Pairing

Maxine unpacks seductively

Maxine felt a Mary Poppins-like satisfaction as she hung her vintage dress on an exposed nail opposite their bed and watched the geometric silk flutter in the Atlantic breeze. She watched Seth’s face take note of this sensual image, and felt even more satisfaction that it was no doubt being stored in his this girl is so cool bank.

Maxine had packed haphazardly, filling a zip-lock bag the night before their flight with everything she needed to feel clean and beautiful. She realized, as she stood at the scuffed bathroom counter unpacking, that she had taken the wrong Byredo perfume tester, and felt discouraged that on their first getaway she would smell like a property-owning gay Manhattanite—all leather, wood and amber—when she’d envisioned smelling like lilac candy.

Maxine’s relationship to products was fickle. Once they were opened she couldn’t wait for them to be used up. It was this way with so many of her desires, all-consuming and then lacking sparkle once she possessed them. She knew she would never have the perfect amount of perfectly-chosen stuff, but she dedicated a lot of energy to curation because she felt that, in this way, she excelled at being feminine.

 At 40, Maxine’s feminine buy-in was unretractable. Even if she wanted to make only intuitive choices that would speak to her desires, this mindset of curation was so deeply embedded in her decision process that it would be impossible to excise it. What was crucial was not to have too much stuff. It would be horrifying to her if Seth thought she needed a lot of makeup, or went through some 10-step Korean skin care process every day and night. In fact, Maxine was confident she’d aced this test that no one was giving her, to ride the thin line between carelessness and over-reliance. And she believed that, even though he would say it didn’t matter to him either way—if Seth were pressed for an opinion of her appearance—it was a subtle thread in the image tapestry she was intent on constructing.

Seth farts in bed

He wakes up before her, startled by a rooster, which makes him chuckle. He’s naked under the covers even though they did not have sex before bed, so he asked permission to be naked. “Is this alright?” he’d asked her, pointing to his genitals. She said, “Of course, I also like to sleep naked.” And he felt another tick on the wrong side of his tally. He should have just stripped down and let it be that. A man. Natural. Comfortable with his body.

He remembers the dishes are clean and still in the dishwasher with the door closed. It’s better to let them air dry. At home, during the depressing winter before he met Maxine, he left the clean dishes sitting for days, and when he finally got around to placing them in his crooked cupboard they were damp and sulfuric-smelling. He knows she is sensitive to smell, so he gets up, very quietly, and unlatches the dishwasher, sliding the racks out. The sun is just ending its slow rise, and he can see a cargo ship go from shaded to brilliant red as the sun exposes it. He waits until the water has turned a sparkling aquamarine and heads back to bed. She’s sleeping in their bed. He feels joy and panic running through him like the simultaneous milk and espresso taps that make cappuccinos in the teachers’ lounge. He flees to the bathroom to calm himself.

He pees with the door closed in case he has to fart. He brushes his teeth with the electric toothbrush, but leaves the electricity off, so it’s noiseless and ineffective. It’s mostly to clear away the worst of his morning breath. He smells his armpits and they seem fine to him, so he goes back to bed, where she’s still asleep. He faces away from her because he’s not sure the non-electrical brushing was successful. He’s about to look at his phone when she stirs and pushes herself against his back. He lets out a contented sigh. She squeezes her body even closer and uses him like a body pillow. He can feel her naked breasts pressed against his shoulder blades. She drapes her right arm around him and he kisses her hand. She kisses his back and keeps giving lots of little kisses to the ridge of his neck and top of his shoulders.

She says, “I had two crazy dreams. Let me wake up more and I'll tell you about them.”

The day is just beginning. It’s their first morning in Lisbon. Full of potential and promise. Gessoed in the wash of new love. He goes through his daily benediction: This never happens to me. I can’t believe this is happening to me. I met her and she liked me. She wants to be with me. Now we’re together and it’s perfect and it’s real and this is happening. Then he farts and she laughs and he says, “Oops,” and he squeezes her hand and kisses it. He wants to say something funny, but he can’t stop smiling.

Maxine muses about monogamy

“You know what I’ve been thinking? It’s like, humans are mammals and they travel in pairs.” Seth reserves judgement but can’t help noticing this is not a strong opening line.

