How well do you know the person you’re married to?
Last week, if someone had me this question, I would have
said that I know Monty well. Sure, we have our ups and downs, but for the most
part I can predict him. I can trust him.
But I forgot how subversive he can be. I’d forgotten that
his passionate idealism, which is the very quality that made me fall in love,
can manifest as a stubborn, petulant insistence to take the road less
traveled. Even if that road is leading toward a dead end.
So I shouldn’t have been surprised when I came home the
other day and saw it. A sky-blue rectangle with large white block letters, Bernie, 2015, was plastered against the
rear bumper of our Subaru.
It was the middle of the day. After a morning of teaching I
had decided to pop home before heading over to my parent’s house. I spend every
Thursday afternoon with my dad, who never fully recovered from his stroke, so
my mom can run errands or just take a break. But when I saw the Bernie Sanders
bumper sticker on our family vehicle I could think of nothing else. I rushed
inside to find Monty standing at our kitchen counter, making a peanut butter
and jelly sandwich, which had to be for him because Noah and Abby were at
school.
He turned when he heard me come in, and a smile lit up his
face. “Hey,” he said warmly. “You decided to stop home for lunch? Want me to
make you a sandwich?”
Monty works from home a lot of the time. He’s a very social
person and I know he craves interaction, so I felt a twinge of regret, bursting
his bubble, meeting his enthusiasm with irritation.
But I was upset.
“Why is there a
Bernie Sanders bumper sticker on our car?” My voice was hard and my arms were
crossed resolutely over my chest.
He wrinkled his forehead and then turned his back to me, ostensibly
to finish making his sandwich. “I got that the other day. They sent it to me
for donating money to his campaign.”
“Monty!” I stepped over so I could invade his personal space.
He finished spreading the jelly and pressed the two pieces of bread together. “How
could you do that, without talking about it to me first?”
“I need your permission to put a bumper sticker on my car?”
He rolled his eyes, put his sandwich on a plate, and busied himself with putting
the jelly and bread back in the refrigerator, the peanut butter in the cabinet,
and the dirty knife in the sink.
“It’s our car! I
drive it too. And you knew very well that I wouldn’t be okay with this!”
“It’s just a bumper sticker, Luce!”
“No, it’s not!” I took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. “You
know I support Hillary, and you know I’m worried about her chances. So it’s not
‘just a bumper sticker’ – it’s a passive aggressive attempt to piss me off!”
He sighed and clenched his jaw simultaneously; I hate it
when he does that. “This isn’t about you. I happen to support Sanders. Okay?”
“No, not okay! You liked Hillary in ’08, back when she was
the underdog against Obama. And my God, you voted for Nader in 2000. You just
want to be subversive!”
“So what if I do? It’s not like society is so great that we
can’t use a little bit of subversion!” He closed the refrigerator door with his
foot, and turned toward me, shoulders squared. “Besides, Sanders stands for
what I actually believe in!”
“Oh, grow up, Monty! You know he has NO chance of getting
elected! Supporting him is like handing Rubio, Bush, or God forbid, Trump, the
presidency on a silver platter!”
Monty shook his head ruefully. “Do you even have any ideals
anymore, Lucy? Or is it just all about winning? You tell me to grow up? Well
that’s too bad, because you’ve gotten OLD!”
My jaw dropped. “I can’t believe you’d say something so
mean!” I ran one hand through my hair and the other my stomach.
He stammered. “I didn’t mean old as in unattractive. I meant
old, as in too conservative…”
“Never mind!”
I spun on my heel but he jumped forward and blocked my path
out of the kitchen. “You’re not leaving until we resolve this!”
“You don’t get to decide that!” I pushed against his chest,
but he was unyielding.
“You know I think you’re hot.”
“I don’t care about that. I want the Sanders sticker off our
car.”
“How about I buy an even bigger Hillary bumper sticker and
put it on other car?”
I shook my head. “No. We put it next to the Sanders one, so
they’re side by side.”
“Fine.” He narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice to a
sultry rasp. “But then we’re doing the same thing on both cars.”
I exhaled loudly. “Fine.”
I was very aware of the rise and fall of my chest, and how
if I moved forward a fraction of an inch, my chest would be pressed against
his. And then, because arguing can get us both riled up, and because I do
actually care about whether or not Monty thinks I’m hot, but mostly because we
were alone and awake, I let Monty kiss me. I knew what was coming when his lips
parted, when he tilted down his dark head, when he reached out both arms to
hold me.
I did not step away.
Instead I met his embrace with enthusiasm, though I was
still angry. Soon we were tugging off each other’s clothes and taking out our
aggression in the most fun, if not the most healthy, sort of way.
When we were done we laid together on the kitchen floor,
sharing the peanut butter sandwich Monty had made earlier.
“I’m still idealistic,” I said. “I care about way more than
winning.”
“I know.” Monty kissed me softly on the mouth and I could
taste his peanut butter breath.
But I wasn’t so sure myself. It’s easy to make claims. It’s
not always easy to believe them.
How well do I know my husband? About as well as I know
myself.
