He’s quiet then, and I tell him I’m sorry.
“Don’t be. I guess we’ll just talk about it.”
“Talking is hard.”
“Yes, but we do it anyway.”
I reach for his hand. That’s the first time in mylife I’ve done something like that. He
gives a light squeeze and we stay like that, palmswarm nestled against each other, the tires
humming on the road below us.
To make up for it, to show I’m not this fragile, patheticthing that I feel to be, I invite him
to my apartment two days later.
He helps me make spaghetti, and he nearly fills upthe small space of the kitchen. We
brush shoulders, hips as we maneuver around one another.And perhaps it’s the steam from the
pot or the sizzle of the pan that makes everythingfeel like this is a home, a thing to share. And so
I do share with him, a bit.
Military dog tags are a trigger for me. In fact, thethought of being intimate with any
partner wearing a necklace that can dangle in my facemakes me physically ill. I spent half my
time growing up in a home where my choices did notmatter, and so I learned not to make them.
My father held me down and tickled me and didn’t understandwhy I would scream and kick at
him, called me a bitch and called me spoiled. Thiswas before he knew about the abuse, but it
shouldn’t have mattered. My mother, god bless her,the first thing she said after I told her about
the abuse was, “Are you fucking serious?” - my mothernever swore - “So all those times your
dad said I wasn’t raising you right at my house, thatwas happening?” And that yes, she was
supportive, but no, that wasn’t what I needed to hear.I say all this while breaking noodles in half