“That’s why it’s so tempting,” I said, feeling like we were finally getting somewhere. “I understand why you want to do it. It’s like the only hallmark of what we think of as an ‘adult life’ that’s still accessible. And it’s so accessible! You can do it for three hundred dollars as long as you find someone else willing to sign the papers.”
“That’s not why—” Olivia started, but I wasn’t finished.
“And you get to stand there in front of your parents, even if you still take money from them sometimes, and say, Respect me as an adult. Right? And the wildest thing is they do it, because they recognize the ceremony and the moment and everything. It feels so good to have your aunts and uncles act like you’re a real human being, to file joint taxes, to tell some rude landlord that my husband and I are looking for some extra office space . . . like, yes, you’re buying into the heteropatriarchal state apparatus or whatever, but everybody gives you money and you get to sit at the grown-ups’ table and own a fancy blender.”
Olivia paused for a moment. She furrowed her brow and said she wanted to marry Aidan because she was in love, but she respected that it was complicated and that there was a lot going on around the concept, maybe in particular for me at this phase of my life. She said that there were lots of reasons to get married, and that she saw the appeal of ritual and even of the blender, but at the end of the day it sounded like I was talking about commitment and community through a perhaps overly bleak lens.
“Maybe,” I said. “But who cares? Nothing matters, everything ends, the world is ruled by greedy misogynist racists, and all the affordable furniture looks like shit.”
I picked up my bag and strode out into the hall, encountering one of my keenest students, Sara. She had a canvas tote bag from the drama department over one shoulder and her hair in its usual messy bun. “Still on for our meeting?” she asked, all optimism and young-person pep. I told her something had come up. She looked disappointed in a way that made me hate her.
“Why don’t you email me,” I said. “It’s easier for me to answer questions over email.”
Her face clouded. “I have been emailing you,” she said. “You told me to come to your office. You said it was easier for you to answer questions in person.”
“Right,” I said. I had a vague memory of her many follow-up emails.
We stood together in the hallway, saying nothing. Sara bit her lip and looked as though she might cry. She was not much younger than me, but clearly still in the dreaming-at-the-kitchen-table phase of this career. I tried to think of something useful to say, a bit of advice to make the trip to my office worth it, but really did not try very hard. Eventually I said, “Well,” sighed in a way I hoped seemed world-weary, and walked away.
Outside I found Jiro smoking some of his slender, illegal mint cigarettes. Why were all his possessions so small? What was he trying to prove? “Fun bit about capitalism,” he smirked. “Is John Oliver hiring?”
“Please, please fuck off,” I said flatly.
Jiro stubbed out his cigarette and regarded me thoughtfully. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t be teasing you like that today. Have a good night, okay? And don’t stress. It’s a fake holiday anyway.”
My cheeks flushed. Despite constant reminders from online ads, couples in the street, and drugstore windows, I had worked very hard to ignore the fact that today was Valentine’s Day. I didn’t need this right now. I turned on my heel and walked down our building’s front steps at speed. At the bottom I paused and looked back. Jiro was still standing there, wearing a jocular expression and a fucking cummerbund. It struck me suddenly that Jiro was hot.
“Hey,” I said. “Do you want to go to a wedding?”
Google Searches, February 16
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Chapter 15
The therapist opened our session by explaining the meaning of the word “liminal” for almost ten minutes. I couldn’t tell if she felt this was important information for me to have—a legal separation being, fair enough, a definitively liminal period in one’s life—or if she was stalling for time, since Jon was late, and I was getting increasingly agitated looking at the clock.
Eventually I cracked, telling her that I was a graduate student, so knowing how to use the word “liminal” in a sentence was one of my only concrete skills. She smiled with her lips closed and said, “How do you feel about your work, are you happy there?” This is how they get you.
Having never been to one before, I could not confirm whether all therapists’ offices looked like a New Yorker cartoon of a therapist’s office or if it was just this one. The walls were a beige color you could tell was called something like “Silken Sand” or “Meaningful Pebble.” A framed print on the wall depicted a barren cityscape, presumably deserted after some kind of emotional apocalypse. I was dismayed to see a sheer silk scarf draped over a lamp in the corner; I’d done something similar in my bedroom in high school, inadvertently causing a small fire. Wasn’t therapy supposed to be a definitively adult space? Surely there were more mature ways of creating ambience than the one I’d discovered in CosmoGirl at fifteen.
For her part, the therapist was also pretty classically “therapist,” first, because her name was Helen, and second, because of every other thing about her. She had a soft voice and “fun,” design-y glasses. Her unstructured blouse was covered in an abstract print that suggested she could at any time be coming from or going to a life-drawing evening.
A dark bob framed her round, friendly face, which was open though not revealing: you could tell her your secrets, but she’d never betray how she felt about them. She had an easy demeanor, and her comfortingly drab website had listed many certificates, workshops, and other accomplishments in addition to the standard qualifications she required for her practice. She seemed personable and like she had probably helped many people through difficult times. Still, I did not like her. This was inconvenient, as I’d come early to the appointment so that I could a） position my body in a flattering way on the couch for when Jon arrived and b） build a rapport with Helen that would lead her to side with me when we both presented our cases for why things were going the way they were going.