Mornings have always been harsh to me. On the worst of them, it felt like I was Andersen’s Little Match Girl looking through a window to the future I would never have. He would open his eyes and look at me. What are you thinking about, he’d ask. Well, love, I’d say with a sigh, can you plan a wedding from the bed?
It was our little joke, talking about getting married. I bought him a cock ring once, just to prove that I was serious. His voice first thing in the morning was the preemptive bliss of the life we would spend together. When he complained about pulling a muscle, or wanting coffee, it felt like there was little more to care for in the world other than stroking his stubbled cheek.
He’d smile and tell me all about it. The Western like modern fairy tale without the virgins and the castles. Who’d give you away, love, he’d ask, and I’d have to joke and tell him it would be him.
We’d fight over the wedding night: rough or gentle, then proceed to act it out, in a territorial role-play game of fucking and loving.