talking about it (semi-fiction)

i'll marry you, he says. i've already married you in my mind. the rest of the world doesn't need to know; they're not ready yet.

i go back and forth. yes, i will marry you; yes, i will dedicate my life to you; no, i'm not too young. there is no "too young" when you know as certainly as i know. i have never loved anyone the way i love you; i could never love anyone the way i love you.

what are the risks? the risks don't matter. we're smart; we'll be safe. and even if something goes wrong, we're mature enough to deal with it, no matter what they say. we will make do if we have to. it'll just be starting our life sooner than we'd planned. funny how the parts we don't want to rush and parts we want sooner than possible run into each other.

this goes on for weeks, then months. this spans every other argument. every disagreement ends with i-love-you's and a discussion of this. how badly we want it, how practical we could make it--how real we could make it.

yes, i will marry you; yes, i will dedicate my life to you. i belong more to you than i belong to myself. in private, he calls me by his last name.

when the phone call comes, it is like a sign from God, if we still believe in Him. the timing is too perfect to ignore. the opportunity is too perfect to reject. practically every permission has been granted; practically every decision has already been made.

we stall, even then. it's almost as if we know better. then on the last day, it happens, reluctant and slow, readily and rushed, on someone else's couch for fear that my mother will suddenly come home.

he kisses me, holds me, tells me everything i never knew i wanted to hear. let's keep this just between us. it's too special to share. he goes home and i go back to my family, the one i wish i no longer had to claim. i try not to smile too much. i limit my words, remembering that everyone is still sad and i am supposed to be, too.

it hurts but it is a good hurt, and the kind of sore i am afterwards tells me that i have accomplished something. it is a tangible reminder that i am changed. when it goes away, i want it back. it is a sick-sweet secret, and it is mine, and i own it. with shame and shamelessness in good measure.

i go back to school the next day, and when my best friend meets me at my locker in the morning, it is as if nothing has changed. but i know we are speaking to each other across that rift, the one that separates the girls who have from the girls who haven't, and only i know which side i am on.

it continues this way, as often as we can make it: yes, i have married you; yes, i dedicate my life to you. let's keep this just between us. it's too special to share.

i go back to school, and when my best friend meets me at my locker in the morning, neither of us knows which side the other is on. it is not open for discussion. so we stop talking.

he becomes my everything, just the way we said we wanted it. there is nothing but each other. if they notice, they say nothing. but who needs their notice?

yes, i have married you; yes, i dedicate my life to you. but why don't you think of it this way? why can't you agree with me? why do you antagonize me? you're doing this on purpose, even though i love you so much. let's keep this just between us. it's too special to share.

why don't you pay me any attention when we're around other people? why do you need me so much? why can't you make everything better the way you used to? why do you rely on me to be the sole source of your happiness? yes, i dedicate my life to you, but i am not living enough to give you this much.

at first it hurt, and then it was nothing but pressure. then it was nothing but the hemp around my neck and the tears that stung my cheeks. yes, i have married you, and we've kept it just between us, but now there is no one who can validate this feeling of divorce.