A Sense of Us

Vinegar-soaked fish and chips in a London pub, our families escaping the summer heat in 2006. You, me, your brother, my sister, all of us in a dark wood booth beside a window. English bric-a-brac, the smell of Guinness. In the spring, we’d both graduated from the University of Oklahoma and turned twenty-two within months of each other, which meant we’d known each other half our lives. But age eleven was ancient history. Now I wanted to flirt with you, even though our parents were just one booth over, discussing our vacation’s itinerary. On the tour bus earlier, I had conducted recon—

Me: “How’s your girlfriend?”

You: “We broke up.” A pause. “How’s your boyfriend?”

Me: “We broke up.”

—this on mental replay as I chewed my fried fish, a dash of lemon juice cutting the oil, the succulent white meat flaking over my tongue. Later I wore white pinstriped pants and a magenta top to a reception in the hotel ballroom. My hand brushed the brass buttons at your blazer’s cuff. People chatted, tapped their wine glasses together. You turned to me—“Do you want to dance?” Couples twirled to Michael Bublé crooning through the speakers: But don’t forget who’s taking you home / And in whose arms you’re gonna be / So darlin’ / Save the last dance for me. As we found our rhythm, the room melted away. Only your eyes remained, wide with fascination and an unfamiliar kind of hunger.

Roasted chicken, parsnips, and yams when you came to Phoenix over your students’ holiday break in December. After London, you had gone to South Dakota to teach math on a reservation, and I had moved to Arizona to work as a legal assistant. In my studio apartment, the air still fragrant with thyme and rosemary, we sat on my loveseat and watched The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou. Later, in the dark, we discussed our personal histories and hopes for the future. When you asked me to be your girlfriend, I thought, Finally. And we made plans to never go more than a couple months without a visit.

A savory chili two months later when I traveled to the snow-covered Dakotas. Beef, kidney beans, and crushed tomatoes simmered in a tinny pot on your stove, warming the whole house. We ate bowlfuls at your table before moving to the couch, where we laughed at episodes of How I Met Your Mother, a fleece blanket around our shoulders. “A year and a half is a long time,” I said. Your teaching contract’s remainder. “We’ll figure it out,” you said. And we did. Then you joined me in Phoenix and, three apartments later, we saved up enough money to buy a one-story stucco off Sweetwater Avenue.

Spaghetti with meat sauce the evening you proposed in spring 2014. The ground beef sizzling, the chopped onions and garlic aromatic. “I love it here,” I called toward the bedroom, where you were changing out of your work clothes. “I walked around our new neighborhood today, and the sunset over the park was beautiful—red and orange, pink and purple. It was perfect.” Then you came around the corner, got down on one knee, held out a box with a diamond ring. You said, “The only thing that could make it better is if you would be my wife.” And I thought, Now it really is perfect.

“Eggs in a basket” one April morning the following year, after the wedding invitations had gone out. I took a biscuit cutter to two slices of bread, cooked eggs in their centers, and carried the plate to our frosted-glass patio table where you pretended to journal. But you were actually texting sweet nothings to her, your coworker who gave you the pet name “mister,” who fantasized about kissing you in your office. When I called the months-long thing an “affair,” you felt the need to clarify—“You mean just an emotional affair.” You began sleeping in the guest room. I canceled the wedding vendors and moved to my parents’ place in Glendale, where I buried my wedding dress in a closet. The truth was you’d never looked at me again like you did that night in London, and the day had come when I was sure you never would.

When I recall those eight years with you, what comes back more readily are the things I tasted, heard, smelled, touched that are unrelated to your person. But this is not erosion of memory. Imagine a rope extending backward through time to the very beginning of us, connecting you to every moment. When you chose to hurt me, to keep things from me (your time, your energy, your heart, not to mention the truth), you gave the rope a hard yank, ripping every version of yourself from the timeline, leaving my senses to compensate for the person-turned-void, a man in silhouette only.

Shrimp atop thin rice noodles in a garlicky curry sauce, my parents and I on the patio of a Chinese restaurant, Fourth of July fireworks illuminating the sky. The brilliant bursts of color made me feel alive again and hopeful. Like maybe life could restart. Like maybe I would find the confidence to try again. Like maybe somewhere, someone new would be so good to me I’d want to go looking for my dress again, pull it off the hanger one day, run my hand over the fabric.

-Marie Look

Marie Look is a Chinese American writer of creative nonfiction and short fiction. As a journalist, she’s contributed interviews, travel articles, and more to regional and national magazines. She is a graduate of the University of Oklahoma’s journalism program and a current student of creative writing at UCLA Extension. She lives with her husband and dog in Los Angeles. Learn more about her work at marielook.com.