I will admit: When I got home that night, I went to the refrigerator and took out another apple. But I stopped twisting at J and put the apple back.
You see, I didn’t trust myself. I knew that even if the apple wasn’t ready, I was going to pull that stem.
healthy, adj.
There are times when I’m alone that I think, This is it. This is actually the natural state. All I need are my thoughts and my small acts of creation and my ability to go or do whatever I want to go or do. I am myself, and that is the point. Pairing is a social construction. It is by no means necessary for everyone to do it. Maybe I’m better like this. Maybe I could live my life in my own world, and then simply leave it when it’s time to go.
hiatus, n.
“It’s up to you,” you said, the graciousness of the cheater toward the cheatee.
I guess I don’t believe in a small break. I feel a break is a break, and if it starts small, it only gets wider.
So I said I wanted you to stay, even though nothing could stay the same.
hubris, n.
Every time I call you mine, I feel like I’m forcing it, as if saying it can make it so. As if I’m reminding you, and reminding the universe: mine. As if that one word from me could have that kind of power.
I
I, n.
Me without anyone else.
idea, n.
“I’m quitting,” you say. “I can’t believe how wasted I was. This time, I’m really going to do it.”
And I tell you I’ll help. It’s almost a script at this point.
imperceptible, adj.
We stopped counting our relationship in dates (first date, second date, fifth date, seventh) and started counting it in months. That might have been the first true commitment, this shift in terminology. We never talked about it, but we were at a party and someone asked how long we’d been together, and when you said, “A month and a half,” I knew we had gotten there.
impromptu, adj.
I have summer Fridays off; you don’t. So what better reason for me to take you to lunch and then keep you at lunch for the whole afternoon? Reserving these afternoons to do all the city things we never get around to doing — wandering through MoMA, stopping in at the Hayden Planetarium, hopping onto the Staten Island Ferry and riding back and forth, back and forth, watching all the people as they unknowingly parade for us. You notice clothes more than I do, so it’s a pleasure to hear your running commentary, to construct lives out of worn handbags or shirts opened one button too low. Had we tried to plan these excursions, they never would have worked. There has to be that feeling of escape.
inadvertent, adj.
You left your email open on my computer. I couldn’t help it — I didn’t open any of them, but I did look at who they were from, and was relieved.
incessant, adj.
The doubts. You had to save me from my constant doubts. That deep-seeded feeling that I wasn’t good enough for anything — I was a fake at my job, I wasn’t your equal, my friends would forget me if I moved away for a month. It wasn’t as easy as hearing voices — nobody was telling me this. It was just something I knew. Everyone else was playing along, but I was sure that one day they would all stop.
indelible, adj.
That first night, you took your finger and pointed to the top of my head, then traced a line between my eyes, down my nose, over my lips, my chin, my neck, to the center of my chest. It was so surprising, I knew I would never mimic it. That one gesture would be yours forever.
ineffable, adj.
These words will ultimately end up being the barest of reflections, devoid of the sensations words cannot convey. Trying to write about love is ultimately like trying to have a dictionary represent life. No matter how many words there are, there will never be enough.
infidel, n.
We think of them as hiding in the hills — rebels, ransackers, rogue revolutionaries. But really, aren’t they just guilty of infidelity?
innate, adj.
“Why do you always make the bed?” I asked. “We’re only going to get back in it later tonight.”
You looked at me like I was the worst kind of slacker.
“It’s just what I’ve always done,” you said. “We always had to make our beds. Always.”
integral, adj.
I was so nervous to meet Kathryn. You’d made it clear she was the only friend whose opinion you really cared about, so I spent more time getting dressed for her than I ever had for you. We met at that sushi place on Seventh Avenue and I awkwardly shook her hand, then told her I’d heard so much about her, which came off like me trying to legitimize your friendship, when I was the one who needed to get the stamp of approval. I was on safer ground once we started talking about books, and she seemed impressed that I actually read them. She remarked on the steadiness of my job, the steadiness of my family. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be steady, but she saw my unease and assured me it was a good thing, not usually your type. We found out we’d gone to summer camp within ten minutes of each other, and that sealed it. You were lost in our tales of the Berkshires and the long, unappreciative stretches we’d spent on the Tanglewood lawn.
At the end of the dinner, I got a hug, not a handshake. She seemed so relieved. I should have been glad . . . but it only made me wonder about the other guys of yours that she’d met. I wondered why I was considered such a break from the norm.
J
jaded, adj.
We’ll have contests to see which one of us can be more skeptical. America will never vote for a Jew for president right on down to The younger, cuter, puppydog guy will totally be the next American Idol. Like our own version of that old song — “Anything you can do, I can do bleaker.”
