The Apron Strings

Apron strings. Controlling and relentless, irritating my neck with their cheap fabrics and frayed seams. They can be smothering. Tingling. Personally, I prefer to cook without one. It’s more freeing that way. Less itch. I don’t own an apron and I don’t want one, either. So, for one to have found its way into my home uninvited is most perturbing. Did I ask for it to appear? Did I wish it into existence? Not that I can recall—and my memory is as sharp as the blades I mince with. It seems that the apron and its strings found its way in through a first kiss, a fast fuck, and a proposal of cohabitation. 
            We moved into my apartment, my partner and I, when we decided to take the next step in our relationship. Why do people say that, by the way? “Take the next step.” For us it was more like the next leap, the next jump, or the next sprint. The next long-distance marathon. Whatever it was, I wasn’t prepared. (As I would come to learn, I was running a marathon way out of my league.) To exist in daily life with the man I love, that I was ready for. That I had been patiently longing for. However, I wasn’t anticipating the extra baggage he would bring with him into our home. 
            I could deal with the Johnny Bravo collectibles, the tedious percolator, and the stack of CDs that we don’t even have a player for; his mountain of dirty socks tucked under his side of the bed and the way he steals my pillows in the middle of the night. I could even deal with him putting back the carton of barista-style oat milk with nothing but a dribble left. 
            The invisible but not non-existent box he moved in with him contained, perhaps unsurprisingly, his mother. And of course, her apron. 
            She is a constant presence in our home. On the phone, by text, in emails. She is always there—ready to offer advice, prepared to lecture me about a recipe to ensure it is exactly to her standard, and anxiously waiting to confirm her son’s well-being. Not an hour goes by on any given day without contact from her. The apron strings are tight. Gripping. They are suffocating. No wonder she is constantly asking if he is okay. She is the one squeezing away his last breath.
            One day, as I was about to head out to run errands, she asked him, “Did Olivia prepare you any lunch? What will you eat when she’s out frolicking around town? A good woman should always prepare food for her man.” It took all of the strength I had not to say anything I would regret. Instead, I bit my tongue as my snarky retort snaked its way through my mind, halting at the edge of my lips. What? Did someone cut off his fucking arms and forget to tell me? 
            When I was out that day, I spotted a pair of shiny silver scissors in the window of an office supply store. I wondered if they would be sharp enough to sever the strings. Probably not. This is no ordinary apron and they are no ordinary strings. They are made of steel and spider’s silk, woven together so tightly you can’t see where he begins and she ends. They are tethered.
            We have fought about the strings before, him and I. Not often, but we have. The last time was after she called seventeen times while we were watching a movie. She thought he had died. She was in a panic. A tizzy. “You’re a grown man with his own life!” I yelled at him, immediately ashamed of my harsh tone. “You don’t have to answer every time she calls.” Deep down, I think he likes the safety of the strings. After all, they have been with him his entire life. An unsolicited constant. I wonder if things will change when we have children of our own? Probably not. She will presumably weave another apron and stitch the strings into them, too.
            Not if I can help it.
            I’ve never liked aprons and this one with its unrelenting grip is no exception. I’m afraid it won’t stop; it’ll never let us go. Perhaps we will move far, far away to a cabin in the woods with shaky cell service and spotty internet. Would the strings loosen their grasp then? If we were unreachable, would they find a way to reach us? 
            It’s entirely possible that they’ll always be there, lingering. Unwelcome. Until they start to unravel and their exhausting embrace begins to unclench. Until the day comes when there is nothing left of the apron or its strings but a haunting memory or two. That day will come. I have faith.
            But for now, I’ll return for the silver scissors. Just in case.

ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴅