67
" The next night he pulled away then advanced in a performative way. I thought he was soothing a muscle kink, but he did it again. It was some kind of physical system, shying away from himself then moving into me again. He said, “I’m doing what you asked.” He thought that’s what it meant to be tender, retreat and advance, retreat and advance. I craft emoji-rich responses to brunch invitations, remember paper towels, who likes artichokes, then remember deeper: I deliver hellos, concoct opportunities for his intelligence to shine. I am a Post-it. "
― Marie-Helene Bertino , Parakeet
70
" THE GROOM, OF COURSE! Raise high the roofbeam, carpenters. The groom walks meekly down the hall. I hear the characteristic sound of a throat being cleared that does not need to be, then a polite “Excuse me,” though he is alone, fumbling with the card in the door. He enters the room, holding an arrangement of lilacs and Queen Anne’s lace: my bouquet. It is wilder and larger than I expected, the decision of a woman who craves attention. I hate it immediately. “The florist called,” he says. “She was in a state.” “So thoughtful of you to pick it up.” We hug and for a moment I am calmed by his familiar, stable bones under my grip. His thoughtfulness. “I hit a median in the parking lot but it’s okay. "
― Marie-Helene Bertino , Parakeet
71
" As I dress he navigates through channels on the television, calling out updates. The Henshaws are here. His parents have arrived. Then, “Do you think we could have sex tonight?” His voice is quiet. “It would be nice.” “It’s the night before our wedding,” I say. “I’m so glad.” He starts his electric toothbrush, shuts it off. “You are so hot.” The toothbrush hums across his molars as he switches to a ball game. The canned multitude of a crowd and an announcer proclaims, “Higher and higher, another victory.” The groom’s gums buzz. “I have to go down to the front desk to borrow a hair dryer,” I say. “Isn’t there one right here?” He yanks it from the wall, shows it to me. “I need,” I say, “another one.” I "
― Marie-Helene Bertino , Parakeet
79
" He shifts in his seat, stalls. “If I can’t get an erection, how could I ejaculate?” “Sometimes in sleep, you’re able to … without really … also, it is possible to ejaculate while having a flaccid penis.” “You’ll have to teach me that trick. What’s occasionally again?” “Anywhere from one time on,” I say. He hears my impatience, pouts. “Write down occasionally.” Danny used to be quick to joke, according to his friends, but the accident triggered another man’s temper. He yells at Clover, the kid, the dog. He doesn’t even walk the same, Clover told me. This personality change is why certain lawyers present brain injury cases as fatalities. The client’s first life has ended. “Are you able to go to the bathroom without assistance from anything or anyone?” He waits for a truck commercial to finish before answering. My phone vibrates in my pocket with messages, e-mails. “I’m able to piss but not the other thing,” he says. “You’re able to urinate,” I say. “All the time, occasionally—” “All the time.” He lifts the waistband of his jeans to show me a diaper. “How do you relieve yourself of fecal matter?” He points to a stack of medical supplies in the corner. “I use gloves to remove what I need. Six or seven times a day. I don’t know when I have to go, that sensation or whatever is gone. I keep checking.” He slumps into himself on the chair. He’s crying, shoulders shaking, holding the remote like a sword. I want to tell him that tears are a bother and a waste of time. “This is normal for someone with your injury,” I say. “Most of my clients can’t achieve erections at all. "
― Marie-Helene Bertino , Parakeet
