- WOMAN PINK JACKET DANCING TAME IMPALA LET IT HAPPEN HOW TO
- WOMAN PINK JACKET DANCING TAME IMPALA LET IT HAPPEN DRIVER
I pointed at him and at me and said “ solamente.” He said, “ Que?” I repeated the gesture.
WOMAN PINK JACKET DANCING TAME IMPALA LET IT HAPPEN DRIVER
Our driver (it was cheaper than renting a car) was a quiet kid who didn’t speak a lick of English. Murry slept on, so I slipped out with the driver to explore. In the morning, I awoke more or less better, if slightly weakened from not eating for 24 hours. Murry spent the night vomiting, dozing off on the floor of the bathroom. I spent 18 hours in a hostel bed in Trinidad, waking up only to diarrhea and shower periodically. We didn’t notice a water bottle had been previously opened until too late. Then, just as I was about at my limit, we got sick. By the end, I was jumping into cabs and then asking, “Uh, where the fuck are we going?” I got grumpy and shut down, stopped talking to anybody in any language. She was a terrible leader, never including anyone else in decisions or disseminating information. She could ask people questions, learn facts, gather intel, while I stood by, smiling mutely. She knew Spanish, so she became the de facto decision-maker simply because she had more information. Recently, I snuck into Cuba illegally with a girl I barely knew. Who we give it up to, who we exert it over, when we try to cling to it, and what all that says about us.
I’ve been thinking a lot about control lately. All the tiny tedious decisions I no longer have to make, well, the same way I way I got out of them also means I don’t get to decide the shade of the outside of my omelettes. But just when I opened my mouth to say all this, I realized: That’s the trade-off. I’ve been making my own omelettes since age 10. I’ve been living away from my parents since I was 8. I paused, spatula in hand, to turn and face her.
WOMAN PINK JACKET DANCING TAME IMPALA LET IT HAPPEN HOW TO
She had specifications for how to brown the meat, for how fine to dice the onions, for when to flip the eggs. Eventually, she moseyed over in one of my baggy t-shirts and commenced micromanaging me. I started cooking, because she was still Tindering on the couch. One lazy weekend morning, we were making omelettes at my place, all sunlight and white walls.
It’s been soothing and comforting and safe in ways I didn’t know I wanted. I no longer have to choose what to eat after work or where to go on Saturday afternoon-a million oppressive decisions spared. She’s headstrong and pushy and passionate and makes all the decisions for both of us. On the rare days we don’t hang out, she calls me on her drive home from work, just to recount the day. I’m in a loveless marriage with this girl named Wilson.