There was this one time that my mom bought this amazing cheese. I think it was a goat gouda or something—really incredible. I think I must’ve eaten some of the rind too. But really, I ate so much. Later, I was lying in bed with my boyfriend. I got up to get some water. As I was climbing back into bed, I may or may not have aimed one of my cheesy farts into his face. I know, immature. But isn’t that what keeps a relationship alive? But he got so mad. Like, so mad. 

“Why the fuck would you do that?! You could give me pink eye—you know I have nosophobia!” Nosophobia: an irrational and persistent fear of contracting a serious or life-threatening disease. This man rarely washes his hands after taking a shit. He did not have “nosophobia.” And I was laughing, or trying really hard not too, because this is funny! How are you red faced and spazzing talking about the possibility that you, right then and there have instantaneously contracted pink eye. Anyways, I’m pretty sure you can only get pink eye from a pillow that has been farted on— prolonged contact and all. He huffed and went to the bathroom to wash his eyes out. And as the commotion settled, the echoing silence smothered me with time for reflection—I started to feel kinda bad. Maybe, however ridiculous his fart-based anger was, it was real. And for that matter, I was a little embarrassed; my unladylike behavior was greeted by true exasperation. At least, the truest I have ever seen from him. But, I resolved, I wasn’t going to apologize. Fart-based temper tantrums would not be tolerated. 

He climbed back to bed and we sat there in silence except for the sound Instagram reels—our remedy of choice for the awkwardness. His cold shoulder was tangible through the radiating flush of his cheeks. And I started to feel worse. I glanced over, again and again, waiting for him to exact superfluous rage. He never did, he never even looked up from his phone. Internally, I swallowed my pride and thought, I’m sorry, but I choked on the words. 

I was bad at apologizing, he knew that: There was this one time I threw a paper-airplane at our French teacher in 10th grade, who then wrote an angry note to our homeroom teacher demanding an apology. Of course, my homeroom teacher took his side. The situation was absolutely ridiculous; my small jest was entirely misunderstood but I hid my embarrassment under an unapologetic face. I even said to my homeroom teacher, “it didn’t even hit him! He’s an adult, he’ll get over it.” I regretted the statement immediately. Soon, before my embarrassment could mature, I became viscerally angry. I was ready to pick a fight with my middle-aged French teacher. Or perhaps spew snot at him while I tried to express my indignation between dry-heaves and tears.   

This is back when he and I were just friends; he found me on the verge of tears and offered himself as a wall to the emotional chaos that consumed me. He sat on a bench outside of the monsieur’s office with me while I paced, passionately displaying the uglier quality of viscerally rejecting contrition, slowly gathering the courage to apologize. He sat patiently, so patiently he inadvertently trivialized my emotional ruckus, occasionally chiming in with a cool, “You’re going to feel better afterwards,” – never indulging the rabbit hole that our teacher might be the one in the wrong. Eventually, I conceded and decided he was right; I apologized. And it’s true, I felt better. Afterwards, I found him waiting on his bench, in his same passive stature. I think we got tea after, or he brought me to get tea, I can’t remember. This is long before he was my boyfriend, he didn’t have to.  

****

  After a while he rolled over and pushed my phone down. He started to kiss me. He didn’t touch my body, he only connected us through our lips. I pulled back, 

“You’re not mad anymore?”

“Yeah, I’m good.” 

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” he started kissing me again. I didn’t believe him, but I didn’t stop him—I was too sorry. We had sex: He kept his eyes closed, he never came, we stopped after a while, he still showered. I found my fuzzy elephant printed pajamas under the covers and I went to bed before he finished showering. His wet hair sprayed my face as he climbed into bed bedside me, waking me. I didn’t feel his hot breath on the back of my neck that I spent so long learning to sleep with.                  

***        

We were on the beach the next day. The rip tide was strong. We later learned that “NO SWIMMING” signs were hung near the lifeguards, but we were too far down the beach to see. I’m scared of the ocean these days, especially at Martha’s Vineyard. I’m a good swimmer—I used to do it competitively—but no matter, I don’t feel safe. I was ashamed of my fear, it made me feel like a coward— when I was younger there was nothing that scared me, my parents never failed to remind me. He knew that too. But he believed in conquering fears. He would taunt me: It’s okay, I’ve got you, while dragging me toward the sea. But I didn’t trust the water, no matter how many times he told me it was safe. Once we were knee deep, he would relent, unsatisfied, letting me retreat to my beach chair and book.

 I watched as the rip tide carried him down the beach and out to sea. He became so small. His black hair camouflaged in the wine-dark sea. Eventually, he swam sideways like the lifeguards always tell you to do. He had to walk a good dozen yards to make it back to where I was sitting,

“You were right,” he said coolly, “that could’ve been bad.” He sat down next to me and we stared at the waves for a while. The rip tide was strong enough to see; the waves broke at a 45º angle.

“I’m sorry,” he said. 

“For what?” 

“Last night.” He stared at the sand while he carved swirls with his toes. 

“Mm,” I hummed. I had been ready to ignore it. “You were still mad?” I knew the answer.

“Yeah, I was.” 

“Why’d you lie?” I sat forward in my seat to stare at his blushing face. 

“Dunno.” He swirled his toes harder. I sat back and turned toward the ocean. He sat back too. 

…

“Why’d you do it?” 

…

“I thought it would make me feel better” 

…

“Did it?” 

“Not really.”