Manga Dolls on Skype

A month before the wedding—the wedding that’s taken over a year to plan—Ken says he has a work conflict, can they postpone it?

“What?” May, not quite awake, replies.

He waits. She asks him to explain. He asks her to explain what she wants him to explain. He’s dressed and ready to leave.

She asks what sort of text or e-mail would have demanded such a thing. She adds that “work conflict” doesn’t sound very important.

“Oh,” he says, “it’s important.”

It’s 7 a.m., and May’s still in bed, the sheets an immense snowy field. Had she gotten up at six, as he did to gulp coffee, she’d have been on her toes for this. Instead, she’d turned over and stretched, sinking further into her pillow, into some fantasy, bottomless and fulfilling. She shakes it off, and he comes into focus: business suit and tie, black hair bristling with energy, eyes dark, wide, and eager. “Important enough to cancel a wedding?” she asks.

“Not cancel,” he says. “Postpone.”

“Then you’re asking my permission?”

“I guess,” he says, and adds, “It would only be a couple of weeks.”

“It wouldn’t only be a couple of weeks. Does that change things?”

“It wouldn’t?” He grows still.

After two years together, she’s come to suspect that his cluelessness at certain moments gives him an odd sort of power.

She sits up, the better to tell him. She estimates six months for the next open slot at the venue, if open slots even exist. Six weeks notice to enable the guests to save the date. Six weeks lead time before that to print the new invitations. Lost deposits and lost availability. Would they have to find a new caterer? A new band? And on top of that, she had her job.

Ken makes the gesture of someone backing off. “Okay,” he says. “Possibly three months.”

“The expense! Deposits. Penalties. Fees. And our honeymoon! I didn’t buy trip cancellation insurance!” Because cancellation had been unthinkable. She gets out of bed.

“It’s a rescheduling, not a cancellation,” he repeats.

“Is this about me?” she asks.

“Absolutely not,” he replies.

“Are you getting cold feet?”

“Absolutely not,” he tells her.

“It could be a very large deal,” he suggests, finally, as if a sliver of guilt lodged somewhere, causing him to defend himself.

“Large?” She hugs herself, pacing.

“Large,” he says. “And it’s a relationship I’ve been cultivating for two years.”

It’s not the word “large” that undermines her resolve but the way he says “relationship.” With urgency, and sadness about the possible waste of two years. She slumps into a loveseat.

“I love you,” he adds, coming close and patting her. “We’ll have the rest of our lives together. And I’ll help with whatever you want.”

“Do we have to decide now?”

“We do,” he says.

They never fight. May brags about this to friends. “You’re so lucky,” they say. Oddly, these same friends manage to be self-important about their own anger. Actually, they seem more impressed by women who replace fiancés when crossed, after cutting them dead.

Doesn’t not fighting mean that something remains amiss underneath? But May does let her emotions duke it out, in a tiny cage in her chest. Other, less happy people fight. Couples who start out ill-suited fight. The rest of the world fights, constantly, without ever resolving anything. Her parents, for example. May’s a questioner, investigating, weighing things, experiencing with an open mind. She’s a diplomat of the heart.

“I love you,” he says upon returning home that night.

It’s been two years together, and she can safely say she’s never been with anyone who can so consistently and shamelessly do as he pleases. He never anticipates that she’s going to be hurt. He’s stricken when she is. He never ever intends to hurt her. Her being hurt hurts him. That may not be a reason to marry someone, but it’s, apparently, one of...