I remember seeing her tits, and then seeing her smile. I asked if she wanted to dance, and took her home. Her name was Jane and I guessed right, she was Italian. I asked her to make me lasagna.

And then we moved in together because it was convenient, and bought a bed and a knife set and a sofa unit. And we were basically married. I came home every day and watched television or read a book, and she’d look at me and stamp her feet, and usually I’d give in and we’d have sex, or I’d take her out to dinner or to a movie.

Just like that, and at the wedding I remember thinking. The first one doesn’t have to be perfect. I can always try again. People do that, right?

People start off any way they want to start off.

We fought, and then we’d make up, and then we’d fight some more, but then it seemed like we stopped making up. That it was one thing after another. She came home one day, and she had gained weight—not that day—but over time, and she always talked about dieting, and about vacationing and about exercising.

“I’m going to go rent a movie,” I told her. “What do you want to see?”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Come on. It will be fun,” I said. “We can make popcorn.”

“You are crazy,” she said. Of course, she remembered how the night before, and for the last week, I had slept on the couch, and we slammed doors, and didn’t worry much about the door knob cracking the sheet rock.

“Maybe Forest Gump. You love that movie, Jane,” I said.

She did love that movie.

All I took was my coat.