Dean calls Marc my surrogay because he’s 1) my surrogate husband, and 2) duh…gay. Since Dean’s been out of town on business, I’ve spent three of the last five days with my surrogay.
Friday night was date night. A really great dinner at a new restaurant followed by drinks at his friend’s house. By drinks, I mean strong manhattans and trays of shots. Needless to say, we both woke up hung over and sick on Saturday morning.
Monday after work, Marc made dinner–pasta and white bean stew. We talked about the economy, politics, current events. Then we both sat on the couch reading. I read our book club book The Angel’s Game and he read One Hundred Years of Solitude. In between reading, we watched Lulu gnaw on her bone.
Marc interrupted, “Isn’t this nice? It’s like we’re married.”
“Tell me about it. I’m going to open another bottle of wine. Do you want red or white?”
We also argued about Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar. Marc insisted that the book was depressing and she killed herself in the end.
I adamantly disagreed. “Umm, that’s one of my favorite books and she definitely does not kill herself in the book. I realize that Sylvia Plath stuck her head in an oven and cooked herself to death, but the book ends on a high note. Something about her stepping out into the fresh air. Something like that. You’ve got it on your shelf there. Look it up. Read the last paragraph.”
Marc picked up the book, flipped to the back, then slammed it shut. “Oh.”
Last night I headed to Marc’s place with crab fried rice, tofu & green beans, and Rosenblum Zin.
“Hey I brought food. It’s Osha Thai!! Mmmmhmmm. Extra spicy!”
Marc started to set the table. “I think I’m going to make you my beneficiary. Like I said, I’m not going to live past 40. And if I do, just kill me.”
“Ummm…please don’t. You’re in so much debt, I’ll probably end up paying all of your collectors.”
“Really? Doesn’t debt just get erased when someone dies?”
“How would I know? I don’t think so. Why would it? Anyhow, please don’t make me your beneficiary until I can confirm.”