Just Like Any Other

Today is no different. I'm still shocked by her discipline. Every emotion comes through, but none of them break her, and no one would dare to question her sincerity. Her voice is soft, but crystal-clear. She doesn't care so much for set rhythm or rhyme, and it just doesn't matter. It's poetry. It's undeniable.

I can't write it for you. I won't. How do you write someone who's better? Poorly, obliquely, or not at all. That's the twist I was talking about. Natalie's poem -- her requiem for her mother -- must remain, from me to you, a declaration from on high. I will apologize for my shortcomings, but insist upon its qualities. You will suspend your disbelief. You will do that not for my fiancee, but for my friend.

I completely lose it. I'm not alone. Her dad's tremors are barely noticeable amidst his genuine, wracking grief. Her older sister is clutching onto her boyfriend-of-the-semester in a way I find quite familiar. The old flame my friend had just reconnected with, months before the end, is staring at Natalie as though he's seen a ghost, and his vision of her is surely as blurry as mine.

I scan through watery eyes for any sign of a dry one. Natalie's have always carried the illusion of wetness, but they're near enough -- especially considering. There's one funeral assistant that's hanging on. She must be very good at her job. Two of her colleagues have already hurried out of the room.

Natalie gives the ending room to breathe. Nobody in the hall, save that one stoic holdout, can perform that simple function unimpeded. I'm a blubbering mess. I am Prufrock, paralyzed by the impossible choice of whether or not to retrieve a tissue from my pocket and blow my nose.

She returns to her seat next to me. She does the impossible gracefully, enveloping me non-literally, seat next to seat, offering comfort with limbs that don't properly reach. She also remains impossibly composed, but she's not cold -- never cold. She isn't shutting down. She isn't putting on a mask. This is who she is right now. Her piece of her mother was more than merely multifaceted. In physical space, it would be as impossible as her composure and her grace: fractals, lattices, infrared and ultraviolet, flowing liquid and sparking electricity, blown-glass Mobius strips inscribed with poetry by Escher -- and by Natalie Parsons, of course. Maybe by Janet Remington, too. They gave the kids their dad's last name. Coin toss, or so I was told by my late friend.

"I'm sorry," I blubber out. The harsh whisper pushes through tears and snot and stings my throat. "She's your mom." I don't manage to put the emphasis on 'your' like I should've.

"It's okay," she says. "Or, it will be." It sounds like a line from one of her poems -- another good one.

There's always been a part of me that can stay focused and clear, even when I finally break -- when my grace period runs out and the emotional bill comes due. That part knows that nobody in that room is judging me for my sorry display. Besides Natalie, no one gives a shit, period. Still, that's not the only part of me, and all of my parts are feeling very exposed. Sitting, hunched over, awkwardly tilted into the love of my life, I've never felt so embarrassed. I've never felt so selfish. I've never felt like such an unworthy fiance.

And yet, I believe her. I believe my Natalie. It will be okay, and it's okay that it's not right now.

**********

"I hate this thing," she says, and loses the bra even before the wedges. They get kicked off right after, and she's casually risque with her dress halfway off her body.

"Then so do I," I say resolutely. I shed my jacket and my noose -- sorry, necktie -- and pop the first button of my shirt. It's not as impressive as her display, but it's a relief.

She rolls her eyes. "Yeah. 'Then.' Okay."

There's a whiplash back to seriousness that both of us can feel. It's that kind of day.

"It was incredible, by the way, Nat," I say. "No matter the circumstances. It was your best -- well, so far anyway." I don't stumble over my words, even though I feel like I should. I feel like I should nod to the fact that it's a weird thing to talk about. At the very least, I should frame it differently: it was so real, so honest. It really spoke to your mom, and to your relationship.

Natalie knows me too well, though. She knows that unless I'm sick, in agony, or sobbing-sad, hesitation and stuttering are an act. Most of the time, she also knows what I actually mean to say. Even if it's not perfect politesse, not saying it would make me a bit of a shit.

She meets my gaze. I find it hard to hold hers. "Thank you," she says. "I know it's a terrible thing to say, but I felt good about it."

I nod. "I get it." We 'get' each other like that a lot.

Her mom and I 'got' each other much the same. She and her mom didn't. They should've by all accounts, but there was a wall. The booze was only part of it. There was something broken -- something that breaks more often than it should between mothers and daughters, just because they're a mother and her daughter. I shouldn't write more about it. It's not my piece. I'm no one's daughter or mother, after all.

