I woke up in a sour mood this morning, which explains why I snapped at him at breakfast. I'm not exactly the sort of person who permits his whole day to be ruined just because he "woke up on the wrong side of the bed." But, I am exactly the sort of person who permits his whole morning to be ruined just because he "woke up on the wrong side of the bed."
Unfortunately, I don't even recall precisely what I snapped at him about. We were just sitting in the booth, and I suddenly got defensive. Of course, I was overwhelmed with conflicting emotions; and, in such instances, I get defensive. Thus, it should come as no surprise to me that I snapped, momentarily: metaphorical jaws agape, with fangs barred. It was over in an instant, and forgiven by Zach even faster. But still, when I asked him this just a few minutes later, I believe I blushed an even deeper shade of red than I usually do, momentarily reliving my childish behavior moments prior.
"Would you?"
"Would I what?"
"Would you want to get domesticated with me?"
"Domesticated" has become a loaded, and comical, recent addition to my vocabulary. Our household has been following with some interest developments in the Washington State Legislature this session, which began earlier this month and runs through April. While many bills of interest to myself have been submitted already, two in particular stand out. One would legalize gay marriage in this state, putting it on the same level as Massachusetts in regards to legal recognition of same-sex relationships. The other would adopt basal level "domestic partnerships."
The former, to me, is a noble cause with absolutely no chance of even a floor vote. The latter, however, I initially saw as a pragmatic first step... a step that would take years, if not decades, to pass through both houses and receive the signature of the governor. I was quite taken with the idea of domestic partnerships for a simple reason: they're what I was saving up for.
Most people save up for retirement, or a nice vacation. Maybe some nice clothes or an expensive bottle of champagne. I was saving up on principle: I wanted Zach to be able to pull my plug.
Pulling the plug... It's such an odd (and almost morbid) thought to ponder during breakfast. But, that's what I couldn't help but recall this morning, as I sat there being defensive (about something of absolutely no consequence) simply because I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. But, you (the reader) must realize this: sleeping next to Zach does strange things to one's head. Despite my best efforts these past three years, I can't help but be drawn to him... drawn to him to the point that I begin to worry about what might happen to him should "something" happen to me.
That's the phrase that's right and proper to use, right? "Something." It's a nice, all-encompassing word. It includes nearly all the reasonable possibilities, including my own stupidity, being hit by a bus, cut lots by a serial killer, or being crushed by my refrigerator during an earthquake... and the outcomes are just as variable - from drooling vegetable to "really, most sincerely dead" and everything in between. Should "something" - anything - happen, however, I'd worry about what would happen to him.
For anyone who knows Zach, you're probably laughing at this point. For we all know full well what he'd do should "something" happen; following a general announcement to the heavens that he's "free at last," he'd cremate me, get arrested trying to scatter my ashes into the already-polluted Puget Sound, and eventually move on. Any notions that he'd be in some sort of "difficulty" or trouble in the event of "something" happening to me are entirely laughable: I've no property or money to dispute, and my few posessions are of no consequence to anyone living or dead. Yet, as a pseudo-Southerner, I do most things "on principle," dodging the pragmatism Zach, as a good Midwesterner, so fervently clings to. The fact that I have no property or money to leave to him is not the issue to me; I want him to have that option - that right - that responsibility. Thus, my ridiculous dilemma: I want him to be the first in line to inherit my Nothing, should "something" happen to me.
Lawyers, wills, and living wills, as it turns out, are expensive, particularly if you're a pseudo-Southerner who, thanks entirely doing everything in his twenty-six years "on principle," has little money. I'm a graduate student, and graduate students don't get paid much. But, some time ago, I opened a little account to begin saving mony for those attorney fees. I was, and am, determined to let Zach make the decision, and let him inherit my Nothing, when the time comes.
