“All is Compromise, sayeth the preacher.” No—that’s not right. It’s “All is Vanity, sayeth the preacher.” Well, both are true, but only to some extent.
It’s what Sarah was thinking as she looked at Bunko stretched out, still asleep. She loved him, she thought. Why did she add “she thought,” even in her own thoughts? There was much she loved about him. Was that the same thing? His chin, for instance. Not jutting, but pronounced, with that charming cleft. Why did some men have a cleft in their chins and some not?
Why did some women have long eyelashes?
Maybe it wasn’t just his chin, but his entire jaw—strong, determined. Seemingly, anyway. Didn’t Bunko capitulate last night when they went out as a foursome? He was “assigned” the restaurant and he chose it thoughtfully—she’d witnessed his enthusiasm—and then, when Jen said “Oh, I don’t think they have vegetarian options,” and he said, “They do, Jen, I checked, just for you,” she had to say, “but not enough. I’d rather go somewhere else.”
So, they capitulated. Maybe “compromise” is the word. Bunko, she could tell, was deflated, but they all pretended to be happy again.
Life is often stupid.
The evening was okay, though. “Fun,” they all called it afterward. Was that a compromise as well? They shared the check, she and Bunko assuming an extra $20 because he had a second glass of their expensive wine. There were no compromises, ever, in prices of glasses of wine. “Fifteen dollars,” he said, “plus tax and tip. I’ll put in another twenty.”
They all smiled. It was good to have friends.
Now she looked at Bunko and again thought she loved most of him. Maybe he loved most of her. One settled. Could she get him to compromise on his name? She’d asked. His name was Bartholomew, which she agreed was awkward. Family thing. His brother couldn’t pronounce it and called him Bunko. Why not Bart?
He wasn’t as tall as she’d like. Sarah paused at the expectation or preference. He was good in so many ways, wasn’t he? She stood up to open the window shade—it was morning—and caught her reflection. “I look pretty good,” she thought. “Even in the morning.”
But did she? To him? Was she, too, a compromise?
Whatever it was, they called it love. Where did she get that “all is vanity” idea? It was probably in the bible. She remembered it from a poem by Robert Browning, who was probably quoting a phrase from the bible. Such irony. Even words in her head weren’t genuine, not the real thing, but agreeable, good for the time being.
Speaking of. “Bunko, honey,” she said. “Time to get up!”