The whole thing had an air of a club Kafkaesqueness where you take the bartender who gets prettier and prettier with every bottle she serves you with only for her to go and remove her dentures before the shenanigans and you wake up the following day with self-hate weighing down on you like a millstone.
Realization that I had said some things in passionate haze and was probably to regret them hit me like a tornado. Did I just tell her that I wanted us to have a baby? No, definitely no. What I had said was, “I want to have you, babe.” Turns out that anything I said because her ballooning boobs were smiling at me was circumstantial and can’t be used against me in court(ship).
Marriage for me is an undertaking that implies some faith in a theoretical future, a projection of paired line running forward through time, growing apart and separate from one another until they became totally different masquerades of what they once were.
It is a doctrine I cannot entirely credit, nor am I sure it would be a welcome proposition without pretense to make me feel a better human being and welcomed to share God knows what in her life when I well know that sharing has never been humanity’s defining attribute.
“Babe, yesterday I was drunk with your hormones and other pheromonal stuff it slurred my speech. Did I say something I might be sorry of? Of course no, I hope. But if I said, I am sorry, I didn’t mean it,” I told her when I came to my senses.
She gave me the look (that a woman would give you when you’ve just called her ‘bitch’) and said, “Seriously, Dave? Yeah, whatever” and with that slammed the door shut on her way out.
