Octet

First candle.

Our first apartment. We download the blessings off the internet because we don’t remember the words. I run my finger along the Hebrew script as I chant the prayers. The words feel warm, rich, and satisfying in my mouth, like hearty brown bread.

You squint at the transliteration, unable to decipher the Hebrew letters. The foreign-sounding syllables are like stale crackers crumbling out of your mouth.

Second candle. 

Two broken promises. You surreptitiously pull a Zippo from your front pocket and light the shamash. I make a mental note to check your overcoat for cigarettes after you fall asleep. You promised me that you’d quit smoking when we moved in together.

It’s a shitty habit and it was a stupid promise to make. I promised not to be so judgmental. Another shitty habit and stupid promise.

Third candle.

Three wishes. I don’t need the paper printout anymore — I sing both blessings with confidence and a dash of nostalgia.

Tonight, I think about my grandparents and wish I could hug them one last time. I wish my kitchen was like my mom’s kitchen, filled with the aroma of fried potatoes, oil, and onions. I wish we were a better couple.

Fourth candle.

Four pours of Pinot. After we light candles, we sink into our overstuffed couch with a fancy bottle of wine you won at your office-sponsored esports tournament. Who knew that Wine Wednesdays was actually a thing. My office doesn’t have video games or pool tables or nap pods or a popcorn machine.

After my second glass, I begin to wonder if I should’ve learned to write code. Maybe I could’ve worked at a startup too. 

Fifth candle.

Five fingers tapping into the small of my back. You are impatient. Your family never lit candles – your parents, the definition of assimilation. I don’t want to join you for $5 You-Call-It Thursday. I explain that it’s irresponsible for renters to walk out the door with flickering candles in the kitchen.

Evidently, I’m not that persuasive. You leave and I stay home to mind the menorah. It’s only my second night alone in our loft and I spend it watching pastel candles drip down the brass hanukkiah onto our faux granite countertop, leaving a trail of psychedelic swirls and drizzled waxy pebbles. I’ll clean it up tomorrow. It’s not like we own the place.

Sixth candle.

Six streaming episodes. You opt not to press your luck and agree to stay home with me on Friday. We spend an hour searching for something to watch and end up negotiating like we think real couples must do.

We each pick three episodes for our mini film festival. I am pleasantly surprised that you pick a cozy mystery series. I force you to watch a reality dating show. I deeply regret my choice. We fall asleep on the couch and wake up sore and aggravated.

Seventh candle.

Seven songs. You are stuck finishing a project on Saturday and we agree to brunch at a local coffee bar. While you tap endlessly on your laptop, I people watch and focus on building a playlist for my sister. If you can’t say it in seven songs, why bother?

I string together a collection of deep cuts only she’ll appreciate. I used to make you mixes, but you never really listened to them. You are too busy to listen to music. I wonder if you are too busy for me.

Eighth candle.

Seven boxes and eight bows. I want to give you a real holiday, a reward for making it through the week. After we light candles, I surprise you with presents. You are shocked. We had agreed not to trade gifts this year, our cash flow a little tight from having to put down first and last month’s rent. I can’t help myself.

I hand you the small bounty of wrapped treasures from our local dollar store: a pair of socks, a Word Search magazine, a coffee mug, a flimsy pocket knife, a deck of cards, a plastic succulent for your office cubicle, and a box of off-brand movie theater candy. You count the items and shoot me a puzzled grin.

I kiss you, then casually pull at the neckline of my blouse, revealing the last hidden bow pinned to my bra. 

Your eighth gift — my heart.

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