Coffee: Sumatra Medium-Dark Roast, Trader Joe’s
Met a man who said he used to cook but doesn’t anymore. I asked why.
“Well, my ex-wife moved in.”
“It was my idea,” he said.
I told him that sounded like a story.
“Yeah, well. At least I get good food every night.”
We went separate ways after that.
The whole incident made me think about love: it’s a mess. I’ve known a few couples that stuck it out traditionally – met, got together, got married, bought a house. I’ve known others that look nothing close to normal. Growing up, there was this friend of the family with a dry wit, older guy, perpetually single. Now he keeps bees. I never knew the story – still don’t – but always pegged him for a man who’d really known how to love, despite his committed bachelordom. It was a thing in his eyes, a pin-prick, a honey-buzzing.
Anyway, my erstwhile ex-cook comrade living his latter years with his ex-wife seems the perfect picture of love to me. Let a person break you (or maybe break them) then invite them over to do it again. I should have told him it would be more equitable to cook for her sometimes. But maybe that bit of fairness and progress isn’t what anyone’s really looking for.
Popping in and out the honeycomb, frantically shoving stingers in each other.
Currently Reading: Autumn, Ali Smith
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“and you invented me
and I invented you
and that’s why we don’t
get along” – Charles Bukowski