But first Maria had to vent, so she called me early in the morning and began yelling and screaming. “Look,” I said, “I was just upset that I wasn’t the first guy to bring you to the opera, that’s all.” “But you were the first guy!” “What I mean is, you’d done it before. I’m sorry, okay? I love you. Let’s not ruin the rest of Christmas vacation.” “I’m starting to think that no matter what we do, it has to be my first time ever, with anyone, or you’ll go crazy.” I refused to respond. It’s funny how normal that conversation seemed at the time and how, looking back on it now, how it embodied our relationship to a degree. When she ruined a date, it was forever discussed; when I ruined a date it was seldom mentioned again. Business as usual. In retrospect, such a habit seems sick and twisted and obsessive. There was, I cringe to admit now, little difference between me and murderer. The only difference between us is that, unlike a killer, I was too much of a coward to choke a person’s spirit in one fell swoop; instead, I preferred to smother it, allowing it to slowly suffocate and die, like a baby trapped under a pillow.
