fiefoe

Sweet & sour:

...and how you got up and came over to me on the davenport and said, “Do you gather me, Begonia?” Do you gather me, Hash? Will you come up here already and give me some of that dead-sure stuff that’s you?
Ernest, dear soul that he was, was theoretical—a lovely hypothesis“
That was a sign of the times. We were all on the verge now, bursting with youth and promise and little trills of jazz.
By midnight, I would be part of things, ready to drink like a sailor and talk until morning. It was like being born over each night, the same process repeated, finding myself, losing myself, finding myself again.
Three minutes of magic suspended and restrung
I could feel every bump and contour of the roof against my shoulders and hips through the blankets, there were moments of pure crushing happiness I knew I’d never forget. {Seriously, it was like that.}

It would be the hardest lesson of my marriage, discovering the flaw in this thinking. I couldn’t reach into every part of Ernest and he didn’t want me to.
What if marriage didn’t solve anything and didn’t save anyone even a little bit? What then?
Seeing his mood turn at close range was more trying.
The nest of fish was crisp under a coarse snow of salt and smelled so simple and good I thought it might save my life. Just a little. Just for that moment.
They were shattered, and his face was nicked in several places. I ran and tried to help him recover himself, but found he was laughing. Ernest began laughing, too—and it was fine, after all. But I couldn’t help thinking how close we’d come to losing our only friend in Paris.
There were two corners here, too, one for the men—in this case, Ernest and Stein—and one for the women, with no crossover whatsoever.

"The Paris Wife"