I exhale, and muster up a scintilla of courage -- though not enough to get straight to the next point. "Nat, I love you so much."

"I know," she replies.

"And you are ridiculously hot. You are the hottest woman I've ever seen. I don't think I've seen a butt shot in three years that's made me sit up and take notice."

She looks at me funny. She doesn't want to ask the stupid question, even though it might not be stupid: are you okay?

"Every minute I'm not having sex with you, I feel like I'm going to regret it for the rest of my life."

The funny look goes away, replaced by one of understanding. She's not mad. "But," she says for me.

I try to look contrite. I give her a big sigh. She knows it's fake. I know she knows, and so on, and so on, so it's okay. "Sweats and veg?" I ask bashfully. "It's kinda what I need, or all I can handle."

She smiles kindly. "Okay. Literally?"

She's asking if she can be significantly less clothed. Those billions of men I mentioned before are pounding at the gates. They're screaming. They're out for blood -- the blood of a stupid, ungrateful man.

I look at her sheepishly. "I think... yeah."

She rolls her eyes again and closes the distance. She offers herself up for a hug, and I accept.

"It's okay," she says. "I get it. And... ask me. Just ask me. I get that too. It's a day. It's all messed up."

I can barely even wait until she's done speaking. "Are you sure you're okay, Nat? Really? You have no idea what I'm screaming at myself up in here. I know I can't do that one thing, but..."

"Shhhh," she says. Her hands stroke my back, and it feels amazing. "It's okay. I'm not okay, and you're not okay. But this is how we're getting through it. I won't get quiet on you, Matty. I don't do that anymore."

I chuckle wryly. "And I'll try not to be so loud."

She pulls back to find my gaze. "No," she says. "You can always talk to me. Always. About anything -- about nothing."

"About wizards'n'shit?" I ask. It's one of our things.

It's her turn to sigh theatrically. "Yes, even wizards'n'shit. I'll even let you pick out what we watch."

"Eh, you know there hasn't been anything decent in that vein released in ages."

"Well that is a terrible shame," she says, like a teacher modeling proper enunciation to a schoolboy.

I feel the rhythm between us. It's familiar and comfortable. Then, because reality doesn't have to make sense, I feel myself on the verge of sobbing again. I'm overwhelmed with gratitude for what I have: a girl who loves me, who's sassing me about what movies and TV shows I like, and who will watch almost any one of them with me anyway. I'm irrationally terrified that I'm going to lose her, just like I lost her mom. Then I remember that she lost her mom, and the spiral continues downward.

"I love you," I tell her, all urgency and awe.

She hugs me again. "Shhhhh," she says. "I know. And I love you too."

I cling to her, and she holds me until I'm past it.

"Okay," she says, patting my back. "Can you get drinks? Snacks are optional, but we need drinks."

I nod as she pulls away. Our eyes meet one more time before she's off. I've barely even registered that she's been naked from the waist up this whole time.

"I'm going to go take the plug out before I get changed," she says casually. "I think I've absorbed all I'm going to."

She doesn't wait for my jaw to hit the floor. She turns and bounds towards the bedroom -- or, more precisely, to the adjoining master bath.

She went to her mother's funeral with a butt plug in her. She broke a room full of people down to their constituent fucking atoms with a poem -- an original poem, delivered as perfectly as a soliloquy by the Royal Shakespeare Company's favorite son or daughter -- with her perfect ass full of my cum. She made me cry like a little bitch -- Jesus, she made her father cry like a little bitch -- while she was filled up and plugged like a good little girl for her daddy.

She did all of that while wearing a bra, for fuck's sake. The world has gone mad. She cannot exist. A woman like that simply cannot exist in this sad, dreary, ordinary world of ours.

When the shock wears off, I'm honestly not sure how much time I just lost. I hope it wasn't much, because I don't want to waste the epiphany that immediately follows.

"I'm a fucking idiot," I say to myself.

I rush towards the bedroom, stripping my clothes off as I go. Fuck funerals, fuck guilt, and fuck grief. Fuck trying to be something the love of my life doesn't want or need just because it's normal or nice. It's time to make this night a night like any other; it's time to make it one of ours.

It's time, once again, for me to make her mine.