Julia Sullivan | fiction | Symbiosis

Symbiosis




My last evening with Peter was spent on the couch. We had candles going and jazz on the radio. He leaned over to me at some point and muttered something like I don’t feel so well. I don’t remember much from before. It was normal in the way life is: it was happening around me until it was happening to me.

We made it to the hospital, but he was admitted before I could even grab our bags from the ambulance. I wasn’t allowed to come back with him, so I ran out to get him a $1 slice from his favorite pizzeria around the block for later in the night when he felt better. When I got back some twenty minutes later, the hospital staff let me know that he suffered an unexpected stroke and could not be resuscitated. I sat in the waiting room for three hours after — crying, pacing, crying again. I buried him two days later at the cemetery we used to walk by on Sundays. During those walks, he’d hold my hand if I let him; I’d zipper his backpack when he forgot. We’d look at the headstones and contemplate what ours would look like. But, in all my naiveté, I never thought death was so proximal to us. Not to Peter, at least.

#

Kathryn, he’d whisper in the mornings over tea. What are you grateful for today?

I don’t know, I’d reply sleepily. You, of course. Maybe chamomile tea.

I should have known.

#

We met when we were thirty at a book reading. My friend Joon brought me along and Peter happened to be sitting next to us. There was no romance. I simply commented on his hat and he thanked me. I guess there never was any romance at all, at least in the way you or I would define it. We ran into each other three months later at a coffee shop and talked for a few hours. We bonded over shared gender/sexuality navigations: or rather, a feeling of otherness in life, i.e. my transness and Peter’s aromanticism. We made plans to meet the next Sunday, and then the next, and then the next and so on.

Peter and I cohabitated as much as we cared for each other. At a certain point, we were forty and largely confused by the idea of partnership. At another point, we were forty-five and decided to move in together because we liked each other enough. I made him laugh, he made me cry in all the good ways. We made each other feel comforted during an age of life where comfort seemed to be a necessity albeit not a given.

At first, cohabitating was like learning how to ride a bike. It was a new skill that we had no concept for on a life-partner level, to say the least. I left the kitchen a mess most mornings, to Peter’s chagrin. He never remembered to take the trash out, to mine. We would often bump into each other most nights trying to weave in and out of the bathroom. It was as if we were simply occupying the same apartment and nothing else, that is, until we figured out we could get to know one another.

In an attempt to do this, Peter and I had sex; I should mention we did this only once during the time we knew each other. We were drunk – or I should say Peter was drunk, I was stoned – and were 1) somewhat bored and 2) very horny. It was fine. I don't think Peter even came. We finished and I jumped in the shower. When I came out, Peter had gone to see a movie. That was all there was to it. We didn’t speak about it for a few years, because in all honesty, there was nothing to say. Years later, he brought it up while we were playing trivia with his friend from high school who was visiting. We laughed about it for the first time and when I looked over at him, he was beaming. I’m glad we can finally laugh about this, he whispered to me while grabbing my hand. I squeezed it back and called our waiter over for another Guinness/French fry round.

My point being – there was something other than lust, love, or romance keeping me and Peter intertwined. It was a new, adult ideal. Something I had never experienced before: a merging of lives for the sake of wanting to and for the experience of a humanity often untrespassed. There was nothing keeping us together. No legal document, no reciprocated feelings, no children. Just a sentiment somewhere, perhaps deep down or perhaps not, that life was better lived in symbiosis with one another.

#

When Peter died, I realized I had nobody to tell. In past relationships, I was codependent. Here, I was independent but isolated on accord of my own mid-forty callousness. I realized I hadn’t shared Peter with anyone in the way that he had shared me with others. In fact, I had no friends. Not because Peter was my only friend, but because I didn’t want friends. Or did I? I don’t quite know anymore.

So, when he died, I left a note on one of our neighborhood electric posts describing him. I talked about his mannerisms, how he liked his pasta, his favorite dessert, why he thought Joni Mitchell was the greatest artist alive. I don’t know if anyone saw it. We had a thunderstorm the weekend after and by the time I woke up, it had blown off the post.