If recent rumors from the state capitol are to be taken at face value, however, my slow savings may give way to a less expensive option. Domestic partnerships appear to be gaining ground; they would offer essentially what I'd attempt to seek in an expensive legal contract: permission to visit me in the hospital and make decisions on my behalf, inheritance in the absense of a will, the right to arrange a funeral, and a handful of other marriage-like privileges. As news has spread of the potential for the domestic partnership bill to make it through one house of the state legislature this year, I couldn't help but salivate... not over domestic partnerships themselves, but the possibility of domestic partnerships! Here I was, fretting over Zach's inability to inherit all my Nothing (on principle!), and there's this bill hanging before the state legislature that, in theory, would rid me overnight of my concerns.
I kept my trap shut for a few days, expecting the carrot to vanish in a whirlwind of state politics and parliamentary procedure. This morning, however, I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Specifically, my sinuses were wracked with a cold-like plague that has, one-by-one, been ravaging my peers and co-workers. Zach, home for the weekend from the state capitol, had spent a restless night next to my sneezing, coughing, tossing, turning, and snoring form. On top of that, I awoke frustrated that my immune system had thus far failed to rid me of the virus in question, and our asthmatic cat was wheezing.
Perhaps it was the sheer nobility he displayed when confronted with my illness-induced schizophrenia. Or perhaps it was the chivalrous way in which he instantly agreed to accompany me to Pike Place Market for breakfast, despite the fact that my nose was red and swollen, my balance shaky thanks to filled sinuses, and my attitude generally irritable enough to stun a yak at fifty paces. Whatever it was, I couldn't help but smile through my dry, cracked lips as we journeyed downtown, and made a resolution in my mind: today, I'd ask him. I will ask him, to get domesticated with me... if we get the chance.
Thus, on the second floor of Lowell's, we shivered in a drafty booth with no view of the polluted Puget Sound, and my quick-yet-stupid mouth snapped at Zach. I fumed at my vitriolic tongue, and stared out the window to the level below, where a young man laid out apples and citrus, onions and potatoes. Zach sighed and dodged the bullet, again accepting me for the flawed, swollen-nosed man I am. I pressed my dry lips together, staring down at the fruit stand below, praying that I could reverse time and take back what I said. Instead, we mumbled through a few lines about state politics, and found ourselves reconciling over discussions of the domestic partnership bill. "Now or never," I thought to myself.
"Would you?"
"Would I what?"
"Would you want to get domesticated with me?"
"Huh?"
"I mean, you don't have to! I just... thought I'd ask."
From high school, when I realized I was a homosexual, I'd also resigned myself to the fact that I'd never marry, and never be able to ask any man to join me in any sort of agreement to that end. Unless a move to Massachusetts, Connecticut, New Jersey, Vermont, or California is in my future, I believe my high school assumption will still ring true. I thought, someday, years from now, once I'd saved enough money, I'd draw up a contract with Zach, and we'd unceremoniously sign it, and then go home and pet our asthmatic cat. And yet, here I found myself savoring the almost-burned-but-still-so-delicious sausage links at Lowell's (the only reason to eat there, particularly if the window tables are already taken), asking Zach to speed up the process of contractual agreement by a few years.
And, he agreed.
I immediately hit the brakes, admitting I was pulling the cart before the horse. "Domestic partnerships probably won't happen this year anyway," I told myself in between nose blows. "Even if they make it through both houses and the governor signs it into law, there'll be a citizen initiative to overturn the legislature that will lead to a postponement of the law's implementation until late this year or next November." Something will probably happen, I told myself, to delay the bill somehow.
Still, as I savored my sausage links and looked at his beaming, unshaved face, it was nice to sit in that drafty booth in that drab restaurant and think that of the money I was slowly saving as a back-up, rather than the primary means for Zach to inherit my Nothing, visit me in the hospital, and - in the eyes of the law - be Something to me.
After breakfast, we walked around the fruit and vegetable stands, and I stopped at one stall to buy some dates. The stand owner suggested I try one first. As I sank my teeth cautiously into one cold and sweet fruit, I caught Zach brushing his hand through his hair in the corner of my eye. I love it when he does that - one of his many gestures of detachment and preoccupation that I've always found adorable over the years.
As I turned my head to watch him, I squeezed the date I was biting too hard and fumbled, nearly dropping it.
The vendor joked, "Hey, you're gonna have to pay for that!"
I beamed back, "Yes, I certainly will!"