Eyes, brown as well. Possibly hazel.
Or possibly blue. Or possibly green.
You’re pretty, and I mean this as a compliment. Pretty is what lies between beautiful and plain, and in my experience pretty is the best place to be.
I think I’d rather be beautiful.
Beautiful makes evolving into any sort of a person with morals and character very difficult.
I think I’d rather be plain.
Plain-what can I say about that? So much of life is a lottery.
So you think of me when we’re not chatting online?
Yes.
In your regular life? Your civilian life?
Frequently I’ll find myself in the middle of doing something mundane, emptying the dishwasher or listening to the radio, and something you said will pop into my head and I’ll get this amused look on my face and my wife will ask me what’s so funny.
What do you tell her?
That I met this woman online.
You do not.
No, but soon I may have to.
65
Kelly Cho
Loves being in charge.
5 minutes ago
Caroline Kilborn
Is full.
32 minutes ago
Phil Archer
Cleaning house.
52 minutes ago
William Buckle
Gimme Shelter
3 hours ago
“Could you please stop checking Facebook, Alice? For one bloody minute?” asks Nedra.
I set my phone on vibrate and slip it into my purse.
“So, as I was just saying but will repeat for your benefit-I have some big news. I’m going to ask Kate to marry me.”
Nedra and I are browsing in a jewelry store on College Ave.
“And what’s your opinion on moonstones?” she adds.
“Oh, dear,” I say.
“Did you hear what I just said?”
“I heard.”
“And all you have to say is ‘Oh, dear’? May I see that one, please,” says Nedra, pointing to an oval moonstone set in eighteen-karat gold.
The saleswoman hands it to her and she slips it on her finger.
“Let me see,” I say, grabbing her arm. “I don’t get it. Is there something about moonstones and lesbians? Some Sapphic thing that I’m missing?”
“For God’s sake,” says Nedra. “Why am I asking you? You have no taste in jewelry. In fact, you never wear jewelry and you really should, darling. It would perk you up a bit.” She studies my face worriedly. “Still having insomnia?”
“I’m going for the French no-makeup look.”
“I’m sorry to tell you, but the French no-makeup look only works in France. The light is different there. Kinder. American light is so crude.”
“Why do you want to get married now? You’ve been together thirteen years. You never wanted to get married before. What’s changed?”
Nedra shrugs. “I’m not sure. We just woke up one morning and solidifying our relationship felt right. It’s the strangest thing. I don’t know if it’s my age or something-the big five-oh looming. But suddenly I want tradition.”
“The big five-oh is not looming. You won’t be fifty for another nine years. Besides, things are great with you and Kate. If you get married you’ll be all screwed up like the rest of us.”
“Does this mean you don’t want to be my maid of honor?”
“You’re going to do the whole thing? Bridesmaids, too?” I say.
“You and William are screwed up? Since when?”
“We’re not screwed up. We’re just-distant. It’s been incredibly stressful. Him losing his job.”
“Mmm. Can I try that one?” Nedra asks the saleswoman, gesturing to a marquise-cut diamond ring.
She puts it on her finger, extends her arm, and admires her hand.
“It’s a bit Cinderella-ey, but I like it. The question is, will Kate? Alice, you’re in a rather bad mood today. Let’s forget we ever had this conversation. Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to call you tomorrow. You’re going to say, ‘Hello, Nedra, what’s new?’ I’m going to say, ‘I have news; I’ve asked Kate to marry me!’ You’re going to say, ‘Goodness-about time! When can we go out shopping for dresses? And can I accompany you to the cake tasting?’ ” Nedra hands the ring back to the saleswoman. “Too flashy. I need something more subtle. I’m a divorce lawyer.”
“Yes, and it would look unseemly for her wife to be sporting a two-carat diamond engagement ring. Bought on the proceeds of other people’s failed marriages,” I say.
Nedra gives me a dirty look.
“Sorry,” I say.
“Look, Alice, it’s as simple as this. I’ve found the person I want to spend the rest of my life with. And she’s passed the spectacular test.”
“The spectacular test?”
“When I first met Kate she was spectacular. And a decade later she is still the most spectacular woman I’ve ever known. Besides you, of course. Don’t you feel that way about William?”
I want to feel that way about William.
“Well, why shouldn’t I have what you have?” Nedra asks.
“You should. Of course you should. It’s just that everything in your life is changing so fast. I can’t keep up. And now you’re getting married.”
“Alice.” Nedra puts her arm around me. “This isn’t going to change anything between us. We’ll always be best friends. I hate married people who say ridiculous things like ‘I married my best friend.’ Is there any clearer path to a sexless marriage? That won’t be me. I am marrying my lover.”
“I’m so happy for you,” I squeak. “And your lu-va. It’s just super-terrific news.”
Nedra frowns. “Things will get better with William. You’re just going through a rough patch. Ride it out, darling. Good things are ahead. I promise you. Let me ask you something. Why don’t you want to be my maid of honor? Is it the word maid you object to?”
No. I have absolutely no problem with maid. It’s the word honor. Honor is something I said goodbye to in my last two chats with Researcher 101.
