We spent more time alone together. The best nights were in the spring when he would build a web in the Parc de la Villette and we would sleep strung between the branches of a massive oak. Then it seemed as though the whole night and all the stars opened up above us, for us, the fast wind pushing clouds across the sky. There were weeks together when I felt my whole heart was a flame, expansive, like the pictures of the saints, or that there was a pure, invisible cord attached to my ribs that pulled me. That was how it felt to be in love with him.
His body was a wonder to me, its secret workings and articulations. I admired his strength, his tirelessness, his cleverness. He loved me, I think, because I was so human, so plump and pink. I disapproved of killing. I was friendly. I liked human things: movies, Christmas. He teased me about how much I slept and ate and showered.
“Again!?” he’d say.
He began to be successful as an artist. He was home less and less. I was jealous. I tried to go back to sculpting but our studio was always full of his nightwork. Once my potter’s wheel ended up cocooned in some piece of his that was just about to go out to a buyer. I wanted to break it open to get my wheel back. He said I was being irrational and he would buy me another. We had a screaming fight. He swore and clicked under his breath. I cried and slammed my way out.
When I came back we had a long, sad talk and he asked me if I wanted to marry him. He told me he thought I would be unhappy, that it would be better if I left, but that if I wanted we could marry. I said yes. I was miserable. He tied a thread around my finger.