I’m in my apartment. Just woke up. The wedding was interesting. Someone almost died. You would have loved it.
He was satisfied with his tone as he typed, then dissatisfied as soon as he sent the words on their way.
What he really wanted to ask was,Do you miss it here? Because back in the apartment, all he felt was its emptiness of her. But could she feel that emptiness from so far away? He knew it was possible—he often missed that home-shaped space while he was on the road. But as he once again waited for the passing hours to bring him a reply, he wondered if, without talking about it, their relationship had slid into something that had happened in the past, once upon a time, in a place she no longer brought to mind.
J isn’t sure exactly what to expect on a Thursday mid-morning at the Brooklyn courthouse. He has never performed at a city hall wedding before. At receptions afterward (sometimes long afterward), sure. But not at the event itself. He understands the impulse to separate the legality from the celebration, to take away some of the suspense before the big performance. He also, frankly, prefers to think of marriage in terms of the law and not in terms of a higher power needing to be pleased. But that, of course, is just his opinion.
The courthouse exterior is monumental enough, but once you get inside, it quickly devolves into the architecture of bureaucracy, circa 1960. J half expects men in gray flannel suits to be popping in and out of the office doors, with colorful secretaries glimpsed inside, pitter-patting away on their typewriters. The hall leading to themarriage office is the same as any other hall, and when you step inside the office, it looks like any other municipal office, with a check-in counter that would not be out of place at a department of motor vehicles. The people behind the counter could be working anywhere, dressed respectably but not reflecting the supposed joy of the occasion.
The thing that’s different is the waiting area, and the dynamic of the people within it. Here, every party is at least a party of two. A few smile at J and his guitar, and he doesn’t know if this is because the interns have already asked if they want him to join their weddings, or if it’s simply the sight of a man in a suit with a guitar in this particular lobby that makes them happy.
Nick sees J looking around. “My husband and I got married here,” he says. “I know it’s pretty drab, but in a way, that makes it more incredible to me. Like in a fantasy novel, when the most boring building imaginable houses a ministry of spellcasters. You have each other, you have your friends and family, if they can make it. Nothing big. But the building tells you that’s all you need. A marriage is about a lot of people, sure. But at its heart, it’s about two people. And here, you’re stepping right into the heart.”
Someone almost died at the wedding? V wrote back ten hours after J’s message.You didn’t try to hit any high notes, did you?
The line made J smile, and the smile made him hurt. When things are falling apart, isn’t it easier when you’re not getting along? When you no longer have access to the things about the other person that once brought you pleasure? For J, the fact that V could ricochet any of his remarks back to him with equal precision (if not speed) has always been part of the thrill of the pairing.
What can I say? he responded.You weren’t there to prevent me from doing my “Ave Maria.”
How do you solve a problem like “Ave Maria”?
That’s what I need you to teach me.
There was a pause. Those excruciating three dots. Then:
How’s home? V asked.
J hated how hopeful this simple question made him. And hated even more that he immediately replied,It misses you. Because it only set him up for the disappointment of what she wrote next:
My apartment here misses me too. Or at least the awake version of me.
It’s considerate of your apartment not to wake you, just to play.
Good thing I got an apartment and not a puppy.
Exactly.
Sitting alone in his room, approximately 3,750 miles away from her, J could sense V about to end the conversation, and felt a spur of fear that it would be another few days before he could re-engage her. Quickly, he threw something else into the breach:
I’m going back to New York in four days. To be interviewed by The New Yorker.
(He knew “interviewed” wasn’t entirely accurate, but it was close enough.)
Oh, wow. The New Yorker thing came through.
I’m very excited. (Somehow, this obvious statement felt like a confession, as if sharing any emotion with her had implications.)
Are you staying at Julia’s again?
That was the plan. But J was curious if V would offer her forlorn apartment. So he answered,Not sure. Might need to find somewhere else.
You always liked the Ace Hotel, didn’t you? It’s off season, so there might be a deal.
It could conceivably be some consolation that her memory of his hotel preference is accurate. But at that moment, it wasn’t a consolation at all. Or, at best, it was a condescending consolation.
I’ll let you know where I end up,J typed.
Great. I do want to hear more. But I have to go now. I suppose you can catch me up in person in a few days. Message me when you get here.
