First Person Singular by Wendy Braitman

filed in Daily Life

Unwedded Bliss

October 25, 2007 ⋅  Email This Post ⋅  Print This Post ⋅ Post a comment

We are often mistaken for married and I come clean right away: “Oh, no. He’s not my husband.” But on those few occasions when it’s easier to let it slide, I linger in the feeling of being ordinary.

Three years ago, I was told to relocate to Los Angeles for my job. I was given two months to pack up a long life in San Francisco and find a place. It was terrifying. So I did what I always do in a crisis. I picked up the phone, and called Will. He had just bought a big house in L.A. “Plenty of room for the two of us,” he said. I was welcome to move in. I worried about our living together. Would it work with two grownups not hitched in the conventional way? Would it mess with the magic?

We met 30 years ago in my bedroom in upstate New York. I was shacking up with a college boyfriend whose buddy Will (Billy then) was driving from Vermont for a visit. The roads were icy and Billy was running late. At two in the morning, I was nudged awake by a small, bearded man, stretched out beside me in bed, relaxed, like it was his spot. He looked into my eyes, and held his gaze, with a familiarity reserved for only intimate relations. From under the covers, I made small talk. “How was your trip?   Would you like some tea?” And that was it. I knew we’d be close. One moment strangers, the next, fellow travelers. In a funny way, it was one of the most romantic of my life.

Will didn’t drive alone that winter night. He was with his lover Phillip, who sat discreetly in the kitchen until we got up from bed. I put on a kettle, and Will climbed onto Philip’s lap, like it was nothing, no big deal. Two men? I’d never seen that before or hardly knew it existed. But it seemed everyday, their holding hands, kissing on the lips. They were comfortable, and so was I.

By the late seventies, the pieces were rearranging. My boyfriend and I split up, Phillip and Will split up, I moved to Manhattan, Will to San Francisco. I flew to see him one Thanksgiving weekend, six weeks later, I was at his doorstep with my trunk. For a year, we rented a house together, and then he headed to L.A. I settled into a sunny studio, bought furniture, started to find my own way. We stayed close, keeping up with letters and gabbing on the phone each day, barely straying from our usual themes: dissecting the relationship with parents, where we were headed, whether the men in our lives would last. We knew of each other’s dental checkups, car troubles, disappointments. Sometimes I just wanted to hear his dependable laugh, like when I described how awful I looked in a frizzy, new perm. Other times, I needed him to hear me cry.

You might think that I was in love with Will. I wasn’t. The attraction wasn’t sexual. We weren’t flirty with each other, although we did walk arm in arm down the street. I could be utterly myself with him. We never fought. And so it went for decades, always easy, always fun.

But roommates? Who has roommates at fifty? I was far from the young woman who showed up at Will’s doorstep, game for anything. I had lived alone for years, run a company. I was used to getting my own way. And wasn’t there something wrong with this picture? Shouldn’t I be cohabiting with a spouse?

So much for fairytales. I packed up the car and drove south.

Does it work? Here’s how:

The house is expansive, a great luxury. We have two floors, our own bathrooms and studies. It’s easy to find privacy, but that’s not how we live. We chitchat through the day, continuing the conversation started thirty years ago: dissecting our parents (though they’re no longer alive), where we’re headed, whether the men in our lives will last. (The one new thread concerns our sagging skin.) I wake up early; Will goes to sleep late. He’s got a boyfriend who he sees on the weekends. Right now, I’m shopping around on dating sites. On Sundays, we often eat dinner together. Our home is the official gathering spot for the holidays and casual dinner parties. While I’m braising short ribs, Will is tending his garden. Like others sharing a domestic life, we deal with broken toilets, sprinkler heads that need to be replaced, scheduling a time when one of us is home for the cable guy. We share a cat and a rowdy dog.

We’ve had a few squabbles through the years, because just like regular couples, our feelings get hurt when we’re misunderstood. But we patch things up quickly, and don’t retreat to our corners. With no possibility for make-up sex, it doesn’t pay to linger in a bad mood. I never worry that our friendship is on the line.

Living with Will doesn’t stop my searching for romance or sex, or my longing to be central in a man’s life. But I enjoy the daily company. I’m more satisfied than when I lived alone. Trying to explain who we are to each other is the hard part. A ready definition still doesn’t exist. We’re not life partners, although I’m sure we’re bonded for life. We don’t talk about a future together, but I can’t imagine growing old without him.

It’s not marriage. But it’s the real thing.

• Home
• About
• about-site
• archives
• Art Seen
• Contact
• Subscribe