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Authors: Lacy M. Johnson
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my grandmotherâs farm and e-mails to graduate programs in creative writing to request application materials. I call My Handsome Friend and we plan to go see a movie together, just as friends. And My Handsome Friend invites his friends, a couple, and we all sneak into the theater where he works and stay out so late, and instead of crushing my face into the ground or pushing me to the floor, they laugh at my jokes and say, Letâs do this again .
When The Man I Live With returns from Denmark we go back to our normal life. I take classes; he teaches. Once a month he plays poker with his former students and comes home with all their money. When heâs gone, I apply to gradschools, the Peace Corps, any excuse to move away. I tell myself I will leave him at the end of the year. I plan exactly what to say. When heâs home, he wants to fuck: in the morning, at lunchtime, after school, before bed. If I say no, or turn away, or if I find some reason to be out of the house all day, weâre up until three in the morning, him screaming at me the whole time, twisting my words until they tell a story Iâve never heard before, until I doubt myself, until I finally give in, and let him fuck me while I sob face-first into my pillow. Our polite Asian neighbors never complain, never look me in the eye.
On my twenty-first birthday, he makes me breakfast in bed and pulls a giant package from the top shelf of the bedroom closet: a down duvet he bought in Denmark; heâs been hiding it all this time. That night, we go out to a comedy club with a group of his former students, and afterward we go out dancing. In the car on the way home, I roll the window down, close my eyes, and let the wind blow my hair into my face. Iâm a little drunk and feeling happy and I reach over to rest my hand on his leg. I feel his hand in my hair so softly, his fingers rubbing the back of my head so softly, his hand pulling me toward him, toward his lap, pushing me down, down, down.
On his fortieth birthday, weeks later, I throw him a surprise party and invite everyone from his department, from his poker games, the bartender from our favorite dive downtown, people from my classes, my teachers, the few friends I have made. He is genuinely surprised, I think, and touched. Everyone dances and drinks until it is nearly dawn. One friend says as he is tumbling out the door, You guys are such a great couple. You throw the best parties!
The Man I Live With doesnât come to my college graduation. He says he is staying home to get ready for the party, but when I get back to the apartment, nothing has been done. He disappears for longer and longer stretches of time, and occasionally messages appear on our voice mail from numbers I donât recognize. One day I tell him I have been accepted for an internship at a literary magazine in town and the fight we have lasts for days and days. At one point I lock myself in the bathroom and sleep there all night. At another heâs cursing at me in every language he knows. He palms my face and pushes me backward onto the couch. I hit my head on the windowsill and see a flash, then darkness. I try to kick him away and he punches me in the hip. I turn into a puddle, dripping from the couch to the floor.
In the morning, I say Iâm going to my parentsâ house for a few days, just to visit. I pack a few changes of clothes into a small bag, nothing to raise suspicion. He is playing backgammon on his computer when I kiss him sweetly on the cheek and walk out the door.
He calls, days later, already very angry, though his voice remains calm. At first he tries to bribe me. Come home and weâll plan a trip to South America . Then he pleads, and I can feel the decision slipping out from under me. He threatens to tell my parents what a slut I am. He offers to come get me. Finally, I hang up the phone.
When he calls back, Mom answers and calls him a sonuva-bitch before slamming down the receiver. He
When The Man I Live With returns from Denmark we go back to our normal life. I take classes; he teaches. Once a month he plays poker with his former students and comes home with all their money. When heâs gone, I apply to gradschools, the Peace Corps, any excuse to move away. I tell myself I will leave him at the end of the year. I plan exactly what to say. When heâs home, he wants to fuck: in the morning, at lunchtime, after school, before bed. If I say no, or turn away, or if I find some reason to be out of the house all day, weâre up until three in the morning, him screaming at me the whole time, twisting my words until they tell a story Iâve never heard before, until I doubt myself, until I finally give in, and let him fuck me while I sob face-first into my pillow. Our polite Asian neighbors never complain, never look me in the eye.
On my twenty-first birthday, he makes me breakfast in bed and pulls a giant package from the top shelf of the bedroom closet: a down duvet he bought in Denmark; heâs been hiding it all this time. That night, we go out to a comedy club with a group of his former students, and afterward we go out dancing. In the car on the way home, I roll the window down, close my eyes, and let the wind blow my hair into my face. Iâm a little drunk and feeling happy and I reach over to rest my hand on his leg. I feel his hand in my hair so softly, his fingers rubbing the back of my head so softly, his hand pulling me toward him, toward his lap, pushing me down, down, down.
On his fortieth birthday, weeks later, I throw him a surprise party and invite everyone from his department, from his poker games, the bartender from our favorite dive downtown, people from my classes, my teachers, the few friends I have made. He is genuinely surprised, I think, and touched. Everyone dances and drinks until it is nearly dawn. One friend says as he is tumbling out the door, You guys are such a great couple. You throw the best parties!
The Man I Live With doesnât come to my college graduation. He says he is staying home to get ready for the party, but when I get back to the apartment, nothing has been done. He disappears for longer and longer stretches of time, and occasionally messages appear on our voice mail from numbers I donât recognize. One day I tell him I have been accepted for an internship at a literary magazine in town and the fight we have lasts for days and days. At one point I lock myself in the bathroom and sleep there all night. At another heâs cursing at me in every language he knows. He palms my face and pushes me backward onto the couch. I hit my head on the windowsill and see a flash, then darkness. I try to kick him away and he punches me in the hip. I turn into a puddle, dripping from the couch to the floor.
In the morning, I say Iâm going to my parentsâ house for a few days, just to visit. I pack a few changes of clothes into a small bag, nothing to raise suspicion. He is playing backgammon on his computer when I kiss him sweetly on the cheek and walk out the door.
He calls, days later, already very angry, though his voice remains calm. At first he tries to bribe me. Come home and weâll plan a trip to South America . Then he pleads, and I can feel the decision slipping out from under me. He threatens to tell my parents what a slut I am. He offers to come get me. Finally, I hang up the phone.
When he calls back, Mom answers and calls him a sonuva-bitch before slamming down the receiver. He
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