enough faith for both of us. But this morning when he rolled his eyes after I blearily said waking up at
6 sucks, when he said tell me about it and then scoffed when I reminded him I woke up with him in
those days and made his breakfast and he said I always went back to bed (untrue), I unravelled quite a
bit. It feels like the beginning of something new and bad. Our hormones have calmed and I’m afraid of
what’s left. Maybe we had a good run and it’s ending. Maybe, much worse, it will get worse but keep
scraping along.
I’m learning to kickbox. My favorite part is wrapping my hands tight so I don’t hurt my bones. When I
started it didn’t matter that my wraps were sloppy, wound loosely in a few x’s across the backs of my
hands and knuckles. Now I tug the wraps so tight my hands tingle like they might fall asleep because I
hit hard--I have to protect myself. I like my body becoming strong. I am fast. Most of all, I am learning
how to get hurt and keep moving, to fight through pain, to know that I’m not injured, just hurting, I will
heal, I can still move.
Last weekend we drove to Denver to stay in a pot-themed bed and breakfast. It was a grand adventure,
reckless, expensive, a test honeymoon. It was novel but by the first night, high as we could get without
passing out, we were bored with sex and laughing and food together. We got on our phones. The next
day we bought board games and cards but we were still bored. We should have done fewer drugs and
gone out, we say on the drive home. I wanted to talk to the owner of the BnB, I wanted to get out into
town, I wanted to do something. I was bored with being high but I was also bored with him. He never
wants to talk about politics. He never wants to talk about the big world. I feel so cynical, snobbish. On
the way home he admitted my body doesn’t excite him anymore although he finds me attractive. I bait
him into admitting it because I can tell. He says a thing he said when we first met and suggested an
open relationship: when you have prime rib every night, you get tired even of prime rib. It bothers me
less now than it did then, because I wasn’t shocked, the cut-of-meat analogy just as shitty but not new.