Brandy (a Fine Girl) in Couples Therapy
He is late.
Technically, the sea has made him late—again. The sea is “eternal” and “vast” and “answerable to no clock,” which is exactly the kind of language you use when you don’t respect a 3 P.M. standing appointment.
I am sitting on a tasteful beige sofa in Dr. Feldman’s office. There is a tabletop fountain burbling in the corner, which is a little on the nose. The intake form asked me to describe “the nature of the conflict.” I wrote: “Competing mistress, aquatic.”
Dr. Feldman clears her throat. “Brandy, do we think he’ll be joining us today?”
I glance at the empty chair beside me. “He’s very busy,” I reply. “His life, his love, and his lady is the sea.”
Dr. Feldman blinks. “Can you say that again?”
“He repeats it like it’s his mantra,” I explain. “ ‘My life, my love, and my lady is the sea.’ ” I try not to do the voice, but it slips out—husky, horizon-facing, nautical.
“And how does that make you feel?”
“Like I’ve been emotionally outsourced to the brine,” I mutter.
To be clear, I have been supportive. When he brings me gifts from far away—a ship in a cheap plastic bottle, a commemorative spoon from Señor Frog’s, an “I ❤️ Guam” bumper sticker—I receive them with grace. I even wear the braided silver chain “from the north of Spain.” It itches.
Dr. Feldman folds her hands. “Has he expressed a willingness to prioritize the relationship?”
“He once told me I was ‘a fine girl,’ ” I say. “He believes I would make a ‘good wife.’ ”
“And?”
“And then he pledges fealty to a large, damp expanse.”
There is a pause. The fountain burbles.
“Brandy,” Dr. Feldman says, carefully, “when he says that the sea is his lady, what do you hear?”
“I hear that I’m in a throuple with the Deep.”
I have tried to engage with the sea directly on the matter. I stood on the dock one night and shouted into her raging glory: “What are your intentions?” A wave took my shoe.
The receptionist knocks softly, then enters, and hands Dr. Feldman a note.
“Ah,” she says to me. “He called.”
My heart lifts—the traitor. “Is he coming?”
“He said he’s running late.”
“Of course he is.”
“He added that he cannot stay long.”
“Of course he can’t.”
“Also,” she squints, “that his life, his love, and his lady is the sea.”
I close my eyes. Somewhere, a buoy clangs. “Did he at least ask how I am?”
“He asked if we validate parking.”
Look—I do my best to understand that the harbor is his home. I have gazed into his eyes when he tells those endless sailor stories and I have felt the ocean rise and fall in them. I have felt it rise and fall in me, too, which is inconvenient when you are trying to balance a tray of whiskey.
But here is what I would like entered into the record: I am not a port. I am not a picturesque backdrop for his monologue. I am a woman and a waitress who lays whiskey down with surgical precision. I have survived Fleet Week.
Dr. Feldman leans forward. “What would you say to him if he were here?”
“I’d say,” I begin, “that if your lady is the sea, you should at least have the decency to stop telling other women they’d make good wives. I’d say that I am not asking him to drain the ocean. I am asking him to show up.”
The fountain gurgles, chastened.
“And if he can’t?” Dr. Feldman asks, gently.
I stand. I remove the locket that bears his name, drop it into a wastebasket, and walk out. As I leave the office, I notice that the tide is coming in.
Let her. ♦