A nonfiction marriage
Thank god for magazines when it's too hot to leave the house and too hot inside the house to do anything but lie on the sofa and read magazines. And by "house" I mean 4th-floor 200-sq-foot shoebox with zero air flow in the middle of August in April.
Plus you know I love shit like this, which is better than any fiction:
But there is another story from their marriage, one of a more recent vintage, that suggests Mrs. Talese is not exactly a pushover. Nan, who does not love the Jersey shore, where the family has a beach house, recently bought a country home in Roxbury, Connecticut. “I’m terribly happy there,” she says. “It took me months to get up the courage to tell Gay I bought it.”
He didn’t know?
“No!” she says, and then explains that Gay had, in fact, vetoed the purchase. But a few months later, when he was out of town, she bought the house anyway, with her husband none the wiser. Finally, one Sunday morning, when they were eating breakfast and reading the paper, she screwed up the courage to tell him. “Oh, I have some news for you,” said Nan. Then, very casually, as if she were talking about a sweater she’d picked up, she said, “I bought that house in Connecticut.” Gay’s eyes grew wild with rage. He stood up and yelled, “Divorce!” and then took the paper and retreated to his room on the top floor. A couple of hours later, he reappeared. “Well, the sports cars will fit in the garage, won’t they?” he asked. Nan said simply, “Yes,” and they never brought it up again.
“What’s the difference between you and me?” says Gay, startled by this shift into the personal.
“You are very specific and comfortable with the specifics,” says Nan. “And I am very comfortable in the fog.” Gay looks mystified, and Nan heads up stairs to take a bath.
Gay says to me, “Did you get that on tape?”
“That’s great. That is very much 7:30 dialogue in this house.”
— A Nonfiction Marriage, by Jonathan Van Meter