What To Believe
By: Dave Woehrle
Post-coitus, they cuddle, sweat, and breathe. Faces flushed, groins drained, dopamine pulsing, they smile blissfully on moist sheets. In that otherworldly hum of an orgasm wave retreating, finely smoothing and removing worry, the body and soul murmur one big silent “Hell yeah.” They lay in that Hell Yeah for a few minutes.
She rises to open a window, brave in her glowing nakedness, and a cool April breeze defunkifies the steamy room. She flops back down on the bed and says, “Yowsa.”
He says, “I know. Totally Yowsa.”
She smiles with closed eyes.
He turns to look at her. She radiates. He might marry her. He will. He might. He wants to. He believes he wants to.
He can see them in the future, walking together as an old couple wearing bulky sweaters in a Midwestern park, pointing out bird nests and nodding. He can see them eating warm stew on cold days. He can see them stepping on their children’s toys in the middle of the night and cursing. He can them laughing at themselves.
So in this moment, as he contemplates the future, the heaven of her, she opens her mouth to ask a question.
She asks, “Do you have any margarine?”
He is silent for a moment, a bit bemused.
She asks, “What’s wrong?”
“Of all the things you could’ve said just then, I could’ve never predicted a question about margarine.”
“What did you want me to say?”
“I don’t know. ‘I love you’ or ‘that was great’ or something.”
“I do love you. And it was great. I said ‘Yowsa’ already. I’m just asking if you have margarine.”
“Why do you want margarine? Something kinky I hope?”
“I was just thinking about having a bagel, but I don’t want a bagel if you don’t have margarine.”
“I think I have butter.”
“I don’t want butter. I want margarine.”
“Why?”
“I like margarine more. And it’s better for you. Less fatty.”
“I thought butter was better.”
“Butter isn’t better.”
“Butter isn’t better?”
“Nope.”
“I thought it was.”
“It’s not.”
“Oh,” he says and sighs.
She says, “Well?”
“Well what?”
“Aren’t you gonna go check?”
“Like, right now?”
“Yes, right now. I’m hungry.”
He sighs again.
She says, “Just go check for me, babe.”
He gets up, still naked, and walks to the kitchen and checks his fridge for margarine.
“Huh. I don’t see any.” He only sees beer, eggs, and Chalua sauce, the essentials.
She yells from the bed, “You sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Keep looking.”
“Well, if I don’t see any, what else do you want me to – oh wait.” He spots a yellow container in the vegetable crisper.
He says, “All right found some.”
“Nice. What kind?”
“I got some I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter.”
“Oh. Well I don’t want that.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because it’s butter.”
“No. It’s not butter.”
She says, “Babe, no. It’s called I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter. That’s a double negative.”
“Double negative?”
“Yeah.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Can’t and the Not. It’s a double negative. So it is butter.”
“If it was butter, they’d just call it butter.”
“It’s marketing, babe, a catch phrase. If it were margarine, it would be called I Can’t Believe It’s Butter.”
“You wouldn’t believe it because it is margarine.”
“Right.”
“Right.”
There is a brief silence where both of them sense agreement yet lingering puzzlement.
He says, “So what’s the next step here?”
“I want margarine.”
“Yeah, and I fucking found some.”
“No. No, you didn’t. And don’t swear.”
“Yes, yes I did. And fuck that. This is ridiculous.”
“Double negative, like I said. Can’t and Not. So I believe it’s butter.”
“But that has more to do with the belief system of humans than what is put on a goddamn bagel. It’s a margarine that’s so similar in taste to butter, that you can’t believe it isn’t.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It makes perfect fucking sense, actually.”
She sits up in bed and says, “Why are you so angry about this?”
“I’m not angry!”
“Then stop yelling. We’ll just have to agree to disagree.”
“No. I’m not agreeing with that. Google it.”
“Just nevermind, babe. Whatever it is, I’ll try it anyway.”
He pulls some bagels from the cabinets and says, “I only have bagels that have onions on the top.”
“Oh. I don’t like those bagels.”
“Well, what the fuck? Do you want something or not?”
“I guess not. Thanks, though.”
It’s quiet. He’s mad. He stays mad for a full three minutes. He’s mad but he knows he’s lucky. Just to have such a meandering discussion about condiments after great sex is often a blessing ignored.
And there, naked, defeated, and frustrated, holding a container of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Better and some crappy onion bagels, he suddenly believes he wouldn’t want to have stupid arguments with anyone else as much as her.
He will marry her. He will ask her later in life. With a bagel covered in margarine for a ring.
