A Cup of Comfort for Couples (18 page)

I look at him, dumbfounded.

“You don't get it, do you? Without you, I fit in here. Without you, no one knows I am from the United States. Without you, they all think I am Spanish. You blow it for me. I'm not a tourist, but you make me one.”

I turn to watch the sunflowers pass by as the car moves away.

In his mother's kitchen, back home in the United States, I watch him turn the tortilla from the omelet pan onto the plate.

“Can you write down that garlic soup recipe for me?”

He doesn't turn around, but takes a deep breath. He steadies himself with his hands on the counter. He turns and comes to take my hand. “Come here. I'll show you.”

I enter the forbidden kitchen. In a dry pan, he tosses the bread cubes to make croutons. He takes down a bulb of garlic, breaks it in half, and we each start to peel. We place the boullion in the warm water to let it dissolve. We slice each clove, tossing the thin pieces into another pan with heated olive oil. When they are transparent but not yet starting to brown, we pour in the pimenton and let the spice warm up in the oil and mix with the garlic. Then we pour in the water with the boullion and stir. Once it boils, we slowly add the beaten egg, letting it dribble in like egg drop soup. We let the egg cook and turn off the heat. We ladle it into a bowl, his hand over mine on the handle, and we sprinkle in the croutons.

John writes down the recipe for me. Then I take my bag of pictures and leave.

Later, as I look through the pictures from Spain, I find one that isn't a photograph. It had been carefully cut out of a magazine and backed with construction paper. Then it had been laminated. The picture shows a field of sunflowers, disappearing into the horizon. His last gift. Apology, forgiveness, acceptance, love. I still have that picture. I keep it to remind me of how love takes many forms and of how, sometimes, it can appear in a final gesture of simply letting go.

—
Amy Hudock, PhD

Love Check

A
s I search through a basket filled with assorted scented soaps, I'm absorbed with selecting a birthday present for a woman friend, my mind far, far from romance. But there beside the basket I find a small, pink book. I pick it up and read the cover. Printed in a dreamy script across overlapping hearts, the title Love Checkbook sounds intriguing. I look inside. The size of a checkbook, this novelty gift contains one hundred pre-printed coupons for one lover to give another, pledging an assortment of mostly PG-rated presents: a walk in the park, a bedtime massage, a no-sports weekend, a romantic dinner, one hundred kisses. Like a bank check, each pink coupon contains a line for the recipient's name and a space at the bottom for the giver's signature. Printed under the signature line are the words “Your Devoted Lover.”

Twenty years ago, I would have thought this checkbook interesting but contrived. Two years ago, I would have judged it hopeless. But now I picture an opportunity for my husband and me to walk on the beach, read to each other, or sneak away from the office for a midday rendezvous. The thought occurs to me that I want to do these things with him again. Priced at twelve dollars, the checkbook is worth a try.

When I arrive home, I find our son building Lego racecars and our daughter talking on the phone to a string of friends. My husband, Kirby, sits on our bed reading a magazine and without looking up says, “How was shopping?”

“I found Monika a great gift,” I begin, but feel as if I'm talking to an empty room. Pulling the love checkbook from my purse, I toss it onto the bed beside him. “I bought these for you.”

Picking up the book, Kirby flips through the pages. I search for any change in his expression, but he looks at the checkbook with less interest than I perceived in his face when he was reading the magazine.

“Thanks,” he says. He shifts his weight on the bed so that he can push the book into the back pocket of his jeans. Then he resumes reading.

I had planned to explain that I'd bought the certificates for us to give each other, but now I don't. What was I thinking? How impractical of me to buy that checkbook!

The next morning, my workday starts earlier than my husband's and kids', and I'm out the door before they wake. My day is completely scheduled, with one meeting after the other, and by midday I have to travel to another city for an afternoon staff meeting. I know the area well, and calculate that I have time enough to stop at the nearby Subway for lunch. It's after one o'clock, and the restaurant is empty.

“Lettuce, tomatoes, and olives,” I say to the woman making my sandwich.

A couple walks in, her arm around his waist and his around her neck. They get in line behind me. Only they, the two employees, and I are in the restaurant. As I reach into my purse to pay the cashier for my chicken-breast sandwich, the couple stand next to me at the counter and start to kiss. They kiss once, then again. Their third kiss is prolonged, indiscreet.

I quickly carry my sandwich and Diet Pepsi to my favorite table near the back, but not the last table, and facing the windows. With just twenty minutes before my next meeting, I look forward to being alone. Relaxed for the first time since six o'clock this morning, I concentrate on opening my sandwich and I sip my Pepsi.

Directly behind me, I hear the smacking of lips. I turn to find the couple sitting in the booth nearest me. They kiss loudly. I pause, jarred by their rudeness. Except for my table, they had the whole place to themselves. They keep kissing. Their sandwiches lay tightly wrapped on the tray in front of them. I think of moving and decide instead to ignore them, refocusing on my lunch.

On our first date, twenty-five years ago, Kirby took me to a fish-and-chips place.

“Best fish and chips in town,” he said.