But.
In the end, we both want the right thing to happen, the right person to win, the right idea to prevail. We have no faith that it will, but still we want it. Neither of us has given up on anything.
jerk, v.
“This has to stop,” I say. “You have to stop hurting me. I can’t take it. I really can’t take it.”
“I know you can’t take it,” you say. “But is that really my fault?”
I try to convince myself that it’s the alcohol talking. But alcohol can’t talk. It just sits there. It can’t even get itself out of the bottle.
“It is your fault,” I tell you. But you’ve already left the room.
justice, n.
I tell you about Sal Kinsey, the boy who spit on me every morning for a month in seventh grade, to the point that I could no longer ride the bus. It’s just a story, nothing more than that. In fact, it comes up because I’m telling you how I don’t really hate many people in this world, and you say that’s hard to believe, and I say, “Well, there’s always Sal Kinsey,” and then have to explain.
The next day, you bring home a photo of him now, downloaded from the Internet. He is morbidly obese — one of my favorite phrases, so goth, so judgmental. He looks miserable, and the profile you’ve found says he’s single and actively looking.
I think that will be it. But then, the next night, you tell me that you tracked down his office address. And not only that, you sent him a dozen roses, signing the card, It is so refreshing to see that you’ve grown up to be fat, desperate, and lonely. Anonymous, of course. You even ordered the bouquet online, so no florist could divulge your personal information.
I can’t help but admire your capacity for creative vengeance. And at the same time, I am afraid of it.
juxtaposition, n.
It scares me how hard it is to remember life before you. I can’t even make the comparisons anymore, because my memories of that time have all the depth of a photograph. It seems foolish to play games of better and worse. It’s simply a matter of is and is no longer.
K
kerfuffle, n.
From now on, you are only allowed one drink at any of my office parties. One. Preferably a beer.
kinetic, adj.
Joanna asked me to des
cribe you, and I said, “Kinetic.”
We were both surprised by this response. Usually, with a date, it was “I don’t know . . . cool” or “Not that bad” or, at the highest level of excitement, “Maybe it will work out.” But there was something about you that made me think of sparks and motion.
I still see that now. Less when we’re alone. More when we’re with other people. When you’re surrounded by life. Reaching out to it, gathering energy.
L
lackluster, adj.
And when Kathryn asked you about me, I imagined you said, “He’s lackluster.”
Which is why I waited for you to ask me out for the second date. Just to be sure I hadn’t underwhelmed you.
latitude, n.
“We’re not, like, seeing other people, right?” I asked. We were barely over the one-month mark, I believe.
You nodded.
“Excellent,” I said.
“But I have to tell you something,” you added — and my heart sank.
“What?”
“At first, I was seeing someone else. Only for the first week or two. Then I told him it wasn’t going to work.”
“Because of me?”
“Partly. And partly because it wouldn’t have worked anyway.”
I was glad I hadn’t known I was in a contest; I don’t know if I could have handled that. But still, it was strange, to realize my version of those weeks was so far from yours.
What a strange phrase — –not seeing other people. As if it’s been constructed to be a lie. We see other people all the time. The question is what we do about it.
leery, adj.
Those first few weeks, after you told me, I wasn’t sure we were going to make it. After working for so long on being sure of each other, sure of this thing, suddenly we were unsure again. I didn’t know whether or not to touch you, sleep with you, have sex with you.
Finally, I said, “It’s over.”
libidinous, adj.
I never understood why anyone would have sex on the floor. Until I was with you and I realized: you don’t ever realize you’re on the floor.
livid, adj.
Fuck you for cheating on me. Fuck you for reducing it to the word cheating. As if this were a card game, and you sneaked a look at my hand. Who came up with the term cheating, anyway? A cheater, I imagine. Someone who thought liar was too harsh. Someone who thought devastator was too emotional. The same person who thought, oops, he’d gotten caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Fuck you. This isn’t about slipping yourself an extra twenty dollars of Monopoly money. These are our lives. You went and broke our lives. You are so much worse than a cheater. You killed something. And you killed it when its back was turned.
love, n.
I’m not going to even try.
lover, n.
Oh, how I hated this word. So pretentious, like it was always being translated from the French. The tint and taint of illicit, illegitimate affections. Dictionary meaning: a person having a love affair. Impermanent. Unfamilial. Inextricably linked to sex.
I have never wanted a lover. In order to have a lover, I must go back to the root of the word. For I have never wanted a lover, but I have always wanted to love, and to be loved.
There is no word for the recipient of the love. There is only a word for the giver. There is the assumption that lovers come in pairs.
