Fractions
He made a map of my body. It was very thorough, from the grove of freckles on my shoulders to the curve of my waist leading into my hips. I wondered how much time he�d spent on it, how he�d taken his measurements, which he assured me were precise. �It�s to scale,� he�d said. �One quarter exactly.� I ran my fingers over the surface of it, wondering about inspiration. He has recreated me. A smaller, more silent self. Am I better this way?
We divide the space between us evenly, always busying ourselves with concerns of equity. So it is only right that when he subtracts himself from my life, he leaves behind half of everything: our friends, the furniture, my heart. Thank you for being so fair, I want to tell him. A whole heart is too much for me to eat anyway. But he is already gone, adding elements to his life that he will never share with me. In a burst of generosity, I send him half my loneliness.
�I am completely terrified of the water,� he tells me, explaining why he won�t go into the ocean. I want to be his mermaid, trade my voice away to live in the world he inhabits. �Your body is three-fourths water,� I tell him. �So you can�t be completely terrified.� He smiles at me, but won�t give in. �Maybe just one-fourth terrified, then. But it�s the fourth that controls me.� I imagine that I am fifth, but realize that is being overly optimistic.
When the touch of his hand becomes foreign, I begin to think of ways to revive the carrion of our life together. �Let�s take a vacation,� I suggest. He brings out the budget he has created for us, references the multi-colored pie charts of our finances. I cannot love this man, can I? �I�m sorry,� he says, �but a vacation is not in our budget.� I wonder if he has set aside a slice for a divorce, or if that, too, would get in the way of early retirement.
He dies exactly one month before our baby is due. I am sitting in my office, wondering how I will divide the space in my heart fairly, how I will love them both enough. The phone rings, and they tell me he is dead. Gone. There will be less of a strain on my heart, I think, but realize that is not true. Now it must be divided three ways: for him, for the baby, and for his ghost. The baby will resent having to share my love with strangers, resent having to give her whole heart to me, and none to him. She is already an old woman.