A Woman Trapped in a Woman's Body by Lauren Weedman Page A

I’d spot an attractive woman whom I’d try to set him up with. We’d end the night with Mathew drunkenly going on about Noam Chomsky as I stared out the bar window, tears streaming down my face, because I was sure—I was convinced—he didn’t love me anymore.
    I told all of this to Samuel and suddenly he jumped up.
    â€œTime’s up!” he announced. “You two could make it but it’s gonna take a lot of work. Did I tell you guys how I was John and Yoko’s personal assistant for years? I procured young black
men for him and young surfer boys for her. That’s completely true. I’ll see you next week.”
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    Dini is finishing up her list. (“And I’m thankful for our ... summer home! We got it! We close on December 13, so you all must visit. You guys! You have to!”)
    The flame is making its way toward me at a rapid pace. Everyone is grateful for their beautiful baby and their beautiful husband. I’m going pass out. Where the fuck am I? I’m watching everyone’s lips move—watching everyone wink at loved ones, saying, “Grateful for blah blah blah husband blah blah blah baby.” The flame is passed. “Blah blah blah husband blah blah blah baby.” It’s like a horror film—a scene from Rosemary’s Baby. Who are these people? What is happening? All the faces are being shot through a fisheye lens, and the only word that I can make out in this secret language of contentedness is “husband ... husband ... husband ... husband ...”
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    â€œHe’s not crossing!”
    â€œHe’s going back!”
    â€œWhat’s he doing?!”
    Mathew and I were screaming at a squirrel that was darting back and forth in the middle of the road in front of our wedding caravan. If the furry rodent didn’t make up his mind immediately he’d be hit by three generations of Mathew’s
family. We’d do the initial killing, then his father would back us up, and his sister and grandma would finish the job.
    â€œSTOP! JUST STOP!” I yelled, trying to grab the wheel. The squirrel froze with a look on his face that said, “Fuck it, just go around me!”
    Mathew plowed onward with a dazed look on his face. He had had to make so many decisions in the past forty-eight hours he simply couldn’t make one more (should he convince his brother to take his medication—just for the weekend—or respect his wishes to not take it and listen to his frequent high-pitched announcements of “I’m losing it, man. I’m losing it,” while constantly scratching his face?).
    So onward we went, sure that squirrels knew they should move.
    Mathew looked in the rearview mirror as I glanced to the side of the road, looking for signs of the squirrel running away.
    â€œOh my god,” Mathew said. He put his hand up to his mouth and bit it. “I hit him,” he said through teeth clenched on his own skin.
    I turned around to see the squirrel’s tail sort of waving in the air. (“Goodbye, you guys! Have a good wedding!”)
    Mathew looked like he was about to cry. “I’ve never hit anything in my life,” he said. “I killed him. Oh my god.”

    Tears came to my eyes and I grabbed Mathew’s shoulder to comfort him. I couldn’t figure out what to say because I was caught up in trying to figure out how to view what just happened as “not necessarily a bad sign.” It couldn’t have been. It was just ritualistic. Like a sacrifice. Hell, if our backyard were bigger I’d have been sacrificing goats every time I had a job interview. I was determined not to freak out.
    If at the next stoplight the car was suddenly covered in baboons—jumping on the hood and licking the windshield—I was going to see it for what it was. Baboons wanting to taste the windshield. Nothing more, nothing less.
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    Everybody agreed that our wedding