“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Huh?”
“Come on, Steve. Don’t go back to sleep. I want an answer.”
“O.K. I’m awake. What’s the question?”
“It’s the same old question.”
“And, what’s that?”
“Do you still love me?”
“Oh.”
“What do you mean, ‘oh’? The only right answers
are yes or no. Which one is it?”
“Hey sweetheart, calm down. Of course, I love you.”
“Of course? You make it sound like loving each other is my idea,
and you’re just going along with it.”
“I love you. There, is that better?”
“Oh Steve, I don’t know. I liked the way you used to say
‘I love you’ our first two years together.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m beginning to think that getting married—was
a mistake. I know. I know. It was my idea. But I was much happier
when we lived together because we wanted to.”
“So are you telling me you want a divorce? After all we went
through to get a license?”
“No, baby. No. I just want us to pretend we’re not married.
Just pretend. Remember, like when you were a kid.”
“Are you nuts?”
“No, I’m serious. I think it could revitalize our love
life.”
“So, that’s it: not enough sex.”
“Look Steve, you are the best lover I’ve ever had. I just
want to turn up the temperature a little bit.”
“I bet you said the same thing to Pedro. You were crazy about
him.”
“You’ll never forget Pedro, will you?”
“No. Never.”
“Stand up, Steve.”
“Look baby, I got to get ready for work.”
“Stand here, next to the bed. Pretend we just met last night,
in a bar South of Market. You followed me home like a puppy. Now,
I want to send you off with a grin.”
“Stop baby. I’m getting weak in the knees.”
“My, oh my. What are you hiding in those pajamas?”
“It’s for you honey, and it’s for real. I love you
David.”
“I love you, Steve.
Emilio is a poet and short-fiction writer and lives
in Occidental.
