The Marriage Interview
By Sarah Goodell Gesior
The first time I saw you, I thought, him?
I thought, this day is endless and we haven’t even broken for lunch.
I thought, why did I write a play impossible to cast?
#
Our interview was set for Tuesday morning, and it made me glad we were under- employed artists, able to drop everything to go downtown in the middle of a heatwave, chrome-blinded as we exited the subway, hands held loosely to show we weren’t afraid.
It was just a formality after all.
The line constructed itself, two-by-two, over marble flagstones, yawing onto Federal Plaza. You tugged at my arm. “What do you want to do after? We could go to that little shop on Third. A chilled red, prosciutto, olives, bread…” You leaned towards my cheek, breath clinging to my flushed skin. I turned away.
“Can we just make it through this first?”
A woman fluttered fingers through her hair, the heat lifting wiry strands away from her head. The man next to her scrolled on his phone, thumbnail snicking the screen. I caught a glimpse over his shoulder of bold text, Legal Battles Ramp Up as All Green Cards Come Under Fire. He slipped the phone back into his pocket, shoulders scrunched.
I could already feel my knee protesting and the day had barely begun. I shouldn’t have worn these shoes.
#
The first time we worked together, you made me doubt myself.
You were too old for the part, but it didn’t matter. When you spoke those lines, even the director—with his boyish, flopping hair—stopped fidgeting.
At the first rehearsal I stood to introduce the play, but for a destabilizing moment I wanted to cede the floor to you, sitting in the arc of actors with arresting stillness. You had found something new in the lines I didn’t think I had written. I wondered if the story had changed allegiances, emancipating itself from me.
Our eyes snared and I wanted you to tell me what it all meant.
#
The line wavered in the heat, sweat licking my spine. Our hands fused, tacky warm sickness clinging to our palms. You were telling me about visiting your mother in Madrid that fall. “They said we will be able to travel again, once we get through this. She’s starting to blame you for not seeing me.” You made that exaggerated grimace that said yes, she’s ridiculous. An actor’s face, encyclopedic with emotion.
The man in front of us pulled his fingers down his cheeks, stretching his skin into a frown.
#
The first time you entered my apartment, a stumbling dance of hips and breath, you spun me against a wall and knocked me out of my head. When I tried to guide you backwards towards the bed, your heel caught a stack of books by my lone armchair, the window over its shoulder offering a disorienting view of a brick wall. I wanted to say leave it. I wanted to say get back over here. But instead I stood, chest rioting, as you crouched down and rebuilt the literary monument, fingers delicately tracing the spines.
#
We finally made it up the marble stairs. The brass handle scorched my fingers. Inside, an artificial chill pressed into all of our exposed skin. We went through metal detectors, men surveying us, distrust in their jaws, metal glinting from their belts. We had to unlock our hands. My palm rang in the empty air.
#
The first time we fought, I alchemized my dread into anger. I tore into that cocky smile and made the ground steadier. Your confidence, so sexy in its self-assurance—when I was sure of nothing in my life—suddenly burned amber, a flickering gaslight. I was sweating in the apartment, fighting with a fan, my skin screaming, and you looked at me like—what heat? But you can’t just shrug away weather. I don’t care if you grew up in Madrid. The heat exists.
#
We stood in the hallway, repeating mantras to each other.
This was just a formality.
The administration was being cautious.
People like us weren’t the targets.
We’ll be in and out in no time, just like the first time we went in for our interviews.
Except, when it was finally our turn, we realized these new rounds of interviews were different. The woman—short curling hair, straight pressed lips—barely glanced up as we entered the room and took our seats. The air smelled strongly of wood polish. I wanted to grab your hand again, but instead fisted my shirt, fingers icy and tingling, head beginning to pound.
#
She said, “Let’s begin with what we can prove.”
#
The first time we talked about forever, we leaned in close, elbows crowding the tablecloth, grinding crumbs into our skin. We smiled with wine-stained lips at the improbability of finding each other in our forties. A wedding seemed so frivolous, indulgent—but the moment we spoke it into existence, my ribs hummed.
#
She blinked expectantly at us and my mouth opened and closed, impossible words trapped in my throat. How can you prove something incorporeal?
#
The woman told us we could go—for now. She told us to watch for the pending judgment. To not leave the county in the meantime.
We retraced our steps in silence, summer heaving against us on the other side of the doors.
The line shimmered, desperate and endless, and I couldn’t meet your eyes. You slipped your hand back into mine, a loosed anchor. “It will all work out, you’ll see.”
And because I loved you, I let myself pretend, leaning my head against your shoulder even as my eyes burned.
Bio: Sarah Goodell Gesior is a recovering tech worker, having spent the first fifteen years post college fighting with spreadsheets and writing creatively in free pockets of her weekends. Over the past two years she has given herself more permission to create, writing a women’s lit novel, alongside flash fiction and short stories. She attended the New York State Summer Writers Institute, taught by Amy Hempel and Adam Braver, and is on the editorial reading team of the Glossy Planet Literary Magazine. When not writing, she can be seen performing in local theater and choirs in upstate New York, and baking far too much bread. This is her first publication.
Author’s Notes: This piece was inspired by recent immigration crack-downs across the United States, the inhumane treatment of people just trying to live their lives, and the seemingly unending escalation of policy. It was a thought experiment that asked – if a green card marriage suddenly came under amplified scrutiny, how could you prove your marriage was real?
