She’s right. In a lot of ways I am traditional. I did always think I’d get married, even when I was young. In the midst of this thorny conversation, a memory sprouts, a fragile bud that opens, reminding me of my earliest ideas of marriage and family and what it meant to choose one person for the rest of your life.

When I was six years old, I got married on a spring day in my backyard. The bride wore a Paula Abdul T-shirt that declared Straight Up on the front. There was a tiny hole in the toe of her Keds, and her pink sock poked through it. Her hair was artfully arranged into two afro puffs. The groom wore a Superman cape and swimming trunks. Who knows why six-year-old Ezra was obsessed with swimming trunks, but there you have it. Mama had taken me to Aunt Rose’s wedding in New York, and I knew as soon as I got back to Atlanta, my best friend and I should get married.

For once, Kimba let me have my way.

The low-hanging branches of the elm tree out back formed our chuppah. I couldn’t remember any of the Sheva Brachot, so I made up my own seven blessings. I’m pretty sure they were things like all-you-can-eat pizza and Super Mario Brothers high scores. I grabbed two tabs from cans of Coke in the refrigerator for our rings. I can still feel the cold metal encircling my finger. I couldn’t remember why they broke the glass at Aunt Rose’s wedding, but we dropped one of Mama’s mason jars on a rock, jumping back and laughing when it shattered everywhere.

And that was it. We were married. Kimba said we shouldn’t tell the grown-ups because they wouldn’t understand, and we should wait ’til we were older. She always seemed to know best, so I agreed.

“Ezra,” Aiko prods. “Would marriage make a difference?”

I clear my throat, refocusing my attention to look her straight in the eye. “No, I don’t think we should get married, but you keep bringing up this open relationship. Tell me the truth. Is there someone you want to sleep with?”

To her credit, she doesn’t flinch, but I know her. That left eye twitches, which gives her away when she tries to lie or hide something from me. It’s how I always beat her in poker.

“There’s a guy I might…” She tightens the kimono belt at her small waist. “Might be interested in. You know the photography safari I’m going on next week?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s, um, going, too,” she says quickly, licking her lips.

Now it makes sense. She wants me to agree to this ridiculous open relationship so she and her fuck buddy can have at it for a month in the Serengeti.