He didn't ask me if I liked deep-fried fish topped with catsup and tartar sauce. I didn't, but surviving on a college student's budget, I knew the towering pile of thick French fries and deep-fried cod were a bargain. I found Kirby intelligent and tender. I loved his blue eyes and the fullness of his lower lip; I didn't care about the food.

I turn again to glance at the couple sitting near me. Their eyes are on each other, and they whisper, smile, and touch each other's cheeks. The man looks older than the twenty-something woman, maybe in his late thirties. His face is tanned and rough, as though he works outdoors. Wearing a red T-shirt, she is short and heavy, and her black hair falls into her face. I wonder how they stole this midday moment together. Do they have children? Do they work together? Are they married or having an affair?

I look at the efficient, stark environment: food counter, soda fountain, straight aisles, and hard booths. There are no slim waiters here, no orchids and votive candles on the tables, no dim lights to encourage handholding; yet for this couple, Subway fuels romance.

That evening, after our children are in bed, I find Kirby working at his computer. I hover near him trying to read the screen.
How important is the work
he is doing
, I wonder?

“Are you going to be a while?” I ask.

“Another hour or so.”

“What are you working on?”

“A report due tomorrow.”

I consider waiting that hour for him, but I have my own list of to dos and need to be rested and alert tomorrow. I go to bed wishing that Kirby and my schedules were not so different or that my family lived nearer and could watch our children for a weekend. When we fell in love years before, we couldn't think of anything more lovely than to build a life together. We did. And even though I believed it would never happen to us, we, as a couple, got lost in the very life we made.

The next morning, Kirby and the children leave before I do. After I fit in one more phone call, I can take off for work. Dialing the number and adjusting the pillows on my bed for back support, I'm annoyed with something poking under my shirt. I reach behind and pull it out from under me. It's a pink check with hearts on it. One of the love checks?

I read: “To Patricia: Payment of a romantic dinner for two. — From Kirby.” I read it again. In the payment-due section Kirby gave me two weeks to cash in his offer. A deadline? Aren't we both too busy to meet deadlines? I read the coupon a third time. It sounds luxurious, a dinner for two. I remember the couple in Subway and their untouched sandwiches. I write, “ACCEPTED!” in huge blue letters across the coupon and place it on top of Kirby's pillow.

But as I grab my purse, I glimpse the coupon resting on the king-sized pillow, a small, light piece of paper with its edges curled up. I envision it slipping off onto the bed and getting buried in the sheet and blankets, or when Kirby opens our bedroom door, being caught up by a gust of air and floating unnoticed to the floor. If that happened, it could end up lost under the bed. I push the palm of my hand deep into Kirby's pillow, forming an indentation. There in the furrow I nestle the pretty pink invitation for a date with my husband, where he's sure to find it.

—
Patricia Ljutic

Improv at the Altar

W
alking in late to the shipboard commitment ceremony on our women-only cruise of Alaska, my partner Barbara and I took in the scene. At least 100 of the 800 mostly lesbian passengers had gathered for the event. Everyone except us was dressed in fancy clothes; we wore shorts and tees. One by one, a member of each couple said their names, where they lived, and how long they had been together. Those whose relationships spanned more than ten years received hearty applause from everyone — except me. My hands stayed at my side because I never assume that the quantity of a relationship is indicative of its quality. Take, for instance, my parents' highly dysfunctional marriage, which ended just short of their twenty-fourth anniversary with the premature death of my mom. So let's hold the applause unless we know that a couple's long-term relationship is also a good one.

When it was our turn to introduce ourselves, I grabbed the mike and said, “We've been together fourteen years. I was a child bride.”

Titters from several of my fellow passengers and a few hearty guffaws greeted my comment.

Silence, though, deflated the good cheer when I added, “I think the quality of a relationship, not its length, should be the measure of its success.”

The person leading the ceremony quickly moved on to the next couple, not wanting the event to become memorable for the wrong reasons. Barbara, who insisted on attending the event over my weak objections, shook her head, none too pleased with my comments but not surprised.

A few years before the cruise, we registered in New York City as domestic partners, with no hoopla. No announcements went out to friends and family, and needless to say, we didn't register at Pottery Barn, Saks Fifth Avenue, or L.L.Bean. We certainly had cause to celebrate, having survived some very rough patches, the worst being when Barbara wanted a child and I didn't.

Why didn't we celebrate our domestic partnership? Speaking for myself, I know that the constant battle to educate heterosexual people who trivialize our relationship takes its toll. How many times have I heard myself referred to as Barbara's “friend” by individuals who knew we were a couple? Or had to respond to strangers asking if we are “sisters”?

Internalized homophobia plays a part, too. Never mind that Barbara and I had worn matching silver rings and attended gay rights marches for many years. Never mind that it had been many years since we “came out” to straight friends, relatives, and colleagues. In the middle of the night, thoughts still popped into my mind that because we didn't have the rights of a married couple, our relationship was inferior. If I died before Barbara, for instance, she wouldn't get survivor Social Security benefits, and vice versa. So what was there to celebrate?

These feelings surfaced when Barbara said to me one day, a couple of years after the cruise, “I'd like to have a party to celebrate our twenty years together. How about having it at the Cornelia Street Café?” We both enjoyed having dinner there, and the downstairs room could be rented.