Maxine continues, “Like everywhere you look, you see these human pairs. And it’s so much pressure to find your person. But other mammals, they travel in packs.” She takes a sip of wine and he wonders if she’s sun drunk or just drunk.

“It’s just a different constellation,” Maxine says, and Seth feels the use of the word constellation is promising. He doubles down on reserving judgement. “I don’t know. I guess it’s obvious what I’m saying.” Seth gives her an encouraging inquisitive eyebrow, like he’s puzzling out this deep thought with her. “I just notice these pairs all over the city, you know, expressing their relationships through couple-gestures that maybe mean they’re happy...but maybe not.”

Seth becomes alarmed that this is somehow about them. He hides it by forking octopus into his mouth. Maxine gains speed, “And there’s barely any deviation. I mean, throw in a thruple every now and then. For flavor.”

Seth says something non committal about monogamy vs. polyamory. He more or less acknowledges the existence of polyamory in a way that he hopes comes off as confident and progressive. His actual opinions on this matter are stored in some master folder in his brain, titled theoretical sex thoughts, that he rarely has a chance to open and sift through because all consuming sex thoughts are such an active job and take up most of his time. 

Now Seth says something about being weird, specifically about being comfortable being weird. Maxine’s eyes narrow.

“Well, maybe you’re, like, enlightened, but I think most people are living in the Dark Ages, sexually speaking. The amount of cultural history that’s foisting hetero-normative monogamy for heterosexual couples far outweighs the tiny bit that’s actively recruiting consensual weirdos. I mean, just because we say things like don’t kink shame in our microscopic progressive ex-pat bubble doesn’t mean most of us aren’t having a hard time trying to enlighten ourselves. I’ll take myself, ok. I mean, I feel really narrowminded about opening myself up to lesbian experiences. I was shamed in junior high for showering with a girl named Jamie and called a dyke for, like, a year, and it did a number on me. I have this real fear of accepting the side of myself that might lean that way because it doesn't feel safe to be fluid. Not when it was either/ or for so long.” 

Seth stumbles through Maxine’s logic, which feels like it’s full of hyphens and punctuation that might be mounting to an argument. Does he want an argument? Couples that argue—no, spar—have a healthier survival rate. He likes that she’s smart and inquisitive, so maybe he should engage with those versions of her, strengthen them, like a calf muscle.

He says something about his sexual experience that isn’t intended to come off as a brag—seriously—and about how it just never seemed like a big deal to him, the spectrum of sexuality. Maxine looks 90% benign and 10% irritated. She says something about Dan Savage and his work as a sexual evangelist for the norm-core, with whom she insistently identifies. He thinks about how ubiquitous and isolating podcasts are. How we’re all bound to replicate conversations in person that we had as silent observers the week before. The sky deepens with blue ink and the waiter glances at their table and they both throw up a different pay sign at the same time.

Seth drinks a glass of unsweetened lemon juice

Sitting at a white stone plaza with a view overlooking the river, Seth worries about money. The green kiosk at the center of the plaza plays loud bossanova, and the matching green tables and metal chairs are filled with an international crowd. The music shifts to Bitches Brew, which Seth finds saucy. He’s getting thirsty and thinking about how to resolve that issue in a cost-effective manner. He asks a French lesbian couple nearby to watch his table while he orders. He says this in English because he doesn’t speak French. 

There’s a giant marble statue of some royal personage wearing a thick marble tapestry. He marvels at the raised and textured floral pattern draped around the statue and the tangible feeling of the fringe. The line at the kiosk is long, so he watches a group of tourists gather for an actual tour. There’s a freedom in doing the most literal thing, he thinks. The tour is in English so he hears the tourists introduce themselves individually, even the kids. One couple is American, from North Carolina. Seth realizes it’s been ages since he was last in the US, and that North Carolina has almost the same exotic ring to him as Belarus. The rest of the group is French, Spanish and Dutch. A lot of French here, Seth thinks. 

