They were eating pastina with an egg yolk melted inside. The child
was separating the stars from one another and eating them singly. BRB
told her husband about the dancing. How she danced like a figure skater,
something to behold. He told her she could not dance, she could not
carry a tune. Of the many things he did for her, he reenacted how her
mother would have spoken to her. With the accent and everything.
“You don’t understand,” she said. “A whole room crowded around us.”
“I’ve had orgasms less effective than this mental masturbation right
“Remember our first night?” she said.
It was at a bar in Tribeca. A male stylist with very long black hair
and gothic features was coming on to her as well. Her husband was not
exactly coming on to her. They did not dance, but they talked all night.
Everything that happened between them that was sexual was instigated
Their child slashed her fork in her mother’s face. Whenever BRB was
bored of interacting with the child, whenever she wanted to read a news
article or take a bath or take a Xanax and sit on the couch, she did not.
She gave herself wholly to the child. Not out of love but out of fear that a
day would come when she would rue the missed opportunities.
“I do,” he said. “Fucking Edward Scissorhands. Bet he would have
swung you around a room.”
“Do you know,” she said, taking their child onto her lap, “what the
kids say now? Like when they’re about to jump off a cliff or eat a Tide
“That’s cool,” her husband said.
“It means, Yeah, fuck it, go nuts without regard for your personal
safety. Or it means do something with complete confidence, don’t look
“Yeah, same thing. So you sent it that night, on the dance floor?”
“You fell in love with me that night. Just talking.”
“So that’s the kind of dancer I am, too.”
He stopped, looked over the head of the child. He looked blank, but
then she realized he was remembering.