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 directly 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. ♦
