Grace.

Writing makes me sad because I know that to do it I have to be alone. I’m subleasing an apartment in the Tenderloin in San Francisco for a few more weeks, and I already don’t want to be alone in this neighborhood. To think of writing means looking forward to coming home to an empty apartment and a mostly bare fridge, with that strange sour smell that I haven’t been able to get rid of, and that’s somehow managed to permeate the fresh items I’ve stored away in there. Everything smells like vinegar and parmesan cheese.

I think I’m at war with writing. I read something good and I say, “I could have written that.” And then I finish the line with “Well, why haven’t you?” I blame others for various feelings ranging from a diluted sense of purpose to a watercolor job to a bland pursuit of the frivolous to a runny sense of time and the amount of it that I have left. I also do a fair amount of comparing: “So and so is getting married and I want to talk about babies too.” So Schubert says, “Why are you comparing yourself to others?” And I say, “Because I want those things too. It doesn’t matter that others have them and I’ve become a cliché of a vague twenty-something. I’m still a person and I want those things too.” I just do.

I don’t write when I’m doing things I’m not proud of. If I write, it better be honest, so I don’t want to talk about things that hurt.

We’ve been having lots of talks, generally unpleasant ones. Issues of insecurity have been clouding our time together, but at least I’m being honest with him and at least he’s perceptive enough to understand me, which really is very hard to do.

A family friend sent me an article about a short story writing contest with the topic of “Are We There Yet?” The contestant can take that in any way they choose to, and they have to write four pages. I told Schubert about the contest and asked him, “What do you think I’ll write about?” Without hesitating, he said, “Marriage. If you and I are ready for it yet.” Note the lack of question mark at the end. I thought he’d never guess, because if even if he did guess, he’d never actually say it. It’s a topic that’s like swarming ants under a carpet. No, not under a rug, a carpet. The thought gives you a sick, churning feeling that sort of creeps you out and sort of makes you want to leave the room or run away and hide. And then blame someone. Who put that carpet on an ant hill? And who brought those ants into the house in the first place? See, now you’re changing the subject. Always changing the subject. Admit it, you just don’t want to talk about marriage.

I’m not sure, but I’m guessing that children of alcoholics might feel like vomiting if they smell liquor. I don’t know. Sometimes, I feel like vomiting when I have to say the word marriage. And I suppress nervous laughter when someone says the pretentious word “fiancé.”

Wife? That’s one word that feels as sturdy as a chimney. It’s a proud word that I could lean on, cling to it like my mother’s skirt. It’s the one word that means there’s hope for me. It has more to do with the woman than her counterpart—without whom she wouldn’t be a wife at all. But still, I feel like she could go on being a wife even when he no longer was her husband. If he dies, she becomes a widow, but I’d just go on thinking of her as a wife, because that comes from within. That’s what gives the marriage solidity and sturdiness, warmth and compassion.

I wiped the smile off my face when he guessed what my short story would be about, and I knew at that moment that I’d never send it in, and I might not even write it. He guessed, and he went on looking at the menu.

If he had said, “You’ll write about politics, the 2008 campaign.” I could’ve pretended that that was it, and said, “You got it!” I then I could’ve kept my secret to myself, the one thing I always think about and the thing that scares me the most. How it makes me completely disoriented, wondering, what now? I think about it so much and I know so little about it. I think I want it and it terrifies me. Mass made lifestyles don’t ever fit me. I try them on and I conclude, “This just isn’t for me.” Wedding planning books make me dizzy and white dresses make me want to spill something on them.

He ordered an omelet, and I ordered a salad. It’s a diner we’d never gone to and we sat across from each other in a booth. I switched seats to sit by him, and that’s when I brought up the writing contest.

The deadline came and went, and I didn’t submit anything. He never asked me about it. I don’t blame him. I blame myself.

I think I want to be married, so I can have a yellow house with white trim and hardwood floors. A big parlor with a cherry wood piano for him. These things mean companionship to me because there’s a default person somewhere in the house. This abstract home calms me, but the real thought of a key being pulled out of my purse, inserting it in the lock, opening the door, and being disappointed by the person I see… that makes me feel hopeless. And so vulnerable. What if ten years go by and then I feel that way?

“I didn’t know how good things could be,” he said, as we sat on my couch after spending an afternoon at Golden Gate Park. We’d had another big discussion, during which I admitted amidst embarrassing tears, “But I don’t want to get married that late.” And he said things like, “There’s so much time left,” and I thought of how long my grandma lived and how long she was sick for. But both of his grandmas are still alive and well, and he’s such a warm soul. He just doesn’t know the way I know things.

He’s an animal, just like me, but we’re driven by different biology. We’re different and equal, and sometimes he’s just flat out better than me, like when he says just the right thing at the right time, and knows exactly how to touch me. But I’m too proud to say, “Thank you. That was exactly what I needed.”

“If we lived together, this is how big I’d want the apartment to be,” he said. Instantly, I was standing in the redecorated room, the empty shelf suddenly had his music books on them, and I felt like we were exactly where we were supposed to be. And I didn’t say thank you for that momentary feeling of calm, like I was the last piece of a puzzle and someone picked me off of the floor and put me in my place, all snug, and full of purpose.