There is a white chalk line between us, a volleyball net. We stand at opposite field goals, opposite baskets. He is all twelve pins and I am the sixteen pound bowling ball, bowling his way. Either his battleship or mine will sink first, and I’ll be damned if it’s mine.
But I look down and we are both wearing the same color jersey.
We are on the same team.
Nobody gets married to snag a permanent dueling partner. People get married for the good life, not the good fight, and God knows if this ship goes down, we are going down together, hand-in-hand, hook, line, and sinker.
We are on the same team. How could I forget?
The peanut butter to my jelly, my other half, my better half, the one I have the rest of my life with. People marry to have partners, not archenemies. If he’s happy, I’m happy. If I’m happy, he’s happy. Where’s the confusion? The complication? Partners, friends, best buddies.
We’re in it together, all the way. Why would I sabotage this ship?
If I’m smart, I won’t. We’re on the same damn team.