Saint Halles Market

Saint Halles Market is packed. It always was. It used to be our favorite place. We’d smoke a joint and then come here and eat everything under the sun. The market was a stoner’s dream - there were soup dumplings right next to tacos. The tortillas were homemade, the asada sizzling in front of you. There were burgers, pizza, doner kebab, and the next aisle over you could get raclette, the gooey, melted cheese puddling over a plate of… well, whatever you want, we learned that if you asked they’d do it. We’d bring the burgers, the soup dumplings, the tacos right on over and they’d scrape the molten cheese onto your plate. $5 was a small price for that moment of ecstasy while you were high. 

We meet up outside the Singaporean stall. We never knew the name of it. At one point, we knew the names of everyone who worked there and the owners, but that was years ago. You wave awkwardly at me and I smile back. 

“Do you want to grab plates and then find somewhere to sit? Or I could order for us and you could find somewhere to sit?" The second suggestion sounds presumptuous. “Let’s order together, it can be a nightmare to find one another after we’ve split up.” 

After we sit down you smile at me. It’s a crooked smile with only one dimple. It was the smile I had fallen in love with a decade ago. 

We were 23. We had moved to the big city from different small towns. We had a few mutual friends and inevitably ended up at one or two parties a month together, but never spoke. It wasn’t until a friend of a friend dropped beer all down my front and, entirely too drunk to notice, stumbled away that we made eye contact. “Oh god, I’m so sorry.” You grabbed a roll of paper towels, we were both drunk, you dabbed at my chest to soak up the beer before we both realized you were groping me. You flushed and I laughed, that crooked smile spread across your face, and then we were both laughing. You leaned over to kiss me, you tasted like rum and coke. 

We went home together. We spent the weekend together. We spent the month together.  Someone said, “Hey, wouldn’t it be great if we just paid one rent?” You moved your three boxes of things into my 400 square foot studio and we split the wildly expensive $1400 rent in a bad part of town. You were a bartender, I was a waitress. We had no savings. We’d spend our leftover money on drugs, mostly weed, but occasionally coke or molly. We’d get high and come to the market. We’d laugh over endless plates of dumplings and dare one another to eat the strangest combinations of raclette and something else. We scraped our money together and paid rent. 

We’d stay up all night and go for 3 AM city walks on Wednesdays. We were 24. In the winter, we’d build elaborate pillow forts out of goodwill blankets and drink mugs of Jim Beam. On Mondays, we’d go out dancing with our friends and get back well after the sun rose. We’d nurse our hangovers with pho and ramen at the market. I had a bad trip and you held me while I cried. We went to a show and had a threesome with the long-legged singer. We did too much coke that month. We missed rent and had to pick up extra shifts.

We were 25. The studio began to feel a bit small. I was felt up by one too many customers at the restaurant. I wanted to go to the doctor. “I think I want to get a real job.” “Capitalism is a scam.” “I could do something worthwhile.” 

I applied to graduate school, a program in urban planning. I worked nights and went to school during the day. You cheered as they called my name and I walked across the stage. You had our friends pull some strings and close down the restaurant. We had a big party that there was no way we could afford. When I asked how, you just flashed that smile at me. You were so proud of me. For the next two weeks, you told everyone we met I had a masters degree. 

I started working at the city planners office. We were 26. The office drug tested and I stopped smoking weed. I worked 9-5, attended work happy hours, made watercooler chitchat. We moved into a one-bedroom apartment. I went to the doctor. We joked about me selling out, but you were so proud. On Mondays or Tuesdays, the days when your bar was closed, we’d come down to the market and eat our body weight in soup dumplings. 

We fought more. We never saw each other. I worked 9 to 5, Monday through Friday. You worked 4 to whenever you got home, Wednesday through Sunday. On one Thursday you came home with your bar friends at 3 AM. You were drunk and on coke. I had a big presentation in the morning. We fought in front of your friends. You passed out on the couch. Your paycheck was irregular. I had to make up your portion of the rent several times. Once you bought weed and couldn’t make rent. You accused me of prioritizing money over happiness. I cried myself to sleep. We made up over pizza at the market. You told me you’d started applying to grown up jobs. 

We were 27. You took a job as an analyst at an insurance agency. They offered you twice as much money as bartending did. I was worried that you’d be bored there. You were angry that I wasn’t supportive. “You told me to get a grown up job, the least you can do is be proud of me.” I apologized. A month in, you were bored out of your mind. You hated the 9 to 5, the work happy hours, the watercooler chitchat. Your boss was a dick. You were absolutely miserable. 

