The first Friday in February and everything’s a mess. Yesterday was my 5 year anniversary. We sat on the couch together and watched Big Love. I found the Halloween candy I had stashed away months ago and thought of the irony as I popped one Whopper after another into my mouth. They were waxy and white, but if I sucked on them long enough they collapsed in my mouth and it was satisfying. We never really took a honeymoon, having gotten engaged on a Wednesday and married that Friday. But since we had already planned a vacation to Costa Rica we called that our honeymoon and away we went. When I look back on that trip I think of lying on sandy unmade beds with my bare feet on the walls, how I told Bryan that if I got pregnant we would name the baby after the town in which it was conceived. This was in Pavones which I later found out means “vulture.” I think of the two dogs that followed us on a walk down the beach one afternoon; they had been having sex and were still hooked together, the female dog dragging the male behind her awkwardly, the both of them looking rather annoyed and hungry. The airlines lost Bryan’s surfboard on the flight to San José and he was pissed. Once he got it back, the surf went flat and then he drank some funky water and didn’t move for 4 days. In the photos from our honeymoon Bryan’s face is too thin, my eyes too pleading. It wasn’t until we got home that it became a wonderful honeymoon, romantic. Perfect! In my white woman way I wonder if I am only allowed degrees of happiness. I can have this, but not that, here, but hand it over. We are never going to get ahead, Bryan said to me the other night, and just like that I hated him. Why do I always have to be the cheerleader? I said. It’s exhausting! You’re always bringing me down! I don’t want to be with someone like this! And then he said something and then I said something and then I left the room and he stayed. I’m sorry, I said. Thirty minutes later. I’m sorry, and I love you. I would never leave, and I meant it, mean it, 5, 10, 15, forever years, my family. We are perfect in the way that dogs fuck and get stuck together, romantic sandy feet on white walls. I wouldn’t have it any other way, and if it’s true? If I am only allowed certain happinesses at the expense of others? Then I choose this, hands down. Waxy, dirty, broke but loved.
If I practiced polygamy I would also marry this. A poster the recipient completes by revealing spot-varnished type with hands made dirty by handling the poster, the back of which is coated with powdered pigment. This is the first of a series of posters. Via Love It A Lot.