Traditional (Marriage//Tattoo)

Even as vocal as I was about my mother and politics and the ten thousand other things
that made me rage, I had a secret I told myself that I would never say out loud because I
thought you could not possibly understand. You had never been as loud as me, and that day
you were especially quiet, so we sat in silence on the empty, pothole-ridden i-90, and I tried to
keep my mouth shut too. You stared straight ahead at the road with one hand on the wheel and
the other limp out the rolled-down window, and I stared at you. I knew you could tell I was
looking, but there was something fascinating about how the stretch marks, taut against your
muscles, pulled the tattoos on your back to shreds. I tried to fill in the gaps that your black tank
top made from memory; I knew there were maple leaves and juniper berries down your back,
across your chest.

You checked the rearview mirror and in response, I peeled my eyes away to my own
face in the side mirror. You could never know. You probably already did.

“Got tired of the view?” You grumbled, maybe poking fun at me but there was no inkling
of judgment, never was. Sometimes, your masked compassion made me want to die.

I chose not to acknowledge it. “Where are we headed? What’s the master plan?” I tried
to sound snarky, bold, and unflustered. I don’t think I succeeded. We’d been moving from place
to place for weeks now. You always knew where to go, where was safe. The radio in the back
seat had been guiding us. I don’t think I trusted it, but I knew I trusted you.

You paused for a moment, frowning slightly, as if in pain. “Toronto, I guess?”
Canada had always been the goal, but it was out of reach; you didn’t have your passport
and I wasn’t even a citizen. I laughed a little. “How you plan on making that one work?”
“Marriage.” You enunciated the word and glanced over at me, as if waiting for a reaction.
I wanted to fill the role you expected of me, wished I had it in me to make a homophobic
comment. Maybe a couple years ago I would have.

I broke what I realized was unnecessarily long eye contact and weakly said, “Cool. I
thought the kind of marriage we’d need was banned like five years ago?” I couldn’t even bring
myself to say it. Gay marriage.

You took a deep breath and a long blink and said, “When you react to what I’m about to
say, you need to remember that I’m your best shot at making it to Christmas and I hope you’ll
pretend to still like me until then.” I was taken aback. Nothing you could say would make me feel
any differently about you.

“Fuck, man, what are you on? I’ve watched you kill people, I don’t think it gets much
worse than that.” My hand moved to palm your stretch marks and maple leaves. We hit a
pothole and I squeezed.

You brushed my hand away and said softly, “it wouldn’t be that kind of marriage in the
eyes of the law, is all I’m saying.” It didn’t compute then, even though it probably should have. I
was always a little bit slower than you were. You continued in response to my blank stare: “I’m
sorry, but I’ve had my passport this whole time. I talked to that chick at the last encampment we
stayed at and I realized your safety is worth my dignity.” You pulled your hand in through the
window and placed it on your head. The only thing I was focusing on was that you were talking
about my safety being the priority. Not ours, not yours, mine.

“I’m so fucking confused dude, I don’t know what anything you’re saying means.”

“Small compartment in my pack, where I usually keep my cigs. Get out my passport,
take a peek around, then come back to me with any questions.” The words came out rushed
and I realized you were scared. It was a new look for you, and I didn’t like it.

I undid my seatbelt and fished around for a bit until I found the little leatherbound book. It
was only as I held it in my hand did I realize what I was about to see on the picture page. “I don’t
have to look, I think I understand,” I said, worried I might not know how to react if I opened the
passport and saw a woman staring back at me.

“At this point it doesn’t matter. It’s nothing different from what you’d expect, they let me
change everything except the sex designation,” you said, in an even tone this time. “I take it that
means you don’t hate my guts.”

“I could never. In fact, now that we’re getting married, I’ll have to love them,” I said, “Or
pretend to anyway,” I added as a failsafe.

“Is love a euphemism here,” you said with a breathy laugh. I hoped you didn't notice that
apart from the accidental sexual innuendo I made, I was trying to say more. I thought to laugh
too, but the moment came and went. “You know, I won’t have to pretend to love you,” you
muttered to fill the silence.

At the time it was unclear what type of love you were talking about, so all I could say
was, “Me neither.” But I’ve come to understand, now that we aren’t running for our lives, that it's
that of solid companions, a step down from lovers: something warm and comfortable in
between. A place where my name has now been woven deep between the maple leaves and
juniper berries, but I can still call you my best friend.