The Owner of My Once-Beloved Bodega
He used to call me “Boss.” He’ll call her Boss in the same velvety tone that once stilled my heart. She’ll go in for a chopped cheese, and leave without her love for me. His mental math prowess for combining randomly priced items knows no bounds, and his ability to give her two packs of Orbit Sweet Mint gum for the price of one is a power I shamefully do not possess. And with the support of his faithful tabby cat, the most esteemed of wingmen, all will be lost.
My Wife’s Childhood Sweetheart
They passed notes in secret. He pretended to care about who the best boy was on Gilmore Girls (it’s Luke). He was the first person to ask her to dance (now she won’t even get up for Cotton-Eyed Joe), and apparently the strictest nun chaperone said, “Hell yeah, get it!”
Fortunately, he’s now happily married to a man out in Montauk, but it’ll take far more than that to stave off my concerns.
A Charming Cartoonist
He turns silly little jokes into resplendent illustrations worthy of the great museums you’ll likely only walk through via a sweaty VR headset. My wife’s constant sorrows will be shed instantly at his simplest quip, at his sweetest wink, or at his most inconsequential napkin doodle. I’ll be off to the side, weeping in isolation, playing Hangman with a stick figure bearing strangely similar features to myself and a word impossible to guess (perhaps the Welsh town, Llanfairpwllgwyngyll).
My Childhood Sweetheart
She built block towers better than the masterful architects of antiquity. Whenever tinfoil-capped weirdos go on about aliens and pyramids, I think back to what she could manage with a handful of disjointed LEGOs. When it came to finger paints, I wondered why humankind ever felt the need to invent the paintbrush. Her giggle could quell the darkest rage in the most war-hungry horde. And if she happened to offer to share her juice with my wife? Well, there are some battles you can never win, and sexuality is, unfortunately, a spectrum.
My Bodega Owner’s Childhood Sweetheart
Look, I already told you about him. I can’t even comprehend the first person he suggestively called Boss. Great, now my wedding ring is talking for some reason and telling me to do deep breathing exercises and calm down.
The Rugged Explorer of Especially Romantic Destinations
While I may not know where the highest point on Lovers Rock sits, I’m quite certain this man is jamming a bold and brilliant banner in those lofty limits as we speak. He will surely have a grand mustache not seen since the glory days of Russian tsars, and his chest size will be of the sort that requires a tailor and several reams of fabric. I would prefer not to consider his arms at this time. Bravery and machismo come to him as naturally as he puts a grizzly in a sleeper hold, and my wife will be swiftly swept off her delicate feet (I’m sure he’ll have her body mapped in no time).
The Handsome Astronaut Who Will Crash in Our Yard
He’ll be badly hurt from tearing through atmospheres at speeds I haven’t even experienced from unlicensed carny rides in New Jersey church parking lots circa 1999. My wife will tend to his wounds in our guest bedroom. Yes, the one I recently stayed in after a disastrous review of my wife’s new pottery. He’ll have windswept, or perhaps even starswept, hair that will make every hair on the back of my neck shudder with emasculation. I’m certain he’ll have many medals, likely one for being the first man to prevent galactic genocide, whereas I have only been the (alleged) first man to cook an egg inside of a grilled cheese. He’ll condemn my marriage to the nearest black hole and there will be no stars left for me to wish upon.
The Hi-Score Guy at Barcade
I may be banking on him struggling against certain scent and sweat obstacles, but his alarming dexterity with joysticks and effective button pressing is a significant cause for concern. His beard will taste of all the limited-release craft beers my wife has yet to try, and his ponytail will be as majestic as the galloping steed adorning his exquisite graphic tee. His initials will gleam upon every last glittering leaderboard… especially the one I can’t even get past the first level on, Super WifeHeart. It’s game over for me, and I’m all out of tokens.
My Long-Lost Twin
Just because my parents told me I popped out alone doesn’t mean he isn’t out there biding his time. He’ll be like me, only handsome and far more successful. I’m sure he’s the CEO of a tech startup that not only says it does good, but actually does it. He’ll probably have a dashing name—maybe mine but with an unpronounceable diacritic.
Lord knows I can’t compete with his ultimate underdog story of never even existing. And the worst part is if he comes to kill me and I somehow prevail, my story won’t stick because how can you possibly claim self-defense for killing your imaginary long-lost twin? Well, at least my wife’s in for an upgrade either way.
The Train-Hopping Vagrant
Honestly, he deserves the world. Unfortunately, my wife happens to be that to me. He’ll whistle better than the most accomplished, Juilliard-trained songbirds. His bindle will contain sparkling treasures beyond imagination. Possibly a broken bottle carved into a knife-cup for sipping booze and taking down aggressive suitors. I’m sure his getup will be so haphazardly excellent that he’ll immediately be mistaken for a Bushwick fashion icon.
When my wife leaves me for one (or all) of the others, maybe I’ll see if he’d like to finally settle down and move in.