Bigamy
by Tatiana Yoon
Art by Madeline Lee
“Would you like something to drink?” asked a young waitress, gently touching my elbow.
“Tea please. Green. No, black. Sorry, too sleepy.”
While I was asleep for a few minutes, it started raining. Typical spring weather. You expect blooming, smells, and sunshine, but before you get there there’s heavy rain, and mud, and grey sky. The first class train car was now full, with only two spots empty. I yawned and stretched. It was 7:55 a.m.
This whole week I could not fall asleep until 4 a.m. As my boss had mentioned, I looked like I was having either a very difficult or a very fun life. I tried to cover the dark circles under my eyes as much as I could, applied thick makeup with bright red lips that simply looked stupid in the morning. I’d probably fall asleep again and smudge all of this off my face.
A man on the radio announced that the train to Saint-Petersburg was leaving in 5. The waitress brought my tea. I pulled out a marzipan bar from the inside pocket of my cashmere coat. As a form of a habit now, I read the ingredients. Sugar was fine, almonds were fine, alcohol… Yes, marzipans often had alcohol in them, I forgot. I unwrapped the rustling shiny paper and took a bite.
A couple entered the train at 7:58, laughing and rushing to their seat on the other side of the car diagonally from mine. I glanced at them. She was someone I'd never seen. His name was Dima; he was my ex-husband. We broke up last May.
We'd been together for 4 years. I just got my degree, he'd been struggling to finish his and gave up by the time we met. It was one of the first relationships I had that hadn't been on and off. It was always on.
Dima was 7 years older and a little bold. I recommended him changing his hairstyle and growing a beard. I took him shopping and we renewed his whole wardrobe. He was happy with it. He liked and agreed with everything I offered. It was an easy relationship, at least in the beginning.
Dima read the books I gave him and cooked more than I did. My house chore was cleaning. I helped him find a better job. I visited tiresome tech conferences with him. He complimented my amateur paintings and framed them. We didn't have sex often, but when we did it was dull and predictable; however, it seemed to satisfy us both.
The train was slowly gaining speed. I wasn't sure if he saw me. But even if he did, he'd probably try to avoid me.
The waitress appeared again. She turned to Dima and his girlfriend asking if they wanted anything to drink. I saw them both wearing wedding rings. The girlfriend asked, “Do you guys have decaf?” They didn't. I saw her stroking her belly; she was about 5-6 months pregnant.
Staring at them was not a good way to go. Just like the old gentleman in front of me, I grabbed a free newspaper from the table. I caught myself reading the heading about gardening over and over again. I attempted reading another article, something about politics, but I couldn’t focus. Almost at the end of the newspaper I found a crossword. “Entering into a marriage while still legally married to another person, 6 letters.” Bigamy.
We had been dating for 2 years when he proposed. I called my mom the same day telling her what happened.
“What did you say?” she asked.
“Well, I said ‘yes’.”
I didn’t get why ask that question. The decision was obvious to me then. If a nice guy asks you to marry him, you do. Why wouldn't you. Also, I thought I loved him. He thought he loved me too.
The train honked and stopped. The radio announced we were departing in ten minutes. Dima got up, carefully avoiding his wife's belly. He was holding a pack of cigarettes in his hand. “What a prick”, I thought. We gave up smoking together. Later I figured out that he never did. He felt like not telling me was ok and laughed that I hadn't noticed.
My stomach was rumbling. I took another bar from my pocket. This one was a chocolate protein bar. I tried unwrapping it, but the package only ripped in small parts. I pulled the package apart and a few chocolate pieces dropped on my beige pants. “Shit”, I whispered under my breath, trying to get the chocolate off the pants, but the pieces started melting as soon as I touched them with my fingers, leaving tiny stains. I got up and went to the bathroom to clean it.
I looked in the mirror. I was blushing. My hands were trembling. I didn't want to go back. When I opened the door to come out of the restroom, I almost bumped into Dima, he was back from his smoke.
“I’m sorry”, he said not looking at me.
Did he not see that it was me, his ex-wife?
Some orthodox christians get married both at a registry office and in church. My religious beliefs were not strong enough to even think about getting married in church; however, my dad’s were. Dima never went to church on his own, but he didn’t object.
I got back to my seat. The old gentleman in front of me noticed my watch.
“It looks lovely. My wife had a similar one.”
“Could be the same. It’s vintage.”
Old people can talk for ages. You don’t even have to reply anything to them. It was probably a good way to distract myself, but I thought I might draw Dima’s attention. I said “sorry” to the old man and put the earpods in. After skipping 7 songs in a row, I finally stopped on Gershwin’s “Rhapsody in blue”.
I heard this song in Woody Allen’s movie “Manhattan”. One of the first things we could not agree on with Dima turned out to be movies. He liked action; I liked comedy-drama. I thought he didn’t have good taste; he thought my taste was hipsterish. He never understood the fun of stand-up shows. After a few months of us being married, while I was watching another comedy special, he remarked for the first time that my humor was too dark. I started hearing it more often. Sometimes he emphasized his point with “sarcastic” and “too much”. I didn't think that I was that bad, but I stopped joking around him.
