I. Monologue of the Destroyed

The day I was destroyed was a Tuesday in my forty-first year and hasn’t ended. About ten years have passed. I look normal: a married, well-off woman with adult children. The Tuesday I was destroyed was when my last love affair ended, not even spectacularly, which might have been the problem, but by quiet respectful text that didn’t infuriate me as much as it was like watching a scheduled train leave the station.

Despite half a dozen infidelities and three painful and messy and delicious extended affairs, I consider myself happily married. My husband is a good partner, not possessive, excellent conversationalist, worldly—and we’ve our acceptable secrets from one another. What destroyed me was not the end of a particular affair but the extinguishing of any desire for them. I was no longer interested in romance. In fact, I was no longer capable of it. I think most people, when they realize this, they change focus, compensate with other ambitions. I tried this but eventually realized, slowly, gradually, that I had no other ambitions. So, no, I don’t think I’ll come up to your place. Is it close by?

No, I’m not interested. At all. You seem like a fine and functioning person with a decent sense of humor. But there’s nothing in that for me. I’ve no interest in a conversation with you, not really.

He’s out of town for the weekend. I know I was the one who called you. Because I knew you wanted to, because you’ve made it obvious, because it was easier than not calling, somehow (though I’m hoping that changes soon, too). And I can tell you’re lonely. But I’m not lonely. I’m indifferent. Don’t you understand? I don’t think it’s a complicated thing I’m telling you. I may be more blunt than typical. That’s all. All that special energy is gone. All my juices are gone. I’m dried out.

Oh, you too! What a great relief. That means we don’t have to do anything. We are both destroyed, hopeless, takers of small pleasures, shells, hollowed out, desiccated.

Oh, now I’m glad to have confessed. That means we can just complain about our bodies and taxes and various state injustices, have our decaf, and head home.

While we are destroyed, we are not yet completely destroyed.

The final end takes time. Another twenty to forty years. But the key parts have been destroyed. The bits of us that may have reached out into the world and added or subtracted anything—those bits are rusted out and done.

I certainly don’t want to learn the new procedures or technology. I barely acquiesce to taking my prescription medications. But I exercise and diet. We’re destroyed but still fearful of pain, right?

And oh, my right knee. And oh, your left hip and that sinus infection and the kidney stone and the GERD and the gout and the wheezing.

And we’re not totally destroyed yet, not even that old yet. Much more pain and discomfort to go. More discomfort and pain, much more.

How nice that we found each other. Two destroyed indifferent shells. No, I don’t think we should get to know each other more. Are you kidding? I already know too much about you. It’s enough for me to feign interest in the people already in my life. Not to mention the people I’ve lost . . .

No, there’s no real future in this. I’m glad we’re in agreement.

Would you like to split a dessert? Yeah, me neither.

II. Covid Story, or I Can’t Really Remember What the Lockdown Was Like, Can You?

No one remembers the rain delay because the game was so close and so exciting and, it has to be said, so heartbreaking for half of the participants. But it was during the delay, while we were sitting in the dugout, and the water dripped from the eaves, and you were kicking your cleats against the dugout wall, and I planned on kissing you later. I remember making the plan as the soft light, filtered by raincloud, cast you pale and beautiful above me. There were many things I promised myself during the rain delay and many things I saw too: twitches of muscle, fashion splashes, clear confessions, disorders of power, all kinds of promises. The entire time the only words you managed to mutter were, Fuck this noise. We were all watching each other, but no one made any big moves. The thing is, we all wanted to win. We didn’t know why we wanted to win, some of us lied to themselves that they didn’t care, some knew and acknowledged early that they did. Every moment we thought it was almost over, then every moment meant it would never change. Then the summer drumming of the rain tapered. The umpires took a gamble. I only remember because I never told you (and now years have passed). Or because maybe I changed my mind? We took the field, and we forgot all about the delay. But I must not have changed my mind, because I still remember a little.