A speaker has taught someone the word “tenacious,” and later hears it used for a tough steak. At first the speaker is quietly bothered, because tenacity seems like a human quality, not something meat can have. But on the walk home, holding hands, the other person tells them about something painful—what happened and what he did. The details are left unstated, which makes the moment feel intimate and careful. The speaker drops the language lesson: if this person wants to call meat tenacious, that is their right. More than that, surviving what they have survived makes ordinary rules seem small. The final lines turn awed and almost worshipful, as if the speaker is stunned that this person is still here, still speaking, still holding their hand. The mood is tender and protective, like someone deciding that love matters more than being right.
Tenacious — Summary
I told you that ‘tenacious’ meant tough. A few days later we went out to eat and you described your steak as tenacious. That didn’t sound quite right – a person can be tenacious, but an inanimate slab of flesh, surely, can’t. I spent the rest of the meal absorbed in this. Then as we held hands on the way back, you told me about everything; about what happened and what he did. I felt your hand in mine, and knew that you were still alive. You can call a piece of meat tenacious if you want. Damn it, you can do whatever you like. You can recreate the very foundations of Being. If you want to call your steak tenacious, then who am I to object? And if I want to worship you as a god then how, I pray, could that be wrong?