When I say, Be my lover, I don’t mean, Let’s have an affair. I don’t mean, Sleep with me. I don’t mean, Be my secret.
I want us to go back down to that root.
I want you to be the one who loves me.
I want to be the one who loves you.
M
macabre, adj.
If you ever need proof that I love you, the fact that I allowed you to dress me up as a dead baby Jesus for Halloween should do it. Although I suppose it would be even better proof if it hadn’t been Halloween.
makeshift, adj.
I had always thought there were two types of people: the helpless and the fixers. Since I’d always been in the first group, calling my landlord whenever the faucet dripped, I was hoping you’d be a fixer. But once we moved in together, I realized there’s a third group: the inventors. You possess only a vague notion of how to fix things, but that doesn’t stop you from using bubble gum as a sealant, or trying to create ouchless mousetraps out of peanut-butter crackers, a hollowed-out Dustbuster, and a picture of a scarecrow torn out of a magazine fashion spread.
Things rarely get fixed the way they need to be.
masochist, n.
If there wasn’t a word for it, would we realize our masochism as much?
meander, v.
“. . . because when it all comes down to it, there’s no such thing as a two-hit wonder. So it’s better just to have that one song that everyone knows, instead of diluting it with a follow-up that only half succeeds. I mean, who really cares what Soft Cell’s next single was, as long as we have ‘Tainted Love’?”
I stop. You’re still listening.
“Wait,” I say. “What was I talking about? How did we get to ‘Tainted Love’?”
“Let’s see,” you say. “I believe we started roughly at the Democratic gains in the South, then jumped back to the election of 1948, dipping briefly into northern constructions of the South, vis-à-vis Steel Magnolias, Birth of a Nation, Johnny Cash, and Fried Green Tomatoes. Which landed you on To Kill a Mockingbird, and how it is both Southern and universal, which — correct me if I’m wrong — got us to Harper Lee and her lack of a follow-up novel, intersected with the theory, probably wrong, that Truman Capote wrote the novel, then hopping over to literary one-hit wonders, and using musical one-hit wonders to make a point about their special place in our culture. I think.”
“Thank you,” I say. “That’s wonderful.”
misgivings, n.
Last night, I got up the courage to ask you if you regretted us.
“There are things I miss,” you said. “But if I didn’t have you, I’d miss more.”
motif, n.
You don’t love me as much as I love you. You don’t love me as much as I love you. You don’t love me as much as I love you.
N
narcissism, n.
You couldn’t believe I didn’t own a full-length mirror.
nascent, adj.
“I just don’t like babies,” you said as I led you home.
“Now is probably not the time for this conversation,” I told you.
“Whatever. I’m just saying. I really don’t like babies. You should know that. I don’t want to keep that from you.”
“We’ve actually had this conversation,” I said. “And also conversations where you say how great kids are. But the last time we had this specific conversation, it was after Lila’s kid threw up on you.”
I should not have mentioned it. You paused for a moment and I thought, Lord, please don’t puke now, just to illustrate a point.
But you recovered.
“I’m just saying. I really can’t stand babies.”
I should have let it go. But instead I asked, “But don’t you want to pass on your incredible genes?”
neophyte, n.
There are millions upon millions of people who have been through this before — why is it that no one can give me good advice?
nomenclature, n.
You got up to stretch, and I said, “Hey, you’re in Ivan’s way.”
You looked at the TV and said, “That’s Tina Fey.”
I tried to keep a straight face when I explained, “No. The TV’s name is Ivan.”
“The TV has a name.”
“Yes. And you’ll never guess what it is.”
“Does everything have a name?”
The answer was no, only Ivan. Because when I bought it with Joanna, I promised her I would call it Ivan.
But I didn’t tell you that. Instead, I told you I’d named everything.
You pointed to the couch.
“Olga,” I said.
The refrigerator.
“Calvin.”
The kitchen table.
“Selena.”
The bed.
“Otis,” I said. “The bed is named Otis.”
You pointed to the light fixture over our head.
“C’mon,” I said. “Who names a light fixture?”
non sequitur, n.
This is what it sounds like when doves cry.
O
obstinate, adj.
Sometimes it becomes a contest: Which is more stubborn, the love or the two arguing people caught within it?
offshoot, n.
“I don’t like Vampire Weekend nearly as much as Kathryn does,” you said. “Ask her to go with you.”
And so we went on our first date without you — awkward, hesitant, self-conscious. The best friend and the boyfriend — no way to know how to split the check. To talk about you would be disloyal, weird. But what else did we have in common?
The Lover's Dictionary Page 4