Team Sixty Nine
"The team never wins if one person loses." - Scene - Rated R
“What would you do if I died?”
He’s at the table, holding our baby. I’m at the door of our second floor walkup in Carroll Gardens, keys in hand. There is no reason to believe I’ll die anytime soon.
“What? Why would you ask such a horrible thing? I have a meeting in two minutes.”
“Ugh!” I toss my head back.
“What would you do if I died?” I’m impatient. “It should be easy to answer. You just have to say ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you. My life would be shit.’”
If the people who come into your life weren't so often perfect magnets, pulling you towards or repelling you from the lessons you need to learn, I might not so adamantly believe in soul mates. Twin flames are obviously a load of bullshit but karmic lovers aren’t. Which is me saying the phrase ‘twin flames’ has gotten a bad reputation. So has ‘soul mates,’ really. Even ‘karmic lovers’ is cringe. But I know people are meant for each other. Destined. They must be. Joe and I are a 69 of complementary opposites. Sometimes 69 is great: we are the same in many ways - two sides of a coin. But sometimes it’s an ouroboros biting its tail - which must have inspired that film about the human centipede. Which is me saying sometimes these lessons taste like shit. Here’s an example.
“Or at least say, ‘gosh I’m so glad you’re feeling well. I couldn’t go on without you.’”
I want a mother.
“Yea those are the kinds of things people only say in their minds in England.”
Joe’s not a mother.
“Would it hurt to say them every once in a while? Ya know that’s the kind of thing someone on their deathbed says. ‘Oh if only I’d said all those things I was thinking out loud.’” Lessons in life learned too late.
The extremity makes me smirk. Absurdist, really. As if Joe would ever. The humor diffused tension reminds me that in fact, I love this about him. His disinterest in deliberation. Joe’s here to help me give myself what I want, by not giving it to me myself. He doesn’t know this. He isn’t doing it on purpose. It’s just who he is.
Joe has confidence in our ships’ stability no matter the weather. There’s a reason a bi woman finds herself with this masculine man; she was raised by a single dad. Despite a love for hashing shit out internally (chewing on her own shit?), she despises anyone who wants to do it more than her. It’s unsettling. If Joe didn’t balance out of my overthinking, I could waste my life in mental limbo. The purgatory of self. He’s my unmoving guide. The Beefeater – unreactive, guarding; never directing – always there.
He still doesn’t answer my question. He’s not meant to. His Zoom alarm chimes and he greets the voices I recognize, but don’t know.
I leave our disheveled apartment. Three days of me under the weather left our environments disturbed. I was. He was. We were. When is there time for connection when one holds the familial flag while the other shivers in sweaty sheets? No one wins when milk ducts are infected.
It’s time to pick up our eldest from play school. The walk is my first moment of solitude in days. I walk slowly, letting my lymph bounce through my braless chest. Breathing. Thinking. Overthinking.
Joe makes dinner for us. Steak with salad. I wipe smeared meat juice off kid faces, chair arms, and the table. He puts the toddler in pajamas. I put the baby in his sleep suit. Joe brushes teeth. He reads them books. I nurse the baby to sleep, and he lays with the toddler who falls asleep first. Joe walks out through our room, past our bed where I lay nursing. My boob throbs and I breathe through it. His left hand reaches for my toes and squeezes. A consoling grin. Eye contact. Touch is talk.
As soon as I’m able, I sneak off our queen bed, making sure that the baby and his video monitor is properly positioned. Joe is on the couch, reading. I kneel before him. I rest my head on his knee. He puts his palm on my hair.
“Your hair’s looking great, by the way.”
“Fever sweat. My new hair product.”
“It suits you.”
“I thought the same thing, actually.”
I nuzzle into his leg. He pets my face.
“Thank you for dinner. It revived me,” I said.
“I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
I ask for his help one last time - to unbutton his trousers, and raise his hips so I might undress his bottom half.
