55 - The Triangle Trinity

You know the feeling, right? Saturday night—and you're faking enthusiasm.

Not for your partner, but because one of your kids is on stage, torturing a triangle with full-body commitment and absolutely zero sense of rhythm. After a whole year of lessons.

Yes, our daughter once played the triangle. It's like drums—but with none of the potential for respect. I’ve lived through those evenings.

What I hadn’t experienced—until recently—was this: swaying to my lover’s guitar solos on a Saturday night—with the mister by my side.

I’m not sure who was more nervous: Leif before his gig with his old university band or me before introducing the two men I love.

The last time I introduced one man to another like that was when I brought the now-husband to meet my father. My dad was delighted—because my chosen one was French, and I had nearly failed college because of French class. Parental satisfaction rarely arrives that perfectly wrapped.

But this time, everything felt more… scrambled. Leif is nearly fifteen years older than my husband.

But the mister? He’s the one with home field advantage: his seat at the dining table, the key to the whisky cabinet, and full license to load the dishwasher without supervision.

Now that is power.

As you can probably tell, my brain was spiraling. Occasionally, my old relationship script crashes into these modern-life updates—like Polyamory 1.0—and my mind frantically searches for reference points.

I’ve always met my husband’s partners—and I’ve usually been curious about the women who clearly had equally good taste in men.

But in reverse?

I found it stressful. Which is why I appreciated Leif’s concert invitation so much. No pressure—just a first step. The guys had both asked to meet, and now they could size each other up. And I finally got to see Leif play his guitar.

So, how was it?

It was a kind of everyday trinity: my husband, my lover, and me—united by music, tentative glances, and a sweet little secret. And I have to admit—I absolutely loved being surrounded by them.

Watching my husband make Leif laugh was glorious—especially when he asked if Leif had noticed my new haircut yet. (Of course he hadn’t.) No surprise there. I don’t even want to cut my hair—I want it to grow—so every haircut is so subtle it’s basically theoretical. But the day before, I’d desperately wanted praise from the mister for the not-bad result. Now, he was making sure Leif gave me some too. Who knew split ends could make such effective icebreakers?

It was a strong start. Apart from a music taste that’s far too heavy for my ears, those two do have one thing in common: me.

By the end of the evening, I realized something: I’m kitchen-table poly. I want the people I love to sit around the same table, eat, laugh, talk—and ideally, genuinely like each other. Three people. Two relationships. One rhythm. That’s my dream. 

And honestly? My favorite part of the night—besides my two men—was this older punk wearing a T-shirt that couldn’t have screamed Paris or punk any louder. It read, “I love nothing. – I’m Parisian.” Later that night, onstage, I found out he was a professional triangle player.

That gave me hope that maybe our daughter’s early music education hadn’t been completely in vain. Nothing would make me prouder than standing one day—next to the mister, Leif, and perhaps even her poly lovers—in the audience, cheering her on during a wild, sweaty, triangle-metal-fusion finale. 

And this time?

No need to fake it.

Because she’d be living her decision—not our expectations.