Unnecessary Emotions

The fact that I don’t remember anything from last night after we got home is disorienting.

The party was great. Both Guido and I were in a good mood even before our first drink. The crowd, the music, the ambiance — all five stars. After a martini, our host opened a bottle of red, and as the night warmed up with music, dancing, chatter, and laughter, I somehow finished the whole bottle just by myself. I remember us coming home after midnight, taking off my new black pants — the ones I bought from the boutique recently — and hanging them up with care. The rest is a blur.

In the morning, Guido is mostly on his phone. Something is going on between Mamma and Gaetano, and he needs to “fix things,” as he said grumpily when he woke up. I don’t ask questions when it comes to his family affairs; I prefer to stay away from the complications of their relationships. Not just with Guido — even with friends, I’d rather not know the details, the gossip, the who-said-what. When he talks to his mom, his tone sharpens. He picks on her more than anyone else, and I can feel the root of it is something deeper. He won’t admit that, but he always complains about the small things — how she gets on his nerves, asking too many details about his daily life.

What did you have for lunch? Did you exercise? Are you stressed? Who was at the party? Guido, are you drinking too much? Are you smoking weed? What did you cook today?
And then the commentaries — You’re feeding Sarah too much meat. You should make more vegetables.

He told me once that her attitude shifted after his ex-wife passed. She’s always worried about him. We are sitting in the backyard. The hydrangea has taken on the pink hue of fall, and the roses are blooming late this year. August was hot. I walk over to the rose I love most. Don Juan, that’s the name of the breed. Its scent is velvety, soft but rosy. Just the way it should be — not showy, not blunt. I cup it in my palm, tracing the petals as they spiral around the yellow center. It’s just another flower, but it’s mine. My rose.

When Guido hangs up, he exhales — pffff — a sharp sigh of frustration. He stretches his legs into the sun, curling and uncurling his toes in the wet grass. I know he needs a breather. I walk barefoot on the grass, soaking in this sparkling end-of-summer sun, not really in the mood to chat. He tosses the ball for Goebel a few times, then gets annoyed when the dog won’t drop it.

“Last night was fun.”
“It was.”
He pushes his sunglasses up onto his forehead and looks at me.
“I mean… not the party.”

I narrow my eyes, searching my mind. Did we make love last night?
“Hmm,” I say, dodging. I don’t remember a thing.
“You were so drunk.”
“I know, it was fun.”

I’m still trying to recover any trace of memory — what happened after I hung my pants in the closet?

I drag one of the white garden chairs over, set it beside him, and sit. He’s on his phone, probably scrolling cycling photographers’ posts. He’s obsessed with Tour de France shots. With the other hand, he gestures frustration.

“This is too much.”

Like most of the time when I have no clue what he’s talking about, I wait it out. The garden holds my attention. The cosmos I planted this year are taller than me now, dancing in the wind. Their bright pink against the blue sky is a reminder of how Toronto shines in September — like no other city.

“He talks about architecture as if buildings are emotional bodies, like they all need to mean something.”
Now I know the topic: architecture.
“Some are.”
“Agreed. But it kills me when architects talk about the concept of a tower or a condo or a shopping mall. Why does everything need to mean something? I get it, the space should be pleasant, but most importantly it should work.”
“So, what was too much?”
“This friend of mine from Spain. He posts his projects and pairs each sketch with a poem. Imagine — he’s designing a house for a client and starts with a haiku. Poor client. Just design the goddamn house, man!”

I’m about to mention buildings that do carry emotion — the ones I remember from Iran, Spain, Mexico — when he cuts me off.
“It’s like having a lover and just talking and talking and talking and never fucking.”

I smile. So typical of him.
“So now we’re talking sex?”
“No. I’m just saying, I don’t get the emotions that are… how can I say it… unnecessary.”

I laugh again. The phrase sticks: unnecessary emotions.

“Say, imagine we came home last night, you’re in this crazy mood of love, and I go, oh, lab-lab, lab-lab — and then fall asleep.”

I’m still trying to remember, even a fragment, some blurry scene from last night. Nothing. I don’t dare ask. He’d laugh at me forever. There’s no question I can ask that won’t give me away. So I stay quiet.

Then, like always in long relationships, he glances at me with that half-smile under his stubble.
“You remember, right?”
I bite my lower lip, nod no. He knows. We both laugh, louder, longer this time.

“Oh, fuck — there were zero unnecessary emotions last night,” he says, wiping his eyes, wet from laughing hard.

Hey, I’m Gracie. I’m working on my debut novella, Is the sun a he or a she? a romance.