Music For a Sushi Restaurant

The lines can get blurrier than wasabi in soy sauce real quick.

If a fortune teller would’ve told my younger self that I would have a baby with Larry then marry JC, I would have asked for my money back.

What is this, some sort of sick twisted game of M.A.S.H. come true.

JC and I grew up in the same small town; his family of Icelanders were early to settle here. Tall, sandy blonde hair, great teeth, and goofy as all get out. JC flails his body around in the same way the inflatable men at the car dealerships do.

In our twenties he would wear a banana hat to the local dive bar and excitedly tell the patrons “I look like a monkey!”

I am sorry to say, I had a crush on him regardless.

Larry was my brother’s weed dealer. He moved here from Las Vegas when he was a teenager. He had a shaved head, wore baggy clothes, and was way too skinny for my liking. When we started dating, I’d joke that he didn’t even have his big-boy body yet, he didn’t.

My brother begged me to quit dating his drug dealers. Only because I’d make them stop selling him weed.

It’s not that I have a particular type, but if I did, those two weren’t it. Their names alone don’t suggest soulmate material.

I was briefly messaging with someone who reads my writing and he asked

“Larry, JC? Where did you find these guys? In an 1800’s fishing village?”

Little did he know, that’s exactly where I found them.

Though both avid fishermen, I prefer my fish served raw, on a bed of rice, wrapped in seaweed.

After a brutal breakup with Larry, the only man I could have possibly dated in this town (that he wouldn’t have murdered) was JC.

He’d seen that banana hat too, who could hate the guy in a banana hat.

JC is impossible to dislike. There would have to be something seriously wrong with you if you didn’t get along with that man. He has provided years of entertainment and mood lightening to our three way co-parenting dynamic.

All of us polar opposites but somehow our throuple works.

If the fortune teller would have told me that fifteen years later, I would be out for my son’s birthday dinner with the both of them (my now exes) I would have believed her.

My son cut his teeth at this sushi restaurant.

They’ve known him here since before he was born. He used to only eat miso soup and the middle out of an avocado roll.

The other day he called to make sure they had his special Toro in stock before asking me to pick him up early from school.

He knows I’d never say no to a sushi date.

I have spent my entire life avoiding going out on my birthday; for fear of singing servers, free desserts, or god forbid a giant sombrero be plopped onto my head.

Sushi is my safe place.

My last birthday, the exes were late to my dinner. They left me sitting by myself in the restaurant for over an hour before they got there. The waitress offered to celebrate with me if no one showed up.

I happily plied myself with white wine and buckets of free edamame.

When the rest of my party finally arrived, I swear the entire restaurant stood up and clapped. Over the loud speakers boomed what I can only describe as a Japanese house-music version of Happy Birthday.

Oddly for the first time in my life, I wasn’t embarrassed; even at the end of our meal when my new best friend waitress brought me a matcha ice cream sundae with a giant sparkler shooting flames from its top. I felt happy and at home with my little sushi family.

It rarely dawns on me—the uniqueness of our situationship (I know that’s not what that word means).

But tonight, out for another round of birthday bento boxes, my two exes across the table from one another discussing who’s ordering what so that they can share

I realize—it’s a little fucking weird.

JC and Larry take turns feeding me off their plates like I’m their baby bird.

Larry slides his miso soup over, I bring the bowl to my lips, take a sip, before handing it to JC and watching him do the same.

Does this have caffeine? No, I lie as Larry takes a sip of my green tea.

JC reaches across the table with his chopsticks to place a bite of his spicy tuna roll into my mouth.

Larry saves me his last piece of salmon oshi, with the jalapeño on it, that I like.

It would be down right sensual if it wasn’t all so—platonic.

There is little I find more intimate than sharing a bowl of soup with someone though.

How did the three of us get to this place?

Time—a shared love for our kid, and sashimi.

It isn’t always easy.

The lines can get blurrier than wasabi in soy sauce real quick.

Takes a lot of years to fall out of love with someone and then back in love with them in a different way.

Even still—Sometimes I think maybe, just maybe, I could talk myself into being in love with one of them again…

Which one?

Doesn’t really matter.

They’d have to rock-paper-scissors to see who's not it.

That’s basically what a successful marriage is.

Falling in love with the newer/older version of your partner—over and over again, forever.

We wouldn’t be able to rekindle the excitement, captivation, or urgency of when you first start dating someone.

Would what we have be enough to try again, this time with twenty years of history under our belts or is it unfair to myself, to him, or the people out there that might be waiting to love us.

Could I give up the hope of a twin flame to settle into the warmth of a comfortable fire.

In my thirties I knew I couldn't. In my forties I’m not so sure.

From the outside looking in, I am surrounded by men all the time.

Fawned over, complimented, taken care of in ways that some people could only dream of.

I feel wanted, respected, loved (pardon my bragging) and at the same time…alone.

Technically single for over a decade. There are things I miss about being in a real relationship. Sex for one. Not saying I couldn’t get it whenever I wanted (sorry, bragging again). That’s not exactly what I am missing though, it’s intimacy.

Spending the day in bed with someone I am wildly in love with. Falling asleep next to them. Their hands running up the back of my neck and through my hair. That long kiss goodnight. The one when he leaves for work the next morning.

Standing sushi dates on Friday nights.

Staying up too late talking. Being held when you’re upset. His thumbs wiping tears from your cheeks. Having hundreds of inside jokes, nicknames, songs that only belong to the two of you.

Someone to carry the groceries in, open your door, tuck you into to bed when you’re crying on the kitchen floor.

A teammate, who takes your side unconditionally in public then waits until you get home to (ever so sweetly) tell you that you were wrong.

I know even happily married people are longing for these same things.

My exes and I provide each other a lot of the comforts of being in a relationship without actually having to be in one.

Like when you need someone to look at that weird mole on your back. Or shave it, his, not mine. I laser.

When I’ve made too much dinner again and can pawn off heaps of extra goulash to them (tomorrow I will have quit eating pasta again anyways).

When the teenager is teen-aging. I can dial-a-dad hysterical at seven a.m. (on his birthday) to deal with the meltdown.

When one of us needs a date to a wedding, an office party, or a beer-pong competition, we will be there.

I’m happy, really I am.

Except every so often, while trying to out run it, I slip and it catches up to me.

It shows up in the quiet moments, the weekends alone, holidays, birthdays, when I’m sick, at bedtime.

The loneliness.

Occasionally I’ll let someone new slip through the cracks in my heart.

To feel something, even if it’s fleeting.

The-what if. The-maybe this is it. The-everything makes sense now. The-this is what I’ve been waiting for. The-hope of it all.

When it ends, as it always does, I’m not sure it was worth the reminder.

Am I using my exes to protect myself from getting hurt by unavailable men or am I choosing unavailable men so I don’t have to give up my exes.

I don’t know.

For now, I’ll stay safe in my little bubble, with the ones who love me in the way only a good family knows how.

They see me exactly as I am.

They hold me in ways that aren’t physical. They kiss me metaphorically. Their support is unwavering. The ways that they annoy me are…endless.

If either one of them even thinks about getting a new girlfriend, I swear to god.

So tonight at sushi, when the Japanese rendition of Happy Birthday is done and the waitress brings our check; I’ll lean back in my chair, heart full/belly full and watch Larry and JC duke it out over who’s gonna pay the check.