From "The Commitment"

Starting on page 119:

When I can't sleep -- something that happens at least three nights a week -- I sometimes just sit and watch Terry sleeping. He takes a breath, there's a pause, he exhales, there's another pause. What, I wonder, would I do if this man stopped breathing? Can the day-to-day misery of being along be worth the risk of being absolutely shattered if Terry should die before me? If Terry were to die today, if a knock came at the door tonight, if some stranger arrived to tell me that I would never be able to speak to Terry again, or hold him, or look into his eyes, or smell him, or listen to him breathe -- just writing these words makes my stomach hurt.

Being single visits a kind of constant, low-intensity misery on a person -- at least on a person who doesn't want to be single. Coming home to an empty house, not having anyone to confide in, facing illnesses on your own -- being along hurts, but people can get used to it. But being in a long-term relationship doesn't spare you from all that day-to-day pain. It just banks it. Every day I'm with Terry, every day I'm not alone, a little misery gets put into a savings account, where interest is compounded hourly. The day Terry dies, all the pain I avoided when I was with him will be paid out all at once; I will suffer a windfall of misery. I imagine the pain would feel literally like being torn in two. Maybe that's what people mean when they talk about "one flesh"?