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Sweet Spot How you can tell I’m a widow is because my pajama bottoms don't match my tops, because I actually wear pajama bottoms, because I break open my nightly magnesium capsules to avoid death by choking, as there is now no one around to give me the Heimlich if the capsule gets caught instead of going all the way down, that married men consider it safe to tell their wives they are taking me for a walk, that married men take me for walks, in the woods, where they show no signs of desire for circuitous routes.
How you can tell I’m a widow is because I say I am sixty and no one answers age is only a number, because I say I am old and no one responds you’re only as old as you feel, because I am reading three books at one time: Didion’s Blue Nights, Oates’ Widow’s Story, Broyard’s Standby, because I know the right answer on the psychology exam: Misery loves miserable company more than any other kind.
How you can tell I’m a widow is because when my divorced, depressive, rejected-for-another, platonic, friend says his only goal in life is to love himself, I focus on the fact that he is wearing a handsome silver button-down shirt with such a nice sheen instead of his usual pullover polos which gets me to ponder if he has read my mind, since, though I have not revealed this, I love button-downs on men (my late husband wore a pink dressy one to bed) and because I have been imagining that if my platonic friend, who wishes to be more than that, changed over to button-downs it would make me want to sink my teeth into his left shoulder, offer him the sweet spot in mine.
How you can tell I’m a widow one year and three months is because I try to force chemistry even as I try not to. I look at this eager-to-please, eager-to-feel-loved man and say, I like your shirt but the third button is unbuttoned. He holds them toward me, the button and button hole, with what is, for him, an unusually playful smile and come hither look in his eye. To be fair, I must admit that what came out of my mouth at first was, I want to button that for you. How you can tell I’m still a widow is that my friend knew to slide his own button inside its own buttonhole (a perfect fit) and take me for a walk in the moonlight without taking my hand or starting to sing.
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