Ordinary love

Sasha carries her secrets in tight knots along her spine. When she’s lying in bed, her back facing me, I can see their outlines in the dark. Sometimes, I reach for her to trace them with my fingertips. She shrinks away, curling herself tightly. I withdraw but continue to watch. Sometimes, after we’ve shared a bottle of wine and we’re on the couch watching television, she’ll dance around her secrets, try to share a part of herself, but she never gets too far. I don’t push. I don’t want to complicate the games we play with history.

Slave to Love Cover We married after dating for only seven months. I proposed to her after a free jazz concert in Central Park. We were sitting on a bench, where she was trembling and smoking a cigarette. It was cold and windy and miserable. I put my coat around her shoulders, knowing it would smell like tobacco for weeks afterward. It was not a moment. I didn’t make promises I couldn’t keep. But after I asked and showed her the ring, she took a long drag on her cigarette and answered, “I’m going to say yes because I think you have the capacity to hurt me the way I need you to.”