“Low carb is a very provincial way to eat,” I tell Henry as we sit. When he knew me, I did not know how to cook. He fed me, clothed me, housed me, then we called it love.
“Entertainment is the original provincial profession.” Henry inserts a single tine of his fork into the ziti’s tunnel, holds it aloft, and examines it warily.
I sip the red wine he’s poured into short, mismatched water glasses. There was once a blistering conversation between the Spaldings at this very table about the burgeoning trend of stemless wine glasses, what an affront they were to civilized society. “Tell me, what is your wife’s honorable profession?”
Henry takes a slow sip of wine, eyes on mine. “She used to be the deputy director of philanthropy at the Gates Foundation.”
My face reveals my utter surprise that Henry has a wife who held such a prestigious position. “Did she quit when you had kids?”
“She didn’t quit,” Henry says. Then, before I can probe more, “Does your husband have a drug problem?”
I chew my food. Swallow. Smile. “He’s never so much as smoked a cigarette in his life.”
“Never smoked a cigarette and calls youbabe. I’d stop wearing my wedding ring too.”
I sit back. Settle cross-legged in my chair. Okay. Now is as good a time as any to have this conversation. “There’s a little more to it than that.”
“Are you going to make me guess?”
“You could never. Not in a million years.”
Henry puts down his fork. “He cheated on you.”
That’s funny. “No.”
“You cheated on him.”
“Are we counting this right now?”
“No.”
“Then, no.”
“He’s threatened by your success.”
“We are successful together.”
“He wants kids and you don’t.”
“He wants whatever makes me happy.”
“He’s gay.”
I sip my wine, shake my head. Try again. I am deriving immense pleasure from this. You may be unique, but your problems are not. I’ve heard this in therapy, on podcasts, from sober friends who have turned to AA. But I do feel unique and so does my problem, and it feels good, it feels validating, to see that reflected in Henry’s inability to guess what the problem is.
“I already know you’re a little bit gay,” Henry says. Something alights in his eyes. “He doesn’t like thatyou’rea little bit gay.”
I pause. Press my lips together. It’s not quite it.
“Okay, so I’m warm.” Henry pulls at his pretty lower lip. Thinks. Starts to say something, then thinks some more. “He doesn’t like that you’re a little bit gay, but he also doesn’t cheat on you,” he repeats back to himself. He frowns. “He’s too vanilla for you?”
“I would take vanilla. God. I would take vanilla.”
Henry stares at me. “But it’s your sex life?”
I swirl my wine in my glass. Do not dispute it.
“Faye.” Henry draws out my name, the way you do the wordohhhh. Ohhhh, this is bad. “Is he impotent?”