“I’m going to need a blowtorch.”

Philippe Djian’s “Betty Blue” Translated by Howard Buten

History does repeat itself, with variation, and the price seems to go up each time.

Thomas A. Bailey

Journal from 2006, July [X]

Subject: Marriage proposals, employment law, coffee, intensive care. Same old, same old.

For some reason we always have good weather on this particular date. And today is no exception. Today is a glorious day.

It also happens to be the fifth anniversary of me proposing.

And … the anniversary of the fourth time I proposed.

Now, I know you have a head for this sort of thing; and you know, that I know you do to.

You made me really good coffee this morning. One of those artisanal roasts from the beans you picked up at the market. Really good coffee. More affectionate than usual too; and for a morning person—especially this time of year—something’s up.

I’m pretty sure I said last year, there would be no next year—but, if you’re going to be let down, you want to be let down, her way. She makes it seem like she’s doing you a favour. Her argument is always a variation on the first time’s, “you really think what we have is that good?” Emphasis on the “that;” or the second year’s, “you think making me an honest woman is gonna make “this girl” a better girl?” Emphasis on the “better.”

And she’s right, she’s always right. The one time I complained about anything she did, she had me convinced—within sixty seconds, I might add—that it was me who was in the wrong, and it was she, who was in fact, correct in every respect, “I don’t know why you don’t just call me Mary Poppins?” She said.

I didn’t say it was because I was not, under any circumstances, going to fuck a nanny; nor did I say it was because I’d be too worried about workplace harassment or unsafe working environment lawsuits; even though I would have been prepared to argue that the power differential really wasn’t skewed in my favour?  But how can you ever, really be sure?

Anyway, I can’t remember how she let me down the third time, but last year, she got as far as: Honey, if you really want improvements, and I just kissed her and said thank you—something about her being perfect—what’s there to say?

She’s a remarkable woman. I guess she’d have to be to see what she sees in me. I’m pretty smart, but she’s smarter. I’ve had my fair share of disturbances in the force—as has she—but we’ve ridden those bad-boys together and come out a little stronger and a little weirder. Together.

But I’m starting to get a funny feeling about the coffee. And she did do that thing she does from time to time that she knows drives me crazy (the good kind): she lies on her front, crosses her ankles, and rocks her lower limbs rhythmically back and forth, while resting her chin on hands, kinda propped up, triangle-like. Like she’s looking at me in ALL-CAPS.

Why didn’t I catch on this morning? It obviously means something.

I don’t think she was expecting me to propose (again)—it’s not gonna happen. She’s right. You can’t improve on perfection. I mean, if you take away the normal everyday stressors that affect everybody—sure a little extra cash would be good—but we get along; we have a lot of interests, we dig noise together, and I really don’t like noise; we dig SILENCE to the point that she’ll write notes and pass them to me; she doesn’t make me jealous, because I don’t have that particular gene, even though she is a world class seductress—perhaps I’m just bewitched.

Perhaps, now hear me out now. Perhaps, I’m in a coma, and none of this is real.

Oh my God —she’s either the person responsible for my vegetative state, or she’s my intensive care professional Now it’s beginning to make sense. No one’s that perfect.

But is she though? There was that one time I’d had hiccups for three days and I asked her to shock me, and she went mental—only time I ever saw her lose her temper—packed her bags, the works, finished perhaps the longest string of profanity I’ve ever heard—at volume—then punched me in the face.

She just stood there. Smiling.

I think about that a lot. If I’m going to enter marriage with someone, I want them to be prepared to punch me in the face, then laugh at me: it’s the perfect metaphor for 21^st Century relationships.

We’re already emotionally committed, psychologically committed, financially committed, spatial committed; were either one of us ever to be committed committed (again), I’m sure we’d find a way to join the other. It’s not something we’ve ever discussed, but I wouldn’t be willing to bet against it.

Yeah, the more I think about it, the more I think I’m right about the coma. I must have invented this woman.

Anna, are, you, real?

Because, that coffee really was good this morning.

—JustD

*the image is of Jessica, Capetown, South Africa, 2017, Photo

© 2017 Daniella Midenge