She tells me to reconsider the albatross. "It's not a weight," she says. "Unless it acts as an anchor in the heart." They choose a mate for life, stay in love, all without angst, without blood pressure pills.
And I am sold, with this rock forming in my chest. The language of God sounds a little bit like birdsong, and I'm swollen. I had wanted Sam to be right, with a knowing wink. Instead, I take a slug of something tame, and all my bitterness seems trite.
"Yeah, they stay together, only have one baby," she says. "Isn't that something?" I wish it was something. I'm always one sip away, one morsel away, from being satisfied.
"He still couldn't get rid of it," I finally say, and it comes across as too casual. "We aren't reconsidering why, only what, and who cares about the what?"
She looks disappointed. "I do. He could've carried any damned bird, but he was carrying an albatross. I mean, really." And I have no clue what she means, only that my cup is empty and my cigarettes are gone.
But I like it anyway.