Eventually our marriage went down the annoyingly usual way. I raised my eyebrows when I saw him clipping nails on the dinner table, or picking teeth with a finger, or wearing the dirty shoes he'd never cleaned. He was upset that I stopped cooking. I didn't just stop cooking, I stopped caring.
The waitress came back asking if we wanted more drinks. Somehow I was relieved to see her.
“More black tea?” she asked me.
“Actually, coffee please.”
“Milk, sugar?”
“Both.”
I always had my coffee black. Milk, sugar? Where did this come from?
Our weekend tradition with Dima was him making turkish coffee. He brewed it himself, gently following all steps of the ritual he read about online. He’d heat up the pot, throw some sugar and spices in it, then put freshly ground coffee in, and let it stay in a hot pot for a bit, then add water. While brewing it, he’d take the foam off the top and put it in the cups. One such morning we had our first real fight.
He mentioned having kids. Dima brought up the kids topic before, but I thought it was not a big deal to him. We had discussed buying a better car, moving to a new place, our next vacation. Having kids seemed to be one of those things. Uncertain plans that might or might not happen, but nothing to worry about.
He didn’t say why we should have children; he talked about his friends and family who had kids; he said something about him aging and his upcoming promotion.
“So why should we?”
He didn't get it.
“I don’t think it’s time,” was what I said to stop that conversation.
“At least let’s talk!” he was almost screaming. “Stop avoiding the topic!”
“I just don’t want kids right now. Is that good enough for you?”
“So when then?” I guess he’d been thinking about this for months and just blew up that day.
“I’ll go,” I got up not finishing my coffee.
I left the room as quickly as I could and went outside. There were a few more talks like this leading to our divorce. He knew happy couples with kids; I knew happy couples without. He wanted me to tell him when I was going to be ready, but I did not now. I assumed it could happen in 2-3 years, but what if I changed my mind. How could I promise a kid, if I didn’t plan my life further than a dinner reservation for the next month.
The sweet milky coffee tasted surprisingly good. Dima got coffee too; his wife got orange juice. It was 25 minutes before arrival. I turned to the window; the rain had stopped. Maybe I was wrong, but it felt like Dima was looking at me now.
Once we got officially divorced I went to church to ask what to do with the holy part of our marriage. After listening to me, the lady selling the candles got upset, saying something about young people and responsibility, high divorce rates and other crap I did not want to hear. It turned out that our church did not divorce. Some did, they took money for this service, talked both to husband and wife, wrote down their names in a book of divorcees, and let them go. Some churches said that there was no such thing as a divorce in their opinion. If you wanted to get married in church again, you should just seek a new permission from a priest.
Despite me being legally divorced, my parents thought that I was still married. Dad said that once we die, despite whoever we marry again, me and Dima will end up together in heaven. All because we got married in church. I wondered if it worked the same way with hell.
The train was slowing down; some people were already putting their jackets on. I got up; simultaneously my ex with his wife got up too. There was no way for us not to face each other now.
“Hi,” Dima said.
“Hi, how are you?”
“Not too bad. What about you?”
“The same. Congratulations on the baby,” I said awkwardly pointing at his wife’s bump. “How far are you?”
“24 weeks. This is my wife, Ann.”
“Nice to meet you Ann,” I said forcing myself to smile. “Going out of town for a weekend?”
“No, we’re going to the Roseman’s clinic.”
“Why that one?” this wasn’t good news for me.
“We’re giving birth at Roseman’s. You know, it’s the best clinic around here. We’re also moving to Saint-Petersburg next month, promotion,” he said with pride.
“Ah I see. It’s funny, I’m going there too. It’s a good clinic indeed.”
I hated them, both. Him for getting married and having a kid so soon after we broke up. Her for just standing there pregnant. I did not know what else to say. They were 24 weeks pregnant and going for a checkup. I was 10 weeks and scheduled for an abortion the same day. For some reason I felt dumb.
“Well, might see you there then. Have a good one,” I said quickly exiting the train, not listening to what they said in reply.
I was 30. I believed only 15-year-olds could get knocked up that easily, but sure not women of my age. 2 months ago I got drunk during a company’s birthday party and spent a night with one of our accountants. I think we used a condom, but I guess we didn't as I got pregnant right away. The doctor warned me that after having an abortion I might not be able to have kids ever again.
“I don’t want any kids now,” I said to my doctor. “I’m not even dating.”
“You might think otherwise later.”
“I might as well not.”
They scheduled me to come back for an abortion next week. I sounded confident, but I could not sleep. It was the first big decision I was going to make by myself with no one else to share the blame.
The clinic’s hall was empty. It was just me and one other woman sitting there awkwardly, trying not to look at each other. In the distance, through the glass in the door I saw them. A happy couple leaving the doctor’s office, holding three long sheets of black and white sonogram pictures. My anger calmed down. I felt embarrassed; I wanted to apologise to them both. I always hated my exes for having a life after me. I finally didn’t.
“Are you ready?” a nurse asked me. “Come in.”
Madeline Lee, Landscape, graphite on paper
