– Diary entry –
I won'd blame Nick. I don'd blame Nick. I refuse – refuse! – to turn
into some pert-mouthed, strident angry-girl. I made two promises to
myself when I married Nick. One: no dancing-monkey demands. Two: I would
never, ever say, Sure, that's fine by me (if you want to stay out
later, if you want to do a boys" weekend, if you want to do something
you want to do) and then punish him for doing what I said was fine by
me. I worry I am coming perilously close to violating both of those
promises.
But still. It is our third wedding anniversary and I am alone in our
apartment, my face all mask-tight from tears because, well, because:
Just this afternoon, I get a voice mail from Nick, and I already know
it's going to be bad, I know the second the voice mail begins because I
can tell he's calling from his cell and I can hear men's voices in the
background and a big, roomy gap, like he's trying to decide what to say,
and then I hear his taxi-blurred voice, a voice that is already wet and
lazy with booze, and I know I am going to be angry – that quick inhale,
the lips going tight, the shoulders up, the I so don'd want to be mad
but I'm going to be feeling. Do men not know that feeling? You don'd
want to be mad, but you"re obligated to be, almost. Because a rule, a
good rule, a nice rule is being broken. Or maybe rule is the wrong word.
Protocol? Nicety? But the rule/protocol/nicety – our anniversary – is
being broken for a good reason, I understand, I do. The rumors were
true: Sixteen writers have been laid off at Nick's magazine. A third of
the staff. Nick has been spared, for now, but of course he feels obliged
to take the others out to get drunk. They are men, piled in a cab,
heading down Second Avenue, pretending to be brave. A few have gone home
to their wives, but a surprising number have stayed out. Nick will
spend the night of our anniversary buying these men drinks, going to
strip clubs and cheesy bars, flirting with twenty-two-year-olds (My
friend here just got laid off, he could use a hug). These jobless men
will proclaim Nick a great guy as he buys their drinks on a credit card
linked to my bank account. Nick will have a grand old time on our
anniversary, which he didn'd even mention in the message. Instead, he
said, I know we had plans but …
I am being a girl. I just thought it'd be a tradition: All across town, I
have strewn little love messages, reminders of our past year together,
my treasure hunt. I can picture the third clue, fluttering from a piece
of scotch tape in the crook of the V of the Robert Indiana love
sculpture up near Central Park. Tomorrow, some bored twelve-year-old
tourist stumbling along behind his parents is going to pick it off, read
it, shrug, and let it float away like a gum wrapper.
My treasure-hunt finale was perfect, but isn'd now. It's an absolutely
gorgeous vintage briefcase. Leather. Third anniversary is leather. A
work-related gift may be a bad idea, given that work isn'd exactly happy
right now. In our kitchen, I have two live lobsters, like always. Or
like what was supposed to be like always. I need to phone my mom and see
if they can keep for a day, scrambling dazedly around their crate, or
if I need to stumble in, and with my wine-lame eyes, battle them and
boil them in my pot for no good reason. I'm killing two lobsters I won'd
even eat.
Dad phoned to wish us happy anniversary, and I picked up the p
