Page 2 of So Thirsty

“Really? I thought we got more….” He opens the fridge, because he can never just believe me. He rummages around, validates the absence of dairy.

“Ghost must have gotten to it,” I say, imagining an ethereal floating milk mustache. “You should try it black.”

“I’m not cool like you.”

I grind my own beans, prefer a French press. Maybe because I’m a snob, or maybe because, freshman year of college, I lost my virginity to a random guy at a party and in the morning, in his grimy off-campus apartment, he put on a Jimmy Campbell record and made me coffee with a French press, and I felt special for five seconds. Felt cool. Like an adult. Like I wasn’t a girl anymore. I left that morning thinking, This is the kind of woman I am. The kind who takes a lover. The kind who drinks strong French press coffee. I never saw the guy again, but leave it to teen me to let a complete stranger spoil me to the ordinary, to allow myself to be ruined for what’s simple and easy in favor of some romantic notion of who I imagined I would be.

I’ve abandoned enough of that idealized self. The French press is my last holdout.

Though it is kind of a pain to wash.

“Guess I’m going out,” Joel says, sighing. “Do we need anything else?”

I shrug. “Not that I can think of.”

“Oh,” he says, tossing up his keys and catching them in the opposite hand. “Birthday surprise. You want to hear it?”

“Okay,” I say, battling a sudden bout of stress-induced nausea.

“This Thursday through Sunday, I booked you a cottage at the Waterfront in Auburn. For you and Naomi.”

“Naomi?”

“My coconspirator.”

I screw and unscrew the lid of the peanut butter jar, fidgeting until I figure out how I feel.

“This is the exact reaction I was hoping for,” Joel says. He’s joking, but I can sense the frustration lurking under the surface. I can see its dorsal fin.

“I’m…” I start. “That place is so expensive.”

“It’s a big birthday,” he says, and my existential angst returns, batting around my chest. Is it a big birthday? Is thirty-six big? “Plus, it’s off-season.”

“Naomi’s coming?”

“Yep,” he says. “Girls’ weekend.”

“But she’s in Europe,” I say, my voice at a mortified pitch. “I think.”

“Not this Thursday through Sunday. I’ve been planning this for a while. You don’t need to worry about anything,” he says, which, of course, makes me worry. “All right. I have to go get the milk; my first meeting is in twenty.”

“Okay. Thank you, Joel. Thank you.”

He nods and slips out through the door to the garage.

I walk over to the front window to watch his car pull out of the driveway, tires interrupting the perfect powdering of snow. I’m still holding the peanut butter, and I’m struck by this riotous impulse to chuck it at the wall. Instead, I return it to its rightful spot in the pantry. Then I roam around the house clenching and unclenching my fists, compulsively sighing.

I’d call Naomi, but I know she wouldn’t pick up. And what would I say?

I’m so excited! I can’t wait to see you!

Or, Why didn’t you tell me? You know I hate surprises. I don’t feel like celebrating my birthday. I’d rather just ignore it. If you ever bothered to ask me how I was doing, you’d know that.

Or, Do you think this is a generous gift from a guiltless husband, or do you think it’s suspect?

I park myself in front of my laptop and attempt to get some work done.

Joel comes back with the milk, which he leaves out on the counter, either absentmindedly or with the expectation that I will put it away. At around five o’clock, I log out and go down to the basement to pedal the stationary bike for half an hour while staring off into space. Then I come upstairs and put a pot of water on the stove to make pasta for dinner. I step into my knockoff UGGs and take the kitchen recycling out to the bin at the side of the house. The bin is already full, overflowing, and a cherry seltzer can falls onto the icy pavement. I reach to pick it up and notice something small and furry and still in the dark, wedged in the narrow space between the bin and the house.