King is just standing there. His back is to me but I can see his posture, read his body, like this is the most normal thing for him to do. Like he does this all the time. Hanging out in art galleries, talking to strangers about textures and colors.
I press my fingertips to my chest, feeling the pounding beneath my skin.
Why do I have to fight it?
Why do I have to push him away?
I know this all started out so messed up. So wrong. But we’re here now. And is it really so bad for me to just hold on?
Can’t I claim this one goddamn thing for myself.
Can’t I just take it.
I purse my lips and force myself to exhale slowly.
This is my life. Whether I choose it or not, it’s my life now.
And he’s already given me his name.
With one step, and then another, I walk to my husband.
And it’s like he can sense me, because even though I’m approaching him from behind, he slides his hand out of his pocket, and holds his fingers spread at his side. Waiting for me to take his hand.
So I do.
And I keep standing there, at his side, introducing him as my husband, for the rest of the evening. And he’s still at my side as we watch Orlando put those little stickers next to each piece, designating them as sold. And when the final piece gets a sticker, when every last one has been marked, and when King bends down and presses a kiss to the top of my head, I admit to myself that this was the best night of my life.
