I say, “But what will you wear? A sexy habit?”
“No. But it’s long, so you never know what could be under it.”
I say, “Oh, you should wear black lace panties and nothing else under it.”
He says, “That’s hot.” They laugh.
Knives peel my skin, a red mist of rage. I dash my glass at the ground; it shatters, glass and ice everywhere, alcohol pooling on the wood. I spin on my heel, tears coming fast, push past shocked faces to the door, out onto the cold street, fumbling with my car keys. I’m starting the engine when he comes up, bangs his fist against the hood. “What the hell happened? What’s happening? Why did you do that?” And then when he realizes I mean to drive away, “Wait! I’m coming with you.”
“No!” I shout against the closed window.
“But what happened? How will I get home?”
“Maybe your sexy nun can take you.”
I peel away as his palm slaps against the hood. At the door of the house, a small crowd of shocked mouths, raised eyebrows. I see someone come out to put an arm around him and lead him inside. I don’t care. I leave them all behind, drive over the quiet bridge shaking, silent tears running down, soaking my blouse. At home I lie in bed, curled into a comma, the heart ripped out of me. It lies next to me in a nest of bloody veins like the site of a detonated bomb. I watch it as it bleeds itself out on the sheets, thuds a final time, and starts to turn gray at the edges, and then I fall asleep.
*
We make up, of course. I cried. He was shaken, but he forgave me. I promised I wouldn’t do that again. We started making jokes about sexy nuns until it entered the language of our relationship and neither of us could remember the details of that party. I was happy again. There is nothing I want more than him. He is the whole of it.
*
Months later, we are at a Chinese restaurant in Berkeley. We are sharing brown rice and broccoli with veggie chicken. I eat the forested tops of the broccoli and he spears the trunks, which I cannot stand, off my plate. This silly synchronicity in our broccoli desires is something that has always felt auspicious to me, another sign that cosmic forces had taken an interest and said “These two will do nicely” and nudged us toward each other that night three years ago. I am talking about my last shift, a particularly daunting patient, the frustrations of conflicting medications and a family that doesn’t trust us.
He says “Uh-huh” and “Hmmm” as he folds a sheet of paper over and over, making it take the shape of a tiny white crane. I say, “Are you even listening to me?” He says, “Yup, uh-huh, yes,” and slowly, carefully writes something in minuscule letters on the bird. He looks at me with that deep-water gaze and holds the origami out on his palm. I take it and stare at the tiny writing until I understand that it is asking me a question.
I raise my eyebrows. “What?”
“Why not? I love you.”
“My god. Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
I can’t think of a single reason why not, and so we do.
*
We are married under the golden dome of City Hall at the top of the curving marble staircase on a silver day in May. I wear a long slinky white dress and carry a jumble of dahlias in every shade of red I can find. His parents are here, wearing formal but sensible clothes, looking surprised but happy.