Far-Flung by Peter Cameron

says. “I understand.”
    The next day at work I find I am very tired. I have been sleeping very little since I got Dog. Suddenly I wake up. Joyce, my boss, is standing in front of my desk. She smiles at me. “You’ve been sleeping,” she says. “That isn’t allowed.”
    I sit up straight and open my top desk drawer as if I’m looking for something. Then I close it. I look up at Joyce. She just stands there. “Why are you sleeping?” she asks. “Are you tired?”
    “I’m exhausted,” I say.
    “Why?” asks Joyce.
    “My wife just had a baby,” I lie. “It’s been very sick, and I have to stay up all night with it. That’s why I’m tired.” This is a very bad lie. Miranda and I can’t have a baby.
    “When did Miranda have a baby?” Joyce smiles. She sits down in my customer chair. “I didn’t even know she was pregnant.”
    “A month ago,” I say. “I thought I told you. I guess I’ve been too tired.”
    “How wonderful!” says Joyce. “Lucky you! What is it?”
    “What do you mean?” I say.
    “A boy or a girl?” asks Joyce. She is so nice.
    “It’s a girl.”
    “What’s her name?”
    I think for a second. “Dorothy,” I say.
    “Well,” says Joyce, “congratulations.” She stands up, and winks at me. “Just try to stay awake,” she says. “But I understand.”
    The next night when I get home there is a big bouquet on the kitchen table. Miranda is sitting at the table, smoking. Miranda quit smoking years ago, although sometimes I find a pack beneath the seat of the car. What I do then is take them all out but one. I leave one for her to smoke, and toss the rest.
    Miranda points to the flowers with her cigarette. Then she hands me a little card. A stork flies across the top, carrying a baby wrapped in a diaper. Pink ribbons form the words “Congratulations on the New Arrival!” and underneath that is written “Welcome Dorothy! Love, Joyce.” The o in Joyce contains two little eyes and a big smile.
    Miranda stubs her cigarette in the ashtray. “Who,” she says, “is Dorothy?”
    “I don’t know,” I say.
    “If this is Joyce’s idea of a joke,” cries Miranda, “I think she must be pretty sick.” She stands up and looks at the flowers. They are irises and tulips and a shriveled pink balloon on a stick. Miranda popped the balloon. Maybe she did it with her cigarette. “She must be pretty sick,” Miranda repeats. “Since when do we have a baby? Did you tell Joyce we had a baby?” Miranda looks at me. “Did you?”
    I don’t know what to say. I never thought Joyce would send us flowers. I didn’t think she was that nice. “Yes,” I say, finally.
    “You did?” Miranda is screaming, and it occurs to me that she is probably hysterical. “How could you? Why?”
    “I fell asleep at work,” I say. “It was just an excuse. I told Joyce I had to stay up nights with our baby. With Dorothy. I said Dorothy was very sick and I had to stay up nights with her.”
    “You’re awful,” says Miranda. “You’re a moron. I don’t understand what’s happened to you. What’s happened to you? I bet you are having an affair.”
    “Calm down,” I say. “That’s not true. You know that’s not true. You said you understood. Remember?”
    “But I don’t understand,” says Miranda. “I don’t understand anymore. Where do you go at night?”
    “It’s a secret,” I say. “I told you it was a secret.”
    “You can’t have a secret like that,” says Miranda. “I can’t—Why can’t you tell me? What could be so bad that you couldn’t tell me?”
    “It isn’t bad,” I say.
    “Then why can’t you tell me?”
    “It’s just private,” I say.
    “But I’m your wife,” says Miranda.
    “I know you’re my wife,” I say. “I love you.”
    “Do you?” asks Miranda.
    “Yes,” I say.
    “And you don’t love someone else?”
    Dog isn’t really a someone. She’s a something. I love something else. I love Dog and I love Miranda. If Miranda weren’t