#

I met Peter’s parents a good while into knowing him. We lived in Montana at the time, but our families were each on opposite coasts: mine in Nevada and his in New Hampshire. They flew in one summer and we had a backyard barbecue. Peter and his mom Briony grilled, while I made lemonade with his mom Quinn. They were an intellectual family in all the ways mine wasn’t. Briony told us random geography facts throughout the night. Quinn posed philosophical and theoretical questions to get us thinking about metaphysics. They both asked me about my upbringing, what brought me out to Montana, what I saw myself doing in ten years. I asked them about maple-tapping and hiking. Turns out, they didn’t do much of any of it.

Peter never met my family, apart from my father. I didn’t want him to, but I also had no desire to go back to rural Nevada. As they never had any desire to visit me out in Montana or anywhere I moved next, we were at a bit of a stalemate. When Peter and I were in Chicago one fall for Joon and his partner Sylvan’s wedding, my father was also there for a business trip. We met up with him for dinner at a deep-dish joint; he and Peter carried the bulk of the conversation and before I knew it, my father was applauding me for my taste in friends. I’d never seen my father that comfortable around someone new. In fact, I’d never really spent that much consecutive “quality” time with my father in my forty-some years. After dinner, my father shook my hand and patted Peter’s back. Nice to meet you, son. Kathryn sure is lucky to have you in her orbit.

Thank you, Sean, Peter chimed. That means a lot.

#

I thought of Peter like I think of a little boy. Charming in all the most profound ways. Innocent in all the most ventricular ways. I remember him like that; perched on the sofa watching HGTV or a Chris Guest mockumentary, glasses too low to be useful. Want some M&Ms, Kathryn? I’d always say yes, and when I did, his smile would expand just the way I’d imagine an eight year old’s. I think I miss that the most. The way he would morph back in, again and again, into a child. What a gift. Before him, I’d never met anyone who could access that part of themselves. Before him, I had long forgotten I was once a child.

#

On Peter’s fortieth birthday, I made a reservation at Medieval Times. We got drunk and ate our body weight in chicken and tomato soup. Our waitress spent the entire night flirting with Peter, which I egged on being three Piña Coladas deep. She couldn’t have been older than twenty-five, but she walked like she was – shoulders first and chin high. I leaned over to tell Peter I wished I had half of her confidence. He laughed and finished off a Mai Tai.

We went home and changed into pajamas. Peter fell asleep on the couch, while I made myself a quesadilla and fell asleep in the kitchen after I finished it. We woke up to our neighbors yelling at each other like they usually did most mornings.

What time is it? I mumbled haphazardly.

Kathryn, I gotta say . . . I don’t remember a single thing from last night. He laughed, which made me laugh.

I was worried I was the only one, I said with a wink.

#

A few months before he died, Peter asked me what we were doing. I asked him what he meant by that, to which he replied: We’ve lived together all this time, and known each other for longer, and we’ve never gone to the movie theater together. I assured him that couldn’t be right, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized we hadn’t. That night, we bought tickets to the first movie we saw on the board; I don’t even remember what it was, but it was hilarious and we laughed until Peter accidentally peed his pants. I should mention: before the movie, Peter bought me an extra large popcorn and I bought him an extra large slushie. He swore to never drink one again after that night. I told him it wasn’t that bad and after a few seconds of pouting, he laughed. If you say so, Ryn.

#

I’ve kept Peter’s bedroom the same. Nothing’s been moved or touched, apart from his shirts which I smell from time to time. I keep the door open because his room gets the best light and sometimes, if I squint, I see a faint silhouette on his wall in the shape of him. It’s quite faint and, even then, I’m usually squinting to the point of blurriness.

I had a new friend over this past weekend. When we finished our tea, we started talking about all the big things. You know: rage, loss, trauma, joy, life – the pursuit of it. I mentioned Peter in the past tense and she put her finger up to pause me. Do you have a question? I asked, finally putting my mug down on the coffee table. Yes. Who’s Peter? I don’t recall him. I paused for a moment, and sometime after a wave of pain (diluted if only somewhat now by years and years) I said: My partner.

She smiled. Ah, Peter. What was he like, if you don’t mind me asking?

I didn’t mind at all. In fact, I was happy that someone was asking, and even happier honestly, that I wanted to answer. He was better than me in all ways except one.

And what’s that? She leaned toward me, her chin in her hands as she waited for my reply.

I was the one lucky enough to have him in my orbit.