Inside the kiosk, there’s a battle being waged to hold back the crowd and keep them satiated. This is not a “gaze at the menu” situation, Seth realizes, and he dutifully scans the menu so he’ll be ready to order as soon as it’s his turn. The choices are endless and expensive— mojitos and caipirinhas, which are different in a way he can never recall. People are walking away with some sort of drink in a freshly carved-out pineapple, which seems festive. Seth watches these pineapples with the fortitude of a man who will not budge on his financial position, which is precarious. He watches them like they’re children’s balloons, not meant for him. He spies something lemon-related for under two euros. He’s made his order.

On the walk back to his table, he takes in the noise-floor of the plaza. It’s a docking point for tuk-tuks, whose motorized roar is near constant. There’s also a tram line that runs through and chimes every so often to declare itself. Mixed in is the human sound of multi-volume, multi-lingual conversations. His seat is still there, near the edge of the plaza. It’s a good seat and he’s looking forward to drifting his eyes across the view and sipping lemonade. The sun exposure here is just ridiculous. He has on an ancient nylon sun hat that he will never replace because it was just one euro. He’s so thirsty he can’t imagine this un-iced lemonade will be enough. He takes a small sip to preserve the moisture of his mouth, and is instantly charged with unadulterated lemon juice. What the fuck, he thinks—doesn’t think. It’s not a question, more just an expletive at this point. As he adjusts to his new, sour reality, Maxine’s legs appear before him. He looks up, squinting, and she smiles at him with genuine glee. 

“I saw you over here with your little hat.”

“Yeah, and what did you think?” he asks provocatively.

She leans over and kisses his lemon lips. “I thought, he’s mine! That one is mine because you can only have one.”

Maxine contemplates commitment

Seth walks ahead of her, gauging the GPS against the literal terrain. She knows he can’t see the back of his own head, and he rarely looks in mirrors at all, but she has a VIP view of his bald spot. This begins to worry her, because without his hair he would be ugly. His hair is his saving grace: messy black curls that flop around his head in thick spirals, topped with thin, smoke-like frizz. The volume of his hair offsets his long, narrow face. It gives him a loveable dishevelment that reminds Maxine of a sensitive rabbi. Beyond questions of illness, poverty, and commitment, it is this question of baldness that tortures her. For how could she gaze upon him in their old age with anything but disgust, if his head looks like a used q-tip?

Maxine and Seth tour hip warehouses

The revitalized district is bloody with the wounds of storefront facelifts. Every restaurant is its own simulacra of a chic and cozy universe, each one crowded with patrons and flanked by lines of masked couples and families waiting to be seated. Five years ago this was just a lane of warehouses with a dry brittle parking lot on either side. Now they are engines of colorful consumption for craft beer, sardines, pisco sours, barbeque, vegan menu available. It’s as though each establishment was conceding to every studio note and the edgy little indie films were all replaced by castrated blockbusters. Maxine and Seth both feel the mistake they’ve made by coming here, in their own way. For Maxine, it’s her hurt pride for falling for a tourist trap where nothing will taste better than average. For Seth, it’s the fear of being price-gouged by lunch. 

The day is hot enough to send anxious signals of sun cancer to their brains. Maxine takes out her fashionably insignificant sun hat and tries to appear cheerful. She knows that she will have to choose the restaurant, and is trying to strategically consider which option will be the least worst. She finally gravitates to a dingy patch of colorful tables and sits down next to a hipster, wearing a trucker hat that says Fuck Me, and his dad, or much older boyfriend.

Maxine scans the Disney ride of a menu and opts for the fish of the day. With her order secured, she excuses herself to the bathroom. She’s alone but decides to latch the stall anyway, even though she hates touching the metal latch. It smells foul. Gallons of hot piss, barely masked by a scented deodorizer. The latch is stiff and when she tries to force it closed, she manages to slice her finger on the corrugated metal of the bathroom door. The wound is deep and begins pooling with blood. She does her best to hold it aloft while peeing, and then soaps her hands and her bloody finger as thoroughly as possible before returning to Seth. Outside, he glances at her and asks, “What’s wrong?”

“I cut my finger in the bathroom,” she says, and holds her toilet-paper-wrapped index finger in front of her pouting face. Seth fishes through his bag and pulls out a band-aid and some wound spray. Maxine sits on his lap like a toddler while he bandages her finger. 

“Do you think I’ll get Tetanus?”

“I don’t think so,” he says gently.

