“I think I might kill myself,” I say to a friend I’ve met up with in a bar.
“Oh, don’t do that,” he says. “Let’s get married. That’ll take your mind off things.”
“I can’t,” I say. “I’m still officially married to my ex. When I say ex,” I say, bursting into tears, “I mean Ryan’s dad. My ex-husband. I never divorced him. He’s not really, strictly speaking, my ex-husband at all. I mean – I don’t mean – I actually mean – my ex-boyfriend.” Then I collapse into tears. Every time I have to say the words “my ex-boyfriend” to talk about Peter I either burst into tears, or, if I am already crying, collapse into more of them.
“Oh, well,” says my friend blandly. “You’ll just have to get a divorce, won’t you? And then we can get married. I want a really traditional marriage, though. Lots of ironing and blowjobs. I want to be the kind of man who doesn’t know where the ironing board is kept. You know? When people come over and ask me where our ironing board is kept, I’ll look at them blankly and say: ‘Oh, I don’t know, you’d better ask Jacinta.’ That’ll keep you busy, doing all my ironing. You won’t have any time to write any of your post-feminist stories.”
“I think I didn’t do enough ironing,” I say, sadly. “That’s why he left me.”
“Yep, probably, you’re probably right there,” he replies, breezily. “You didn’t do enough ironing and that’s why he’s left you. No wonder you’re on the verge of suicide. You’ve got so much to blame yourself for.”
“When I say I didn’t do enough ironing,” I say, explaining carefully, “what I really mean is, that I didn’t do any ironing. I’m no good at ironing. I always iron new creases in. And sometimes little black marks. So I just don’t bother. I just wear creased stuff if I have to – or t-shirts and jumpers. T-shirts and jumpers never need ironing, you know, that’s what I like about them. You know one of Ryan’s language tests at the kindergarten? The only word he didn’t know was ‘Bügeleisen‘. The nursery teachers told me afterwards: ‘We kind of got the impression that it wasn’t a linguistic problem, but that irons weren’t something he was familiar with on a daily basis.’ And they were right. He’s not familiar with it. I never do it. I can’t do it. It’s not a feminist decision. It’s a thing I can’t do.”
“Well, there’s no use beating yourself up about it now. You know what you did wrong – not enough ironing – and you know what you’re going to do better in the future – more ironing. Do you want another glass of wine, Jacinta? My treat.”
I look at him, puzzled.
“You want to buy me a glass of wine?” I say.
“Yes,” he says.
“But you don’t believe in men buying women drinks,” I say.
“I’m not buying you a glass of wine because you’re a woman and I’m a man,” he says. “I’m buying you a glass of wine because you’re so depressed and almost on the verge of suicide and I want to cheer you up. I’ll even go to the bar for you. Okay?”
“Okay,” I say indifferently but then I look up and notice his glassy eyes all soft and misty with sympathy and pity and Mitleid and I feel more sorry for myself than ever.
“Plus, we are basically officially engaged,” I remind him.
“Exactly,” he says, and gets up to go and get wine.