Listen, y’all, I don’t even know how to start or to talk about this cause the only thing I’ve ever used Reddit for was to write dumb haiku and look at workout plans. But the thought had come to me that if I wrote these words — to you, to myself, to the universe — that the puppeteer pulling the strings would get the hint. Too tight, pal. Too hard.
And look, I don’t want your sympathy. Life is hard and then you die. I know. I just want to get this off my chest, talk about it, maybe even find catharsis in the act of tapping traumas in my touchpad. So here goes.
She and I met about a year ago. I don’t want to get into particulars – the how should be clear from the subject. But she and I connected very quickly. Really connected. There was a language barrier, sure, but she spoke Chinese in WeChat and the translation was enough. We communicated through laughter, side jokes, farting in code like I was James Joyce and she was Nora. It was so easy for me to fall in love.
Our relationship wasn’t transactional, even if it was in the beginning. We saw each other outside of work. Picture this tiny, tiny girl in too-big Gucci shades and braids to her shoulders walking hand in hand with some chain smoking yellow haired lǎowài through the streets of Flushing. Maybe you’d hear her raspy sing-song through the sound of traffic. Past all those too-loud voices talking. Baby. She’d drag this word out when she said it. BAY-bee. I love you, baby. And the things we talked about became more serious.
She told me that she did that work because of debt. All those men to save for 80,000 dollars. Post-COVID bankruptcy, a massive fire — she woke one night and started screaming when the alarm went off in our hotel room, could only start to calm when she saw no smoke but firefighters posted just outside the steakhouse on the twelfth floor. Fuck you for scaring my wife with your overcooked tomahawk, by the way, Prime Met at Renaissance Hotel. But what should I have done instead when she told me all those things while I held her in my arms? Should I have not told her I would pay her debts, teach her English, save her from her worries?
I had money to make that promise then. Good enough take-home salary working in an easy office job. Stocks and crypto. Savings. She quit her job. We married in December. A courthouse wedding where a guy out front offered to take our photo underneath a faded floral arch. We went home that night and said our vows again on WeChat. “Do you love me forever, baby?” She said. I do. Oh god, I do.
Too much shit has happened since. Sickness in the family. Market crashing. 47,000 left to pay. I don’t know, man, but when she told me earlier tonight that she should work again to pay her debts, I think a part of me began to hate the world a little. Hate whatever twist of fate made sure that a woman like her would always have a foot against her neck. Hate the life I’ve had. Hate the cosmic architect that led us to this maze of nothing but dead ends.
But that’s enough self-pity for tonight . Like I said, maybe if I write these words, and think these thoughts then maybe that motherfucker out there will get the hint.
Pretty please with sugar on top.