Adam, who had
no savings at the time, had promised to pay her back for at least half the cost—a promise that had become moot after they
got married and merged bank accounts. Not that he’d accumulated any savings since then.
“Well, I don’t know how in love with me he is,” said Daphne. “But, at the risk of jinxing things, I honestly think this might
be it. I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way about anyone.”
“Well, it’s great news,” said Wendy. And it was. Wasn’t it? If Daphne was to be believed, she’d finally broken free of Mitch’s
grip. What’s more, from how Daphne had described him, Jonathan Sonnenberg was precisely the kind of man who Wendy and her
friends had been exhorting Daphne to date. He was available, he was age appropriate, and with any luck, he was not dependent
on antipsychotic medication that he occasionally forgot to take.
Yet there was an unreality to Daphne’s voice and words that Wendy felt somehow irked by. Only seven days earlier, after all,
Daphne had been threatening suicide. From the way she was acting now, it was as if Mitchell Kroker had never existed—and that,
by association, Wendy hadn’t spent hundreds of hours of her life listening to Daphne prattle on about the guy.
Or was Wendy being ungenerous, petty, even? No doubt Daphne was in the myopic first throes of, if not love, then at least
infatuation, when the world receded from view leaving nothing in its place but the two of you. Wendy recalled having briefly
inhabited this particular desert island with Adam, although she could no longer remember what the sand had felt like beneath
her feet.
“Well, I can’t wait for you to meet him,” Daphne was saying.
“Well, I can’t wait to meet him!” said Wendy.
“Maybe the four of us could meet for dinner next week? We could even come out to Brooklyn—”
“That would be great,” lied Wendy, who reserved a special dread of group restaurant expeditions, if only because someone always
ordered three appetizers and four times as much alcohol as everyone else and then, when the check came, suggested they split
the bill evenly.
“Terrific,” said Daphne. “Why don’t you talk to Adam and I’ll talk to Snugs and then we’ll talk again in a day or two.”
“Snugs?” said Wendy, knowing full well to whom Daphne was referring. It just seemed unfair that Daphne should have an “adorable”
inside-joke nickname for the guy after six days.
“Oh, sorry!” Daphne giggled. “That’s my little pet name for Jonathan. He’s so into cuddling that I started calling him Snuggle
Bunny. Then it got shortened to Snuggle, then Snugs.”
“It’s very cute,” said Wendy, reminding herself that she had an affectionate nickname for Adam, too: Mr. Potato Head. Though
hers was critical as well as affectionate, insofar as its origin lay in what she deemed to be the beginning of jowls on her
husband’s face.
Adam had a new nickname for Wendy, as well: Pope Wendy, because, according to him, just like the pope, she was “only interested
in sex for procreation.” With every new menstrual cycle that failed to produce an embryo, Wendy found the joke a little less
funny.
After Wendy hung up the phone, she went into the living room, where Adam sat on their pilling Ikea sofa, Polly panting at
his feet, and said, “Hey.” She was excited to tell him Daphne’s news. She thought he’d be excited, too. Some insecure part
of her thought he’d be less likely to leave her if she kept the stories coming. She was mad at him also—for never buying her
a bracelet. She was mad at herself, as well, for caring about something as superficial as jewelry.
“Huh,” Adam grunted without looking up.
Wendy sat down next to him and folded her arms across her chest, a signal of irritation she knew he’d fail to notice. There
were crumbs everywhere, which annoyed her further. Why couldn’t he keep the chips in his mouth? She
no savings at the time, had promised to pay her back for at least half the cost—a promise that had become moot after they
got married and merged bank accounts. Not that he’d accumulated any savings since then.
“Well, I don’t know how in love with me he is,” said Daphne. “But, at the risk of jinxing things, I honestly think this might
be it. I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way about anyone.”
“Well, it’s great news,” said Wendy. And it was. Wasn’t it? If Daphne was to be believed, she’d finally broken free of Mitch’s
grip. What’s more, from how Daphne had described him, Jonathan Sonnenberg was precisely the kind of man who Wendy and her
friends had been exhorting Daphne to date. He was available, he was age appropriate, and with any luck, he was not dependent
on antipsychotic medication that he occasionally forgot to take.
Yet there was an unreality to Daphne’s voice and words that Wendy felt somehow irked by. Only seven days earlier, after all,
Daphne had been threatening suicide. From the way she was acting now, it was as if Mitchell Kroker had never existed—and that,
by association, Wendy hadn’t spent hundreds of hours of her life listening to Daphne prattle on about the guy.
Or was Wendy being ungenerous, petty, even? No doubt Daphne was in the myopic first throes of, if not love, then at least
infatuation, when the world receded from view leaving nothing in its place but the two of you. Wendy recalled having briefly
inhabited this particular desert island with Adam, although she could no longer remember what the sand had felt like beneath
her feet.
“Well, I can’t wait for you to meet him,” Daphne was saying.
“Well, I can’t wait to meet him!” said Wendy.
“Maybe the four of us could meet for dinner next week? We could even come out to Brooklyn—”
“That would be great,” lied Wendy, who reserved a special dread of group restaurant expeditions, if only because someone always
ordered three appetizers and four times as much alcohol as everyone else and then, when the check came, suggested they split
the bill evenly.
“Terrific,” said Daphne. “Why don’t you talk to Adam and I’ll talk to Snugs and then we’ll talk again in a day or two.”
“Snugs?” said Wendy, knowing full well to whom Daphne was referring. It just seemed unfair that Daphne should have an “adorable”
inside-joke nickname for the guy after six days.
“Oh, sorry!” Daphne giggled. “That’s my little pet name for Jonathan. He’s so into cuddling that I started calling him Snuggle
Bunny. Then it got shortened to Snuggle, then Snugs.”
“It’s very cute,” said Wendy, reminding herself that she had an affectionate nickname for Adam, too: Mr. Potato Head. Though
hers was critical as well as affectionate, insofar as its origin lay in what she deemed to be the beginning of jowls on her
husband’s face.
Adam had a new nickname for Wendy, as well: Pope Wendy, because, according to him, just like the pope, she was “only interested
in sex for procreation.” With every new menstrual cycle that failed to produce an embryo, Wendy found the joke a little less
funny.
After Wendy hung up the phone, she went into the living room, where Adam sat on their pilling Ikea sofa, Polly panting at
his feet, and said, “Hey.” She was excited to tell him Daphne’s news. She thought he’d be excited, too. Some insecure part
of her thought he’d be less likely to leave her if she kept the stories coming. She was mad at him also—for never buying her
a bracelet. She was mad at herself, as well, for caring about something as superficial as jewelry.
“Huh,” Adam grunted without looking up.
Wendy sat down next to him and folded her arms across her chest, a signal of irritation she knew he’d fail to notice. There
were crumbs everywhere, which annoyed her further. Why couldn’t he keep the chips in his mouth? She
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