“Because it really hurts. Like, it’s throbbing.”

“I think it’ll be fine.”

Maxine rests her head on Seth’s shoulder and he kisses her bandaged finger. How good it feels to be soothed, she thinks.

Seth pulls out his cushion

By the time they reach the taverna, Seth’s pain is acute. He knew this might happen and he has his meds and his cushion, but he also knows those things will take time to kick in. Maxine pretends not to notice him slipping out the cushion in its faded purple nylon bag as they sit down. He is grateful. But she chose the seat that would be slightly better for him and his pain is bad enough now that he requests a seat change. She complies and he moves his purple cushion to the other seat, this time waving it in the air like a tambourine, because the jig is up.

After that, his vision narrows along with the rest of his senses. He doesn’t notice the waiter coming until Maxine asks if he wants a glass of wine. Somehow he orders and she keeps on talking. He can see that there’s a great deal of sensitivity in what she’s doing, fragily setting an egg on the pavement. He concentrates on the pain in his hips and lower back. He places a fist deep into the skin of his pelvis until he sees stars—the sharp pain almost a relief. Maxine murmurs. Food comes and goes. At one point he realizes a couple behind them are having a very sensitive fight. They begin every sentence with I feel. Then he realizes Maxine is asking him a question and his answer is, Can I just lay down for a minute? But instead he says, “Sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

Seth focuses on Maxine’s nipples

Maxine feels undeniably drunk as they begin to fool around on the couch. This room has so many seating options that it’s like being in an empty hotel lobby.

“Can I be on top?” she says and sloppily removes her underwear to straddle Seth. This is the room with the view, which was the real selling point of the Airbnb. There’s a duty to perform a sex act in the best room. Maxine feels the weight of this, and also her dull preference for beds. She’s not able to gain purchase on Seth’s dick. It’s hard, but she feels like she’s somehow too loose to enjoy it.

“Can we try it with you, knees up, and I enter you from behind?” Seth asks.

“But then I don’t get to enjoy the view,” she says with a drunk laugh. He looks perplexed.

“Yeah, we can try it. I don’t care,” she says.

“We can turn the couch around,” Seth says, suddenly a structural engineer.

“I might not be able to cum, because I think I drank too much.”

“Oh,” Seth says. “Should I try going down on you?”

“Okay,” Maxine says, without much enthusiasm. Seth feels the whole enterprise is beginning to crumble. He slows down and goes back to basics, pulling off Maxine’s bra and focusing on her nipples with solemn precision.

Seth and Maxine change locations

The ride from Lisbon to Sintra is about an hour and it’s almost the same price to go by car or by train, so they go by car. It’s a little over halfway done, their trip. This feeling of the hourglass speeding to its last grain makes Seth morose. The weather is damp and gray without actually raining and when they exit the highway for Sintra, Seth feels nervous about not packing his portable rain jacket. It’s so small and would have fit in his backpack. If it gets colder, he’ll just have to be cold, because he’s not going to buy a new jacket. 

Maxine stares out the window dreamily and Seth wonders what she’s thinking, then realizes he wants her only to be thinking about how wonderful this is and they are. When they arrive in the town center, Seth notices a lot of dilapidated buildings, charmless without the sun shining on them. The place Maxine booked for them looks a bit dumpy, which comforts Seth, because her mistakes seem like an invitation to make more of his own. Sintra is famous for small pastries that are filled with cheese, sugar, and cinnamon. Seth has meticulously noted where to find them, and as soon as they drop their stuff in their stuffy chemical smelling hotel room, they set out to the 300-year-old bakery where they claim to have been invented. 

Luckily, the bakery is cozy and the pastries are delicious. Seth feels vindicated for pulling them out of Lisbon and aiming them at the castles of Sintra. A few months ago they were unknown to each other. Seth likes to relive the excitement of their relationship in his mind. The trajectory from just friends to more than that. 

He remembers the night it turned: they went to a concert and met beforehand, at a café near the venue. By that point, six or seven dates in, their banter was dependable and they fell into easy discussion over shared merguez and hummus and wine. Maxine liked his gray linen shirt and said so. The weather was supple and the air fragrant. They headed to the concert, which was in a bohemian looking piano repair workshop, and took their seats close to the stage. Maxine’s chair was giving her trouble. She fidgeted as quietly as possible to avoid disrupting the pianist, who was playing Schubert. The silky fabric of her dress and the slick surface of the chair was becoming impossible.

