Problems by Jade Sharma

me.
    â€œYou’re still cold?” I realized I was standing with my arms around me, crouched over. I stood upright.
    â€œNo, no, I’m fine.”
    â€œDid you open the window?” Jake asked her.
    The front door opened. I braced myself to withstand a gust of wind. A middle-aged man wearing a snowflake sweater came in beside a short-haired woman in high-waisted light blue jeans.
    â€œJake!” The man slipped his arm around Jake.
    â€œHi, I’m Marcie,” the woman said. Aunt Marcie, Peter had mentioned her. The aunt who made that ratatouille Peter raved about.
    â€œHi, I’m Maya, Peter’s wife.”
    â€œWell, it’s so good to meet you.” We smiled. It had been Peter’s idea to go off to Vegas and get married. I thought eloping would be like a fun weekend, but when I met his relatives, it felt like I was this mysterious woman they were all wondering about. “Darren,” the man introduced himself, smiling, his face friendly. “Wow,” he said. “It is so nice to finally meet you.” I smiled back. “So, huh, it must be, what, two years since the two of you got married?”
    â€œNo, about four.”
    â€œDidn’t want to deal with the fuss of a big wedding, I guess?” he said, taking his gloves off and putting them on the kitchen table. The table had a plastic tablecloth on it.
    â€œI guess that was part of it, but it was more like we thought it would be fun, you know?”
    â€œRight, right,” he said, smiling, nodding, as if fun were something he had a working understanding of. Marcie stood and observed us.
    It felt like Darren was the talk show host; me, the guest; and Marcie, our audience.
    â€œWe got married by Elvis,” I said. It was what I said every time I mentioned the wedding.
    â€œHuh! How fun! I would love to see pictures,” he said, still smiling. I believed him. He really would have loved to see pictures.
    â€œOh, I don’t have any. We didn’t think to take any.”
    â€œYeah . . .”
    â€œWe were pretty loaded,” I said. A moment passed. “I’m kidding,” I added.
    Darren burst into laughter; Marcie, a cautious smile.
    â€œYeah, you guys just met that night, right?” Darren said, adding to the joke.
    â€œActually, we met there at the chapel.”
    Darren laughed harder.
    Peter and his father came in. Nervous, I smeared goat cheese on another cracker and stuffed it into my mouth. I wanted to throw up, and I was sweating again.
    â€œSo, what do you say, should I open a bottle of wine?” Rick said to Darren.
    â€œCan I see it?” Peter said. I loved how Peter acted as if knowing wine was an actual hobby of his, when it was just like what watching porn was for a sex addict. The culture of wine, learning obscure cocktails, having just a beer. He was a fucking alcoholic.
    â€œI say, sounds like a great idea,” Darren said. Peter walked over and put his arm around me, which made me uncomfortable.I hated the way he was always touching me. My stomach cramped. I was going to have the runs.
    There was only one fucking bathroom, and someone was in there, taking forever. You couldn’t say, “I seriously will shit myself if you don’t stop fucking touching me.”
    On the toilet, I doubled over in pain. I wanted to fucking die. When I stood up, my vision darkened. I sat back down on the toilet lid. I closed my eyes. Did I need to puke or shit? Did I need more Suboxone, or had I taken too much? I stood up. Shit on the floor and puke in the toilet, or puke on the floor and shit in the toilet? I lay down on the cool tiles with my eyes closed. Get it together. Grow up. Get it together. Darkness. Self-loathing. Regret. I was an addict. I wasn’t an addict; I was just in a fucked-up situation. I was going to end up homeless. Everything would be fine. I needed to use a lifeline. I needed to ask the studio audience. I needed to phone a friend.
    I