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Making Plans
Clematis, chrysanthemum, chlamydia. She was chastising him for not knowing the difference. “The florist must think I'm marrying a moron, coming in there with you,” she said. “Try to act like you give a damn about this wedding.”
He did give a damn-- after all, hadn't this been his idea? She would not let go of this most recent fault, which no doubt had the accumulated stink of previous faults all over it.
He confessed that he still didn't know which one was the flower and which weren't. “There are two flowers,” she snarked. “Seriously, even fifth graders know chrysanthemums are flowers. Didn't you ever spell?”
When compared to a fifth grader—unfavorably—he again had the recognition that maybe they shouldn't get married. He knew they would, though, because the process was too far along to be halted. So he'd be married soon and fantasizing about not being married. And, as if in preparation, he began to revisit other fantasies, all of which were predicated on that divorce fantasy. Having sex in an airplane bathroom with a beautiful stranger, who he would then marry, finding himself incredibly wealthy. Falling in love with someone he knew was wealthy, like Liv Tyler, and marrying. Joining Aerosmith and flying from gig to gig, having sex in every airplane bathroom. Being incredibly wealthy and checking into an elegant hotel, where in the mornings he could linger in the bed, waiting for a housekeeper to come in and take care of his every need, recognizing her in the throes of passion as someone he'd known before, maybe in elementary school, and subsequently marrying. Having sex, as an adult of course, in the elementary school library with the library assistant, Ms. Marks, who had come to work at the school when he was in fifth grade, and subsequently marrying. This last fantasy was new.
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