because like the good, obedient angel that he is, he looks spectacular in everything. Oh, what joy, to see him twirl around in lace and tule in the confines of our private room, hidden away from the rest of the world.
Naturally, akin to many things in life, the arrangement of his current disposition was far from an effortless endeavor. Our beginnings contained a lot of rebellion from his side, his volleys of protestation, withal his complaints regarding the prickle of chiffon against his skin, which manifested itself in him crying and repeatedly striking both himself and I in the shop’s changing room. Swiftly though, I learned to resolve this behavior with my offer for an additional canine companion.
Then, one night after work, I come home, and from beneath the couch emanates Will’s infectious giggle. When I duck down to peek under the furniture, I find him wearing his bespoke pleated shorts, with one hand toying with the loose thread on the edging seam, drawing attention to the sliver of his exposed tan line, and with his signature grin, fingers in his mouth, the nymph teasing, “Hannibal, find me, find me! I’m hiding, Hannibal, find me!”
Those blue, seductive eyes fix on me like a puppy’s, and his laughter dances as I pull him out, instigate tickling him, and ask if he wants to play a game, and he nods his head yes.
I usher him into my room, a space cocooned from the world’s prying gaze, and proceed to trace a delicate path of kisses along the contours of his ears, his neck, downward to the collarbone and the expanse of his chest. A laugh escapes him and he says that it tickles. I cradle his form within my embrace, my exploration continuing as I navigate southward. Amidst these ministrations, I ask him—had he eaten anything today? And Will’s response is that he ate a whole canoe full of Iroquois warriors the day before, but, no, he hasn’t eaten anything yet today.
His garments I gently strip, revealing a canvas of pale skin, an expanse decorated with freckled constellations, a geography of intimacy that I worship with a reverence bordering on veneration. Amidst his ceaseless insistence on the itch of ticklishness, he writhes beneath my weight, a ballet of wriggles, accompanied by the music of his laughter. I pledge to him I will bring him pleasure, yet when my fingers clasp around his privates, the solemnity etched upon his face startles me, and I worry if I’ve broken the fragile moment.
Nevertheless, I continue, but as my intentions bring me further, and I begin to enter him, a piercing scream shatters the air. Will recoils, breaking our embrace, and darts back to the living room, still bare, as if this all is new to him, as if he’s never had intercourse before. He runs through and out the rooms, barely clothed by his own vulnerability, a fleeting gesture that almost seems a prelude to retreat. He makes it to the front door, and he shakes, overcome by a wave of nausea, and in that instant, an unconventional proposal escapes my lips—an offer of marriage to quell his tremors and quash the tumult.
In the intricate web of camaraderie and circumstance, a situation unfolds with a tinge of jealousy that my friends manifest through the spectacle of a bachelor bash. When Will ducks into the men’s room, dejected over the chef’s refusal to carve a war canoe, my so-called friends collectively turn their attention to me, and in that casual yet loaded way that only friends can, they remark, “Hannibal, he’s beautiful, the utmost delightful…but we don’t think of him to be intoxicated.”
My closest friends say, “You haven’t actually married him yet, have you?” And their facial expressions don’t exactly signal a green light for Will’s place in my life.
One knows the feeling: you wish for your friends and your fiancé to get along, but they only clench their jaws and foster these worried looks with their eyebrows forming a tight bridge in the center, and they say, “Hannibal, did it ever cross your mind that maybe—just maybe—Will might have an intellectual disability?”
I attempt to put their nerves at ease. He’s just got some drinking issues. I am also almost certain he’s also into some harder stuff. That, and he’s a sexual compulsive, but it’s not like a lost cause that some talk therapy couldn’t help with. Look, we all carry some sort of baggage; nobody is perfect. And in turn of a standard wedding reception; envision, instead, our two families in a hotel conference room, orchestrating an unforeseen intervention for Will. As for the customary honeymoon, we can substitute it with a ninety-day rehab stint for Will’s recuperation. We will sort through this mess.
Let’s be clear, he’s not intellectually deficient—just in dire need of considerable rehab.
I know their aversion towards Will stems from an unsettling infatuation with his beauty, tangled with jealousy. If I turned my gaze away for an instant, I am certainly convinced they would attempt an audacious heist, spiriting him away from me and into their arms. They’re quick to say, “You can’t go through with marrying him, it’s a mistake,” and it’s a sad reflection of my social circle that I tolerate these less-than-stellar companions.
Will, they insist, has an intellect of a six-year-old.
Their misguided benevolence compels them to enlighten me; “Hannibal, he can’t truly love you because he doesn’t have the capacity.”
As if my soulmate, the light of my life is irreparably brain-damaged. To which I tell them, “He can’t be intellectually disabled, for crying out loud, because he doesn’t even wear underwear.” And it has to be love because his mouth is so pliable and open when kissed, and my loins burn so forcefully that my stomach hurts. And how during a discourse with my father, I utter, “No, Will is not a high-functioning anything.” I tell him, “I would assume he drinks more than half his body weight, and is into adhesive inhalants and narcotics. But we are working on getting him to treatment following our marriage.”
Perhaps, an insatiable lust courses through his veins, a modern-day satyr camouflaged in the guise of a man. Yet, the fact remains that he is unequivocally my satyr, which appear to be a truth that stirs my family crazy with envy. With a spirit, I remind them: “I’m in love with a libertine of exuberant sexuality. Why not simply be happy with me?”
And alas, subsequent to all that fuss, there are far less people at our wedding than one would expect.
Perhaps it could be that love makes one prejudiced, but in my estimations, I held the belief that Will possessed a discerning intellect. That irreplaceable feeling, when one can take their spouse through the halls of one’s desires—be it the theatre’s velvet-cloaked sanctum, the hushed alcoves of a museum, or the indulgent emporiums of commerce—where I can dress Will to perfection by my whims, and he engages in no protest, as long as the accoutrement of his coloring book and crayons accompany him.
In all seriousness, if you knew the absurd extent to which I have taken him to opera soirées, while he remained absorbed in the coloring of pictures of dogs, you’d undoubtedly call us a happy marriage.
Beside me now, a husband of nymphic charm graces my days. Inevitably, when the decision to embrace parenthood arrives, I will tell our children; that everybody looks a little crazy if you’re looking close enough, and that love unearths its truest form when gazing beyond the surface becomes an act of devotion.
Meanwhile, existence whirls on. The fallacy of seeking perfection as a precondition for love slowly crumbles, replaced by the realization that imperfections kindle affection’s flame to its brightest. I wonder whether it’s I who’s out of step, awakening each day half-expecting joy’s evaporation when I should simply revel in it.
This unbridled, madcap happiness, can it truly be so uncomplicated? Yet, I resist the notion that such unalloyed euphoria can span a lifetime. A niggling doubt festers—perhaps a quirk within me, an inquiry into why such profound love for my husband harbors a sense of fragility.
For now, I navigate the landscape with my doll-like companion, Will, an excursion across American borders to idyl our honeymoon voyage. In the back of my thoughts, I think—can happiness of this magnitude inside me sustain itself indefinitely?—a question that dissipates as his hair wavers endlessly in the wind’s stream, the entire vehicle infilled with his sweetest smell of cinnamon, and Will clobbers at my shoulder, screaming, “Slug Bug!” at the passing image outside the car window.