“May I see the emerald ring?” asks Nedra.
“Lovely choice. Emeralds are a symbol of hope and faith,” says the saleswoman, handing her the ring.
“Ah-” says Nedra. “It’s bloody gorgeous. Here, Alice, try it on.”
She slides the ring onto my finger.
“That looks stunning on you,” says the saleswoman.
“What do you think?” Nedra asks.
I think the gleaming green stone looks like it was flown by hot-air balloon directly from Oz to Oakland, and it’s the perfect symbol of Nedra’s sparkling life.
“Spectacular Kate will love it,” I sniff.
“But do you love it?” asks Nedra.
“Why does it matter if I love it?”
Nedra pulls the ring off my finger and hands it back to the saleswoman with a sigh.
Watching my best friend read my private emails and Facebook chats is not typically an activity I indulge in. But for the last half hour, that’s precisely what I’ve been doing. I’ve finally confided in Nedra about Researcher 101 and judging by the look of contempt on her face, I’m starting to think this was a very bad idea.
Nedra flings my cellphone across the kitchen table.
“I can’t believe you.”
“What?”
“What the hell are you doing, Alice?”
“I can’t help it. You read them. Our chats are like a drug. I’m addicted.”
“He is witty, I’ll give him that, but you’re married! Married as in ‘I will love you and only you until the end of my days.’ ”
“I know. I’m a terrible wife. That’s why I told you. You have to tell me what to do.”
“Well, that’s easy. You have to sever all ties with him. Nothing’s happened yet. You haven’t crossed any line except in your mind. Just stop chatting with him.”
“I can’t just stop,” I say, horrified. “He’ll worry.
He’ll think something’s happened to me.”
“Something has happened to you. You’ve come to your senses, Alice. Right now. Today.”
“I don’t think I can do that. Just quit the study without saying anything.”
“You must,” says Nedra. “Now, I’m not a prude, you know that. I think a little bit of flirting is good for a marriage, as long as you redirect that sexual energy back into your relationship, but you’ve gone way beyond the flirting stage.”
She picks up my phone and scrolls through my chats. “ ‘A war in which one side of him thinks he may be crossing a line, and the other side of him thinks it’s a line that was begging to be crossed.’ Alice, this isn’t innocent anymore.”
Hearing her read Researcher 101’s words out loud makes me shudder-
in a good way. And although I know Nedra is absolutely right, I also know I’m not capable of letting him go. At least not yet. Not without a proper goodbye. Or finding out his intentions-if he has intentions, that is.
“You’re right,” I lie. “You’re absolutely right.”
“Good,” says Nedra, softening. “So you’ll stop chatting with him? You’ll quit the study?”
“Yes,” I say, my eyes filling with tears.
“Oh, Alice, come on, it can’t be that bad.”
“It’s just that I was lonely. I didn’t realize how lonely I was until we started emailing. He listens to me. He asks me things. Important things, and what I say matters,” I say, suddenly sobbing.
Nedra reaches across the table and takes my hand. “Darling, here are the facts. Yes, William is an idiot sometimes. Yes, he’s flawed. Yes, the two of you may be going through a dry spell. But this-” she picks up my phone and shakes it. “This isn’t real. You know that, don’t you?”
I nod.
“So do you want me to refer you to a great couples counselor? She’s wonderful. She’s actually helped some of my clients get back together.”
“You send your clients to a couples counselor?”
“When I think there’s something worth saving, yes.”
Later that afternoon, when I’m sitting in the school bleachers pretending I’m watching Zoe play volleyball (every five minutes I shout out “Go Trojans,” and she glances up in the bleachers and gives me a withering look), I think about William and me. Some of the blame for my emotional straying has to fall on him; his being so uncommunicative. I want to be with somebody who listens to me. Who says, Start from the beginning, tell me everything, and don’t leave out a thing.
“Hi, Alice.” Jude plops down beside me. “Zo’s playing well.”
I watch him watching Zoe and can’t help but feel a little jealous. It’s been so long since I’ve been gazed at like that. I remember the feeling as a teenager. The absolute surety that the boy was not in control of his gaze-that I was, simply by existing. No words needed to be spoken. A gaze like that needed no translation. Its meaning was obvious. I can’t stop looking at you, I wish I could but I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.
“You’ve got to stop stalking her, Jude.”
“Tic Tac?” He shakes three mints into the palm of my hand. “I can’t help it,” he says.
Didn’t I just say the same thing to his mother not more than an hour ago?
“Jude, sweetheart, I’ve known you since you were a toddler, so trust me that this is said with love. Move the hell on.”
“I wish I could,” he says.
Zoe looks up into the bleachers and her mouth drops open when she sees the two of us together.
I leap to my feet. “Go Trojans! Go Zoe! Nice spike!” I shout.
“She’s a setter, not a spiker,” says Jude.
“Nice set, Zoe!” I shout, sitting down.
Jude snorts.
“She’s going to kill me,” I say.
“Yep,” says Jude, as Zoe’s cheeks flush pink with embarrassment.
“I have news,” I say to William that evening.
“Hold on, I’m just finishing the onions. Did you prep the carrots, Caroline?” asks William.
