You can’t even come up with a decent third piece of evidence. The first time he saw you without a bra, he said you had “the sexiest tits [he’d] ever seen.” You’re not so dumb that you think evidence of lust is the same as evidence of love. Still, the lust is intoxicating and appreciated. You have always felt lumbering, misshapen, and bulky. He looks at you like you’re butter and he’s a hot knife.
You decide it doesn’t matter if he loves you. You love him. You know what you feel.
You know what you feel, but there are still a few things that bother you.
He doesn’t want to have vaginal intercourse with you. You have every other kind of sex that a man and a woman can have, but not that kind. You want to have it with the congressman, but you don’t press him. You are still a virgin, in a way, and you’re slightly scared of what will happen. It hurt so much when you did it with that boy who didn’t ask permission. You haven’t done it since.
Another thing that bothers you is the fact that he says he will end his marriage after the next election. You know that congressmen run for office every two years. As long as he’s a congressman, will there ever be a good time to end his marriage? He’s always in the middle of a campaign.
If he becomes a senator or a governor, which you know he would prefer, then there would be more wiggle room. This isn’t outside the realm of possibility. He is very ambitious, and his constituents in Miami love him. He’s Jewish and good on Israel. He speaks Spanish, which goes a long way in South Florida. He served in the military and is always fighting to expand veterans’ benefits. He was a teacher and came out against testing as a sole measure of a school’s progress. He photographs like a model. Babies love him. They are almost obsessively drawn to him. The point is, he ticks a lot of boxes for people. Even outside Florida, the congressman’s getting to be a star. It’s only his second term, but he broadly caucuses, and he’s already serving on several committees and subcommittees. No one thinks Aaron Levin will be a “lifer” in the House, although there’s already talk that he might make a good Speaker of the House someday. Considering all this, you believe his career would survive his marriage ending, assuming it was all handled properly.
You need someone to talk to about all of this.
If you talk to Charlie.
If you talk to your mother.
You tell your mom about the affair, and she begs you to end it. She literally gets on her knees. You have to tell her, “Mom, please get off the floor.” Once you’ve told her, she won’t talk about anything else. You regret telling your mother. You had told her because you had wanted to discuss the relationship with her, as two adults. You had things you wanted to know—why doesn’t he want to have vaginal intercourse with you, for instance? But she is so hung up on the morality of it that she’s useless. She rails on about your good name—“It’s all you take to the next life, Aviva!”—and your grandmother who survived the Holocaust and whatever else she can think of. Finally, you cry and tell her that you’ll end it even though you know that you won’t.
You accept that you have no one to talk to. The congressman has been pretty adamant that you need to keep your relationship a secret. “None of the other interns,” he says one night, “not your roommate, no one.” And maybe he’s right. The only person you would have even trusted to tell was your mom, and look how that turned out. Because you have no one to talk to, you begin to write about the relationship in your blog. Just a little. You’re coy with details. You’ve been watching a lot of Sex and the City, and you think of yourself as a younger, more political Carrie Bradshaw.
Data analytics tell you that you have about six regular readers of your blog. They occasionally leave supportive comments. One even asks if you’re based in Florida. You do not reply.
Maybe you thought having an affair would be exciting, but mainly what it is, is lonely. Your days are spent waiting for the nights, which is the only time you ever see him. And it’s not like it’s every night, or every other night, or even once a week. It’s when he has time, usually late. Less generously, it sometimes feels like he is a toddler with many toys and you are a doll he occasionally remembers to play with. Sometimes, he is in D.C. for weeks at a time, and this is almost better because at least you know there isn’t a chance you will see him. But those weeks are bad, too. You miss him constantly. You miss him even when you’re with him.
You never argue with him, because you know—in the part of yourself that knows—that he will end your relationship if you put up any kind of fuss. You have no power, and he has all the power. And this sometimes frustrates you. But you kissed him. That was your power, right? You asked for this. And this, you believe, is the price you pay for being with an extraordinary person.
The holidays are coming.
If you buy him a present.
If you don’t buy him a present.
You buy him a Chanukah present even though Chanukah is a children’s holiday. He doesn’t get anything for you, but you don’t expect it. You buy him a leather-bound edition of Leaves of Grass.
“This must have cost you two weeks’ salary,” he says, kissing you.
“You don’t pay me anything,” you remind him.
“We should do something about that,” he says. “I love it. This is the best gift I’ve ever received.” He kisses you again. “Did you have to rob a bank?”
“I’m a camp counselor during the summer,” you say.
“Oh God, your camp counselor money? Now I feel terrible.”
“I’ve got some bat mitzvah money left, too,” you say.
“Stop!” he says. “You’re killing me.”
“It wasn’t that much money,” you tell him. “Anyway, I’m glad you like it.”
“Do you know what the title means?” he asks.
You realize you have no idea. “Something to do with nature?” you say dumbly. He often says that you are mature for your age, wise, and you always want to impress him with the things you know. (But you are young and there is still so much you do not know!) “We studied ‘Song of Myself’ in school, but I’m not sure that we ever talked about the title of the collection,” you say.
“In Whitman’s time, ‘grass’ referred to cheap or low quality literature. So, he’s making a little joke. ‘Leaves’ like the pages of a book. It sounds pretentious, but actually, it’s the opposite of pretentious.”
He was an English teacher before he went into politics. He often gets in teacher mode, which is adorable and annoying at the same time.
You are in a Days Inn fifty miles outside of Miami. You don’t even know the name of the town. The bedspread is made of gold and green polyester. There is a reddish stain on the wall beneath the air conditioner. The air conditioner produces a meager, moldy cool and has a steady drip. You love him. You tell him you love him.
He says, “I will always treasure the time we spent together.”
If you take his words as a sign to break up with him and then you actually break up with him.
If you wait for him to break up with you.