“I keep sliding down,” she whispered in his ear. Then she anchored herself to her chair by supporting her weight on his leg. She rested her elbow heavily on his thigh and Seth stopped hearing any music. Tentatively, after a great deal of internal struggle, Seth put his hand over her hand. “I think this chair is going to be responsible for our relationship reaching the next level,” Maxine whispered.

Something happened that was unspoken, for the most part. It started with her hand on his leg and then, after intermission, after he’d offered her his seat and she’d accepted, Seth was nervous the spell would be broken and they’d go back to being friends. But Maxine stretched her arm out and put it  around his shoulder, fake yawning like some hunk from an 80s teen movie. He made a little noise of acknowledgement and she whispered, “Just go with it.”

It would have been cool if he blithely accepted their status change, but Seth wasn’t comfortable with ambiguity. He needed it spelled out. At the bar they stopped in after the concert, he waited until he had Maxine’s attention and asked plainly, “Did you know I put my hand on your hand?”

“Yes, Seth, because I’m not a moron and I know what a hand is.”

“Okay, because I don’t want to misinterpret anything.”

“I think you have correctly interpreted the situation.”

“Oh boy, Maxine, you’ve done it now.”

Maxine watches live TV

After mediocre pizza, they walk back to the cramped attic room where they will stay just one night. It was up to Maxine to pick this place. She wanted to contribute, and she realized she picked a dud. It was impeccably clean, though. Ever since the pandemic started, the level of hotel room cleanliness was almost fetishistic. This place had every surface, including the whole bathroom sink, wrapped in saran wrap. It felt naughty to puncture it just to wash your hands.

Maxine felt heavy and drowsy and wanted to lay down. She got in bed and grabbed the remote, turning on the small, cheap TV. Seth took a shower. Maxine flipped through channels until she landed on a competition show about Australian ninjas, who all seemed to be blonde and very muscular.

When Seth came out, he balked comically. “What are you watching?”

“I don’t know exactly. They’re Australian and they’re ninjas and they keep talking about climbing Mount Moninori.”

“I didn’t think you’d be into something like this.”

“I’m not. I’m just, you know, adjusting to the range of entertainment options. Trying them on.” 

Seth climbs in bed, naked, next to Maxine, who’s also naked. They hold hands as Maxine flips to the next channel. It’s a National Geographic show about subsistence living in Alaska.

“This looks so good,” Maxine says, eyes widening. She has the flash-forward feeling of life with Seth down the road. They are performing a level of comfort right now, she thinks, but the performance is not strained. How exciting, really, to both be aware that, in a way, they’re manifesting it together.

Seth and Maxine eat their feelings

“This food court is astounding!” Maxine exclaims. “It’s so much better than Berlin.”

“I know. I don’t know what to choose. I also don’t even know if I’m hungry.”

“I’m starving,” Maxine announces, scanning the various counters. “How much time do we have?”

“Like 40 minutes. Half an hour if we want to be on the safe side.”

“Should we just go here?” Maxine points to the first restaurant on their right, which appears to have a vaguely-French boulangerie vibe to it. “It looks like it will go fast. And they’ve got good options for this brunchy time.” Maxine scans the glass case, crowded with carbs and fat. “I’m gonna get a piece of quiche and an almond tart.

“Whoa, nelly.”

“I hate being hungry on a plane. It’s a real fear.” 

“No, I get it.” Seth says, deciding in that moment to spend with his heart and not with his head.

“We’re up,” she says to Seth in a no-nonsense tone before turning to give her order. “I’ll have the ham and cheese quiche, a flat white and the almond tart.”

“I’ll have the same,” Seth says, relieved to defer to Maxine’s preferences.

“I guess you were hungry,” she says. 

“I guess I was.”

“I’m sad this is ending,” Maxine admits. “I’m eating my feelings.”

“What do you think I’m doing?!”

Maxine holds Seth’s hand across the table, making it awkward for both of them to eat. The constant ding and squawk of announcements makes her anxious, but she would give anything to stay here forever.