Permission

He’s shaped like a triangle and tells me that stretching after exercise isn’t as important as everyone thinks. I’m skeptical. We’ve been sleeping together for six months in a stretchy, yellowish area of time where nothing seems to matter. Still, the world is simultaneously warm and comfortable, bobbing and floating in the amniotic fluid between youth and adulthood. It’s usually just sex, but sometimes he makes me dinner, and we stretch our minds together to fill the gaps in the air.

In the same way I would hate for him to reflect, dwell, or share stories of my softness, my body’s coiling expanse, I won’t spend much time on his. He is very strong. He goes to the gym a lot. I think that must take a particular type of patience, the two or even three hours every day. Patience isn’t something I have ever been privy to.

We both work in the service industry. I wear tight tops for tips by the slot machines, and he shakes margaritas for older women who cackle and purr at the flex of his bicep. I try to tell myself that we are making the most out of this thankless suburb.

As our knives scrape against Dollarama cookware, he tells me he wants to get out of the bar and study animals. He wonders what that study is called, and I think of my best friend. I tell him she studies marine biology. Tell him about her research. He could even consider specializing. He nods for a minute, silently considering. I think I would like that, he says, but for dogs instead—Dogology. I don’t laugh at him. I will later, over wine with the same friend I’ve told him about. Maybe I’m mean.

Instead, right now, I ponder his thoughtful face for a second. How uncomplicated. At that moment, I think his life must feel easier than mine. I know that isn’t fair, and I should give him permission to be himself. But I’m not gentle. I’m irritable and anxious.

We’ve started watching Suits together in the past few months, and I will sometimes observe him watching. There is nothing behind his eyes. He’s only watching. What must that feel like?