“I forgot,” says Caroline, hustling to the refrigerator. “Do you want them julienned or diced?”
“Diced. Alice, please get out of the way. You’re blocking the sink.”
“I have news,” I repeat. “About Nedra and Kate.”
“There’s nothing like the smell of caramelized onions,” says William, sticking the pan under Caroline’s nose.
“Mmmm,” she says.
I think about the way Jude looked at Zoe. With such longing. With such desire. The same exact way my husband is looking at a pile of limp onions.
“How much tarragon?” asks William.
“Two teaspoons, a tablespoon? I forgot,” says Caroline. “Although it might not be tarragon. It might be marjoram. Look on Epicurious.”
I sigh and grab my laptop. William glances at me. “Don’t go. I want to hear your news. I just have to check the recipe.”
I give him an exaggerated thumbs-up and walk into the living room.
I log on to Lucy’s Facebook page. Researcher 101 is online. I look up at William. He’s busy, frowning at his iPhone.
“Is it tarragon or marjoram?” asks Caroline.
“Hold on,” says William. “I can’t find the recipe on Epicurious. Was it Food.com?”
I click on Chat and quickly type:
What’s happening?
It takes Researcher 101 just a few seconds to respond:
Besides our brains being flooded with phenylethylamine?
I shudder. Researcher 101’s voice sounds remarkably similar to George Clooney’s-at least in my head. I write:
Should we put a stop to this?
No.
Should I ask that my case be transferred to another researcher?
Absolutely not.
Have you ever flirted like this with another of your subjects?
I have never flirted with another woman besides my wife.
Jesus! I feel a sudden pulsing heat in my groin and I cross my legs as if to hide it, as if somebody could see.
“Did you find it?” asks Caroline.
“Food.com. Two teaspoons of tarragon,” replies William, waving his phone at her. “You were right.”
I sit there on the couch, trying to persuade my heart rate to go back to its resting state. I breathe though my mouth. Is this what it feels like to have a panic attack? William looks at me from across the room.
“So what’s your news, Alice?” he asks.
“Nedra and Kate are getting married.”
“Are they?”
“You don’t sound surprised.”
He pauses and smiles. “I’m only surprised it took them this long.”
66
70. That sometimes, when I’m alone and in a place where nobody knows me, I speak with a pretend British accent.
71. Worry. Ask Peter when’s the last time he flossed. Fight off the urge to push the hair out of Zoe’s eyes so I can see her pretty face.
72. How stunning it would be to see his features in my children’s faces.
67
John Yossarian changed his profile picture
It’s my 20th anniversary tomorrow.
And how are you feeling about that, Wife 22?
Ambivalent.
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen.
“This” meaning me?
I remember when I first went to college. It was in a city. I won’t say where. But I remember after I had said goodbye to my parents, I walked down the streets feeling exhilarated that nobody knew me. For the first time in my life I was completely disconnected from everybody I loved.
I remember that feeling, too. I found the disconnection terrifying.
You realize future generations will never experience this. We are reachable every minute of the day.
And your point is?
Your reachability is highly addictive, Wife 22.
Is that your hand in your new profile photo?
Yes.
Why did you post a photo of your hand?
Because I wanted you to imagine it on the back of your neck.
68
“We have to get potstickers,” says Peter.
“We always get potstickers. Let’s get lettuce wraps,” says Zoe. “The vegetarian ones.”
“Are you guys sure you’re okay with us crashing your anniversary dinner?” asks Caroline. “It’s not very romantic.”
“Alice and I have had twenty years to be romantic,” William says. “Besides, it’s nice to go out and celebrate. Did you know the traditional wedding gift for the twentieth anniversary is china? That’s why I made the reservation at P.F. Chang’s.” He taps his finger on the menu. “Cheng-du Spiced Lamb. China.”
China, yes. This morning I gave William a commemorative photo plate that I ordered back in December. The photo was taken of us twenty years ago standing in front of Fenway Park. He’s behind me, his arms draped around my neck. We look breathtakingly young. I’m not sure he liked the gift. The plate came with a display easel, but he just stuffed it back into the box.
William looks around the dining room stiffly. “Where’s the waiter? I need a drink.”
“So, twenty years,” says Zoe. “What’s it like?”
“Oh, Zoe, what kind of a question is that?” I say.
“The kind you’re supposed to ask on an anniversary. A serious kind. A taking-stock kind,” she says.
What were we thinking asking them to come to our anniversary dinner? If it was just William and me we’d talk about safe subjects like the bond market, or the sticky garage door. Instead we’re going to be interrogated as to how we feel about our marriage.
“What’s it like how?” asks William. “You must be more specific, Zoe. I hate the way your generation asks such vague questions. You expect everybody else to do all the work, including clarifying what you meant to ask in the first place.”
“Shit, Dad,” says Peter. “She was just asking to be nice.”
“Peter Buckle-this is our anniversary dinner. I would appreciate it if you didn’t say shit,” I say.
“Well, what am I allowed to say?”
“ ‘Dang.’ ‘Rats.’ Or how about ‘bananas’?” I suggest.
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