You gained weight. I told you I still thought you were sexy. We were 28. You were drowning your insurance company misery with burgers covered in raclette. I tried to talk to you about it once. “I thought you still think I’m sexy.” “I’m just worried.” “No, you’re trying to control what I eat.” Our friends were getting married. Your boss refused to give you the time off to go. “What do I tell them?” “I don't know, tell them the Man always wins.” I went alone. You worked long hours and got a terrible performance review. I got promoted. You gained more weight. You drank too much beer. I tried to encourage you to find a new job. “You were the one who told me I had to get a real job, and apparently it’s not enough.” I told you work didn’t mean you had to be miserable. You called me a corporate shill. I cried. You bought me a brownie from the market and apologized. 

We were 29. You quit your job. You came home, so proud of yourself. Your boss had refused to give you the time off to visit your parents at Christmas, so you told him to go fuck himself. It was a string of escalating interactions. You had threatened to quit every week for the last six months. 

“Maybe you should look for something new.” “It’s the principle,” You told me you couldn’t stand the disrespect. You wanted to go out to dinner to celebrate. “Is this something worth celebrating?” “I just need you to support me,” We went to the market and celebrated with barbecue. I paid the next month's rent.

We visited your family for Christmas. You gave me diamond earrings, “for the woman who always supports me.” I smiled politely, wondering where the money came from. You could tell I was angry. “I was just trying to show you that I appreciate you.” I paid the next month’s rent. 

I asked how the job hunt was going. “I don’t think you know how much work I put into the apartment, I’m keeping it clean and making our meals, domestic labor is labor.” I bought groceries and put them on my credit card. You didn’t make dinner. “Let’s treat ourselves, we can go to the market.” We had pupusas. I paid with my credit card. I never saw you applying for jobs. When I asked again, you repeated that I didn’t respect domestic labor. I stopped cleaning. You brought up getting married. 

“You think we should get married?” “I’m going to need healthcare.” I told you that wasn’t how I envisioned being proposed to. You accused me of upholding patriarchal views of marriage. “It’s supposed to be a partnership.” I didn’t respond.

“I’m applying to grad school.” You had never mentioned going back to school. “I want to be a lawyer.” I asked if January was too late to apply to law school, you said lots of schools accepted admissions until February. I asked if that was enough time to take the LSAT. You told me you had already taken it. “When did you take the LSAT?” “Right after you graduated from your masters program, I wanted to surprise you.” “But you didn’t apply to go?” 

“Jesus, I really can’t do anything right.” You went for a walk to clear your head. I apologized and took you to the market for dan dan noodles.

You moved incredibly quickly, so motivated by your new path. You worked your charm on a handful of old professors. I proof-read your personal statements. “I want the admissions counsel to feel the impact of my words.”  I wasn’t sure you wanted to go to law school, but I didn’t say anything. You applied to 30 programs over the course of two weeks. “I read that you really need to apply to a lot of programs.” I paid for the applications with my credit card. I paid that month’s rent.

We waited to hear back. I asked if you were applying for jobs. “I really need to just be focusing on law school,” I got promoted. You kissed me and called me brilliant. You made reservations at an expensive restaurant. I told you we couldn’t afford to go there. You accused me of being cheap. “I’m just trying to celebrate you, and you’re determined to pick a fight. You did nothing to celebrate me when I applied to law school.” We went to the restaurant. I put it on my credit card. I paid that month’s rent. 

We waited longer. “What kind of law do you think you want to practice?” “It’s not enough that I applied? I have to know what’s next after that?” “I was just trying to ask you a question.” “Could you ask me a question without being critical?” “I wasn’t being critical, I was just curious.” “I’m going to take this time to find myself,” “I don’t think law school is how you find yourself” “So I shouldn’t go?” I was frustrated at how you were twisting my words. “That’s not what I’m saying, but I’m worried you’re doing this to put off finding what’s next.” You slept at a friend’s house that night. We made up over sushi at the market. I stopped making conversation. You told me it was nice we were getting along again. 

