figured she’d let
that
complaint go, too. What was the use? Adam was a slob; that was just who he was.
He was watching
The Twilight Zone
. It was that famous episode where a guy on an airplane looks out the window and sees a boogey man balanced on the wing. All
the flight attendants think he’s crazy because every time they look, the boogey man disappears. Then the station switched
to a low-budget commercial for a nearby Hyundai dealership. Bunting filled the screen. Rebates were promised. “So, Daphne
met someone,” Wendy began. “Some lawyer guy who’s madly in love with her and already got her an engraved bracelet from Tiffany’s.”
“Let me guess,” said Adam. “This one isn’t quite as married as the last one, though, technically, he’s still married.”
“You’re so hilarious,” Wendy replied as she frequently did—only with more aggression. As if he wasn’t actually that hilarious.
But if Adam detected anger in her voice, he ignored it. “Any chance you want to make us eggs?” he said, his nose suddenly
burrowed in her neck.
“Make your own damn eggs!” she said, pushing him away.
“Purty please. I’ll have sex with you every day next month—”
The tears came on suddenly, collected in the corners of her eyes, where they shimmied like disco dancers. “I got my period
this morning,” she choked out.
“That was pretty obvious,” said Adam.
“How did you know?!” asked Wendy, an octave higher than normal. Just like Daphne. (She was still shocked by how well her husband
could tell what she was thinking, even when he didn’t appear to know she was alive.)
“Because you’ve been moping around the house ever since you woke up,” he answered. “And now you’re upset that Daphne found
another married guy to buy her some heinous ankle bracelet from Tiffany’s.”
“It was a regular bracelet, not an ankle bracelet!”
“Same thing.”
“You’re such a Mr. Potato Head,” declared Wendy. But now she was laughing, too—laughing and dabbing at her eyes with the backs
of her hands and nestling into the crook of Adam’s arm, and thinking that things weren’t so bad after all. Daphne Uberoff
wasn’t such a bad friend. Adam Schwartz wasn’t such a bad husband, either. (She loved their private, nonsensical language,
too.) And if there wasn’t much romance left to their romance—and he didn’t currently earn a living wage—he had a special talent
for making upsetting things seem amusing. And that was something—really, more than something.
And when she woke before dawn, as she frequently did, her mind agitating preemptively with the dread of being unable to fall
back asleep—moreover, of feeling that she’d never make up the hours, never catch up—she’d press her chest and belly into the
back of his T-shirt, letting his body warm hers and his heartbeat reset her own.
“And you’re my special Pope Wen,” said Adam with a quick squeeze. “But can we talk about it in a few minutes?” (The show was
back on.)
The news of Daphne’s burgeoning romance spread rapidly through the social circle that she and Wendy shared, with reactions
ranging from cautious optimism to outright euphoria. The general feeling was that Jonathan, whoever he turned out to be, couldn’t
be any worse than Mitch. Wendy took no small measure of pride in knowing that she’d be the first to meet him. The four of
them (Wendy, Daphne, Adam, and Jonathan) had made plans to meet for dinner the following Thursday, at a bistro in Fort Greene.
The restaurant had been Wendy’s idea. She and Maura had eaten there several times over the summer—or at least Wendy had eaten
and Maura had watched her do so. The food was casual French. The decor was funky. The lighting was dim but not too dim. Most
significantly to Wendy, the prices were reasonable. It was also loud enough in there to fill any gaps that arose in the conversation.
(Wendy expected there might be a few.)
that
complaint go, too. What was the use? Adam was a slob; that was just who he was.
He was watching
The Twilight Zone
. It was that famous episode where a guy on an airplane looks out the window and sees a boogey man balanced on the wing. All
the flight attendants think he’s crazy because every time they look, the boogey man disappears. Then the station switched
to a low-budget commercial for a nearby Hyundai dealership. Bunting filled the screen. Rebates were promised. “So, Daphne
met someone,” Wendy began. “Some lawyer guy who’s madly in love with her and already got her an engraved bracelet from Tiffany’s.”
“Let me guess,” said Adam. “This one isn’t quite as married as the last one, though, technically, he’s still married.”
“You’re so hilarious,” Wendy replied as she frequently did—only with more aggression. As if he wasn’t actually that hilarious.
But if Adam detected anger in her voice, he ignored it. “Any chance you want to make us eggs?” he said, his nose suddenly
burrowed in her neck.
“Make your own damn eggs!” she said, pushing him away.
“Purty please. I’ll have sex with you every day next month—”
The tears came on suddenly, collected in the corners of her eyes, where they shimmied like disco dancers. “I got my period
this morning,” she choked out.
“That was pretty obvious,” said Adam.
“How did you know?!” asked Wendy, an octave higher than normal. Just like Daphne. (She was still shocked by how well her husband
could tell what she was thinking, even when he didn’t appear to know she was alive.)
“Because you’ve been moping around the house ever since you woke up,” he answered. “And now you’re upset that Daphne found
another married guy to buy her some heinous ankle bracelet from Tiffany’s.”
“It was a regular bracelet, not an ankle bracelet!”
“Same thing.”
“You’re such a Mr. Potato Head,” declared Wendy. But now she was laughing, too—laughing and dabbing at her eyes with the backs
of her hands and nestling into the crook of Adam’s arm, and thinking that things weren’t so bad after all. Daphne Uberoff
wasn’t such a bad friend. Adam Schwartz wasn’t such a bad husband, either. (She loved their private, nonsensical language,
too.) And if there wasn’t much romance left to their romance—and he didn’t currently earn a living wage—he had a special talent
for making upsetting things seem amusing. And that was something—really, more than something.
And when she woke before dawn, as she frequently did, her mind agitating preemptively with the dread of being unable to fall
back asleep—moreover, of feeling that she’d never make up the hours, never catch up—she’d press her chest and belly into the
back of his T-shirt, letting his body warm hers and his heartbeat reset her own.
“And you’re my special Pope Wen,” said Adam with a quick squeeze. “But can we talk about it in a few minutes?” (The show was
back on.)
The news of Daphne’s burgeoning romance spread rapidly through the social circle that she and Wendy shared, with reactions
ranging from cautious optimism to outright euphoria. The general feeling was that Jonathan, whoever he turned out to be, couldn’t
be any worse than Mitch. Wendy took no small measure of pride in knowing that she’d be the first to meet him. The four of
them (Wendy, Daphne, Adam, and Jonathan) had made plans to meet for dinner the following Thursday, at a bistro in Fort Greene.
The restaurant had been Wendy’s idea. She and Maura had eaten there several times over the summer—or at least Wendy had eaten
and Maura had watched her do so. The food was casual French. The decor was funky. The lighting was dim but not too dim. Most
significantly to Wendy, the prices were reasonable. It was also loud enough in there to fill any gaps that arose in the conversation.
(Wendy expected there might be a few.)
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