Allegra Hyde
How Not to Have a Threesome
Be only two people.
Be two people who can’t help looking at each other out the corners of their eyes. Sit in a coffee shop longer than planned, holding your newspapers upside-down, and try to think of things to say. Say the things. Then run out of things to say and spill coffee on one another and feel relieved to have something to say again. Find this all very exciting; or find it exciting enough.
Go out to dinner. Go to a movie. Go to dinner and a movie and afterward stand on front steps and make considerations. Be the kind of people who take considerations seriously. Consider going upstairs.
Go upstairs.
Upstairs, there should only be small things: a small room, a small bed—a twin bed preferably—or perhaps just a loveseat. Use the smallness as an excuse to get close.
Once close, only buy items in twos: two hand towels, two toothbrushes, two Lean Cuisines.
To stay close, do not listen to rock music. Do not listen to country music either, or to music with words in general—or even to energetic Bach. Do not see plays and definitely do not go to art museums.
When dining, do not eat oysters, bananas, or chocolate. Do not eat deep-fried Twinkies. This is just a matter of general precaution.
Do not sit in saunas or hot tubs. Do not go to beaches, especially nude beaches. If you must go to beaches, be wary of sharks. This is also a matter of general precaution.
Be shy. Have boundary issues. Have cats. Be indoor people with indoor cats who are also shy and also have boundary issues.
If you must have friends, have no single friends. Most importantly, have no mildly alcoholic, casually beautiful, self-destructive single friends.
But if you must, do not invite this friend to dinner. Do not go out for drinks with this friend, after seeing a movie with this friend and maybe an art gallery.
Do not say I didn’t warn you.
Have excuses. Be really busy. Have a day job and night school, but also fencing lessons and choir practice.
Call your mothers every night and tell them about your days. If your mothers have passed—condolences—call other people’s mothers and tell them about your days. Recognize that at the end of every day, you must call these women and tell them everything.
Think about the value of longevity; the meaning of time. Go antiquing. Acquire a nineteenth century porcelain dinner plate and consider this THE MISSING PIECE. Think really hard about climate change, the national debt. Then the dead bird you both saw on the sidewalk. Spoiled milk. Your overdue library books.
Consider your parents excellent role models. Consider running for political office. Consider boredom an ally. Consider tradition a fortress. Stay inside that fortress. Call it love. Stay in love. Stay out of trouble. Have no troubling loves. Have no inappropriate websites on your computer.
Do not meet your casually beautiful, mildly-alcoholic, self-destructive single friend for drinks. Do not drink. Do not talk. Do not laugh. Do not touch—even lightly—just above the wrist. Do not catch the sweet trail of her perfume. Do not dance. If you must dance, dance as a pair and do not leave room for Jesus. Do not leave room for anyone.
Do not stay out later than planned. Do not share a cab ride home and stop at your place first and say nothing when you all step out onto the sidewalk, the chill of the night running like a finger down each of your spines.
But if you do: if you all stand on the front steps, all three of you, do make considerations.
Consider the approaching morning. Consider the benefits of a lasting relationship. Set your sights on Couple of the Year. Consider how marvelous it would be to send out Christmas cards with you both wearing sweaters, captioned “Couple of the Year.”
Know enough not to go inside together. Know enough not to turn on music and turn off the lights and lie about how drunk you are. Know enough not to take off your clothes, to accept the extra hands. Do not kiss back.
Consider logistics.
Most importantly, though, do not tell. Even better: do not even remember. Go blank. Go amnesiac. If possible, go right back to the beginning, to when you were just two people. Two people in a coffee shop who couldn’t help looking at each other, or holding their newspapers upside-down.
Allegra Hyde is an MFA candidate at Arizona State University, where she also serves as prose editor for Hayden’s Ferry Review. Her short stories and essays have appeared in North American Review, LUMINA, Southwestern American Literature, Bellevue Literary Review, Grist Journal, and elsewhere. She is currently working on a vegetable garden.