You were accepted into four different programs. None of them were in your top 10. You were disappointed. I pointed out that it wasn’t necessarily about you, but that you had applied at a time when there were fewer spaces left, and you probably had a really good chance if you applied earlier for the next year’s cohort. “Here we go, I can’t do anything right.” “No, I just meant you have a really good chance if you don’t want these options.” “Who said I don’t want these options?” “You just said you were disappointed.” “That doesn’t mean I don’t want any of these options!” You wanted to go to the private one. I pointed out that the state one was ranked similarly, the tuition was $20,000 a year less, and it was in a low cost of living area. “It’s always about money with you.” You accepted the private school. We stopped sleeping in the same bed.  I paid that month’s rent.

“I think we should get married.” You brought it up nonchalantly. “Um… what?” “I’ve been thinking, I get better financial aid, plus then I don’t have to pay for healthcare and we’re going to do it anyway, why not now?” “You really think we’re going to do it anyway?” “I mean yeah, we’re pretty much stuck with each other.” It was meant to be a joke, I didn’t think it was funny. 

“Why don’t we wait until after law school, then we can have an actual wedding?” “The wedding industrial complex is a scam, and I wouldn’t have insurance through school.” “I don’t know if I want to get married.” “What do you mean, you just asked about a wedding? Plus we’ve talked about this.” “When did we talk about this?” “A few months ago, you told me it wasn’t how you envisioned being proposed to, which means you want to get married, you’re anticipating we’ll be getting married.” “I’m not sure if that’s what I want.” “So you only want to get married for the wedding, and not to support my dreams?” “That’s not what I meant.” “What did you mean?” “I mean we’re not happy, why would we get married if we’re unhappy?” “Of course we’re happy, we’re just going through a rough patch” “A three year long rough patch!” “I took the job at the insurance agency for you!” “I didn’t ask you to take a job that made you miserable, I told you I was tired of covering month after month of rent!” “So this is about money?” “No! Kind of! I’m going into debt, I can’t afford to support both of us!” “So this is my fault” “It’s no one’s fault, but every time I bring this topic up you get so angry.” “So it is my fault.” “No, it’s no one’s fault.” “If you’re not going to support me now, I don’t think this relationship is going to last much longer.” 

I knew you didn’t mean it, but I meant it when I said, “I don’t want to be in this relationship anymore.” “You don’t mean that.” “I do.” “No, you love me.” “It’s not enough.” “So it is about money.” “It’s not about money!” “You don’t appreciate me. I’ve been cleaning and cooking and taking care of the apartment. You haven’t cleaned in months. You don’t ask me how my day was. You refuse to celebrate with me after I just got into a program that will solve the money problem you keep bringing up. And now you tell me you want to break up because I don’t contribute.” 

I stayed with a friend. You moved your stuff out. You sent me texts. You were on dating apps. You were getting matches. There was still time. You’d still forgive me. We could still get married. I stopped responding. I went to the market. It felt achingly lonely. We had memories in every corner of the market. You were in every stall, every plate. I stopped going to the market. I paid that month’s rent.

“How’s law school?”  We’re 32. You grin. “Terrible, but I’m learning so much. I’ve decided on torts.” “I don’t even know what torts means!” You laugh. You tell me about law school, about your new friends, your new life. You lost that shitty insurance company weight. You teach yoga on weekends to get away from law school. You tell me about the cat you adopted. You tell me about torts. I joke that soon you’ll have a billboard with your name on it. You don’t ask about me. In a lull, you smile at me. I smile back. You tell me you miss me. I tell you I’m engaged. 

“But I’m going to have a career, I’m going to make money!” “It was never about the money.” “You brought the money up all the time!” You’re angry. “I didn’t want to upset you, but I wanted to tell you in person.” “So you leave our relationship and immediately get engaged to someone else? I bet you were seeing him while we were together.” “We’ve been broken up for three years.” “And clearly our relationship meant nothing to you!” “Please don’t say that, you know that’s not true.” “I would have done anything for our relationship, I did do everything for our relationship.”  “I just wanted to tell you in person, I thought you deserved that.” “You sprung it on me.” 

I stand up. “I’m sorry to hurt you, but I thought you should know.” You yell after me. I don’t know what you’re saying.  

I cry as I push past the bustling crowd. She’s waiting for me at a stall on the other side of the market. I cry on the subway. I cry as we walk through the door. She wraps her arms around me and kisses my forehead. She makes me a cup of tea, and listens to me tell her what happened. We never go back to the market. We pay this month’s rent.