“That’s cool of him,” I remark, as coolly as I can possibly muster.
“Yeah. Anyway, my plan is to fill you with fat and cholesterol, then I was hoping you’d be satisfied enough to humor me…”
I turn around with plates and silverware, just in time to catch a sheepish look on her face. “Humor you?”
“Yeah.” She sets down the dish, opens her bag again, and gleefully reveals the next item, clutching it to her chest like it’s her most prized possession. “Friends marathon!”
“You’re kidding, right?”
Ally hugs the boxed set of DVDs and shakes her head. “I never kid about Friends. Come on, Justice! It’ll be fun! I even brought sustenance so we don’t have to leave your house for the entire day,” she says, pulling out bags of chips, packages of microwavable popcorn, candy and a two-liter of soda. “Just me, you, Ross, Monica, Rachel, Phoebe, Chandler and Joey. And enough junk food to clog all of our arteries.”
I pick up a king-size bag of peanut M&Ms. “Where’d you get all this stuff?”
“I begged Diane to help me out, telling her I had some serious PMS cravings that would only be satisfied with carbs. I wanted to make you an offer you couldn’t refuse.”
I make a disparaging face and rub the back of my neck. Ally’s expression falls in response. “Well… you’re lucky clogged arteries are so in style this season.”
Ally smiles and the sun burns my eyes. I just squint and smile too.
“OH MY GOD. That was…”
“Mmmmm.” I rub my full belly and swallow the last, delicious morsel of crispy fried chicken, fluffy waffle and sweet syrup. It’s the perfect bite.
“…amazing, delicious. Better than sex.”
“I don’t know about that,” I say, wiping my mouth with a napkin. “Riku is a great chef and all, but nothing is better than sex.”
“Meh.”
I raise a brow. “Meh?”
“Meh. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s pretty good. But sex is just… I don’t know. Just sex. I get why people enjoy it so much, but I just don’t understand why we give it so much power. It’s a physical act of love or affection, not love or affection itself. Relationships are about so much more than sex. It’s about trust, loyalty, honesty, kindness, respect—all things that don’t require a woman to spread her legs.”
I peg her with a bewildered stare. “You do know who you’re talking to, right?”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, Mr. Sexpert Extraordinaire. And I’ll admit; you know your stuff. But don’t you think there are other factors in a relationship, namely a marriage, which can impact sex? For instance, if your lover is sweet and sensitive and treats you like a treasure, don’t you think sex would be amazing? Even if it’s not that great physically?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.” I push my plate to the side and prop my elbows on the countertop, leaning towards her. “I agree that all of those elements are necessary and required in a relationship, but to be honest, it all leads to sex. You see, we’re sweet and funny and kind because we want sex. We sit through chick flicks, the theater and ballet because we want sex. We wait patiently as you try 83 variations of a black peep-toe pump because we want sex…while you wear the shoes.
“Think of it this way: trust, honesty, respect…all those things are like the playoffs during football season. You need to play them. They’re necessary to get you to where you want to be—the Super Bowl. Sex is the Super Bowl, Ally. And while those playoff games may have gotten you there, they really can’t win the game for you. No one says, “They played great in that game a few weeks ago, so it’s ok that they’re losing now.” It’s how you play the game that day that matters. That’s the only thing people care about.”
Ally nods solemnly as she mindlessly swirls the remnants of syrup on her plate with a fork. “So…what if you don’t have all the other stuff? What if there is no trust, no honesty, no respect? What if your partner loses every single game? Why on earth do they still feel deserving of sitting in the bleachers, let alone playing, at the Super Bowl?”
I look down where her hand continues to slide that fork through the sticky syrup. At the hand that houses her diamond wedding ring. Then I’m looking into her eyes, urging her to see me. To hear me. “Maybe you’re just rooting for the wrong team.”
She’s quiet, but she holds my gaze, those wild eyes uncovering every complicated layer of my admission. I know she wants to ask me what I mean, and at this moment, I can’t lie to her. When she looks at me like that, like I somehow matter in her world, that I actually take up space somewhere in her thoughts, she can ask me anything. And I’d hand her every single one of my secrets on a silver platter.
“Come on,” I say, standing to my feet and breaking our trance. I hold out my hand, offering the only thing I can provide her. The only thing I’m worthy of giving her: right now. “I want to watch Friends with my friend.”