It Takes Two

A very short story about life

Photo by أخٌ‌في‌الله on Unsplash

When Maria and I came to the city, it was for now, for the future. Except now it isn’t that future. When we first arrived, naivety clung to us like the scent of fresh-cut grass. It was in our Birkenstocks and second-hand jeans. In Maria’s scrunchy and my ponytail. It didn’t take long for us to shed those skins. We changed everything about ourselves in that way the young do, like identities are outfits. By the time Maria was pregnant with our first, we were the ones making fun of the new-comers, with the acerbic tongues of once-weres. By the time she was pregnant with the second, we were complicit in our origin amnesia.

I retired early, a fact that I once boasted about. I’d bought property early on, sensing the rising real estate prices on the horizon. At first, we’d lived there because it was all we could afford. Then, preened, toned, and tanned professionals moved in. They had houses torn down, had them remodelled, had them landscaped. Maria and I tore down, remodelled, and landscaped too, except all on our own. Weekends, holidays, evenings. I wasn’t about to pay for something my own hands could do. My father had taught me that. It took longer, but it was my ticket to early retirement.

Maria didn’t love living in a perpetual project. She would suggest getting someone in to do the tiling or rendering, the tough jobs. Maybe it would speed things along, she said. I acted indignant and redoubled my efforts. She would always relent and join me, her silent apology for doubting me. Afterwards, we would make love and then hold each other, talking about all the things we would do in our dream house when we were retired.

The kids hated it. It was always going to be great. They were too embarrassed to invite any friends over to our eternal construction site. They said their friends from the local state school would think we were bougie bitches. And they said their next-door private school friends would think we were povos for doing it all ourselves. Instead, they never came home. Going out, staying out, see ya later. It was easier to renovate without them in the way, so I never said much about it.

I’ve been retired for twelve years, four months, and sixteen days. There are no more dreams about the future. Only infinite scenarios of other pasts. While Maria and I were tearing down and rebuilding—moving closer to our perfect now—the kids were out there doing things my Birkenstocks and ponytail didn’t even know existed. Smoking, snorting, sucking, fucking. Now, they’re both gone, one in body and the other in heart. Maria says she doesn’t blame me; we both know she’s lying. It takes two to create a now that never was.