Simon Thibault

November 1999

online weddings and when you should just shut up

"You seem to be saying that a lot lately."

About ten minutes after I'd said it, I almost threw up. I wished I hadn't said it at all. I hate having arguments with Lee. It makes me ill.

The night before, I'd gone to bed upset. I'm not really sure why, it seems so muddled now. Lee had told me he would come home soon. But it wasn't soon enough in my mind. I wanted him home. He came home around 1:30. I'd awoken five minutes before to get up and pee, and I listened to him fumble with the lock, take off his clothes, come into bed and spoon his body to mine. I pretended to be asleep and I listened to him breathe, tell me he loved me, and kiss my shoulder. I was beside myself. Part of me wanted to be angry, and rag him out. The other part wanted to let go, hold him, and forgive all. No, not forgive, there should be no need for forgiveness. He is my lover. That is enough.

I awoke in the night, turned, and held him.

This morning, I was wavering between consciousness and dreams, bitterness and longing. I got up, shaved and showered, left for school. On the way there, I stopped by his work, soaked to the bone by the rain outside. He served me and smiled, oblivious to my frustration. He asked me what was wrong, and I told him that we can't talk about it at work. "We'll discuss it later." I was going to leave, having left money on the table, but he found me, and asked, "Weren't you going to say goodbye?" I'd rather forget the rest of the discussion, but all that sticks in my mind is him saying "I'm sorry", and some part of my brain turning off and the words, "You seem to say that a lot lately" coming out of my mouth. I was hot, but with either rage or shame, I'm not sure. I'd rather not answer.

Obviously, I'm writing this, so that doesn't really matter anymore.

I get to school, check my mail, and there in my box is an invitation from out.com to watch the first online gay wedding. I click on it, and start watching it. The first notes of a cantata by Bach start playing and I forget everything. I open up a letter and start to write this.

I'm sorry I snapped at you. I hate myself when words like those come out of my mouth.

I'm watching the wedding now. They're about to smash the glass, and I remember why I love Lee. Because he is beautiful, wonderful, funny and imperfect. Because he pisses me off. Because he chose to live with me. Because he puts up with me and my tirades. Because he loves me.

They break the glass, and I finish my column.


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