Yet when Ana saw him coming down the stairs, she turned to walk up to the bedroom, passing him on the narrow staircase without a word.
Joe figured that this was going to be even more excruciating than he'd expected. "Hi," he called out to her back, as she headed toward the bedroom. Ana said nothing.
Joe turned and started after her, but then decided he wasn't quite ready for that yet. Instead he just stood there, leaning against the banister. "How was work?" he said as loudly as he could without yelling. He heard the airtight thump of the bedroom door as it was briskly pulled shut.
Joe headed toward the kitchen, knowing that she would eventually come down for that glass of wine. It wasn't so much that he was looking to force the matter. He just wanted to get it over with. Already embarrassed and exhausted, he flopped down on a chair at their dinette set, the one they had picked out together at a local resale store when they first moved in together. He sighed as he traced the yellow teapot inset on the tabletop with his fingertip. Moments later, he heard Ana's cushioned footfalls on the stairs. She walked into the kitchen, wearing jeans and slippers and a fleece track jacket zipped to the neck. She walked past him to the cupboard, got out a wineglass, then opened the cupboard door under the sink and pulled out a half-full bottle of cabernet. She poured until it was damn near to the rim of the glass. Not a good sign.
"Do you still want to go out to eat tonight?" he asked cautiously. Ana took a gulp of wine and peered blankly at him over the top of the glass. "What?" he said, as if he didn't know. The silent routine was wearing thin.
Ana took another sip, put down the glass on the kitchen counter, leaned back against the sink. "Oh Joe."
Here we go. "Oh Joe what?"
"What am I going to do with you?"
Joe had never felt more like a little boy, even when he was a little boy. "I dunno," he said. Not I don't know as an adult might have said it, but I dunno.
Ana sighed.
"I feel really stupid," he said.
"Yeah. Me too."
"Why do you feel stupid? You didn't get caught . . . doing anything." He'd almost said masturbating, but didn't quite feel like saying the word just then.
Ana moved her tongue over her upper teeth, and then stopped. "I know, but still. Somehow I've managed to make this feel like my fault."
"That's stupid."
"Don't tell me what's stupid."
Joe closed his eyes momentarily, took a breath. "I'm sorry. It's just that it's not your fault. It's all mine. I was the one doing it." He crossed his arms. "I guess we'll have to duct-tape oven mitts to my hands when you're not here."
Ana crimped her lips so she wouldn't smile, and it made him wish that he could have thought of something just a little bit funnier to say. She walked toward him and stood by the table. He wished that she would just sit down.
"Yes, I agree that part was your fault," she said. "But that's not what I was talking about. This really isn't about that. Things have just gotten awkward lately."
"How so?"
"I don't know. They've just gotten awkward."
From where he was sitting, he could see the window over the sink. Outside there was snow, lots of it. They had gotten another inch or two that day, and everything looked white and clean and simple outside, so unlike the conversation he was currently having inside. "Yeah. I don't know why either. We're just doing what we've always done."
"Maybe that's it. Maybe we've been doing this for too long."
"Ana, what are you saying?" He didn't like where this was going. About once a year, Ana would get into a mood and decide that maybe they should split up. It had been happening since they got together. This was the first time in many years that it actually felt serious.
"I don't know," she said. "I just don't know."
Joe didn't know what to say either, so he just said the first thing that occurred to him: "I think maybe you're just hungry."
He wasn't sure how she'd react to this, but she lowered her head and chuckled, probably because it was such a dumb thing to say. He was actually quite good at saying the right dumb thing. It was one of his talents. He thought of Andy Warhol calling something exactly wrong.
"Oh, do you think that's it?" she said, trying not to smile.
He nodded matter-of-factly. "Yes, I think you're just hungry."
"Right," she said, rolling her eyes. "That's it, Joe. I'm just hungry." Shaking her head at the absurdity of his statement, she glanced over at the old restaurant menus they had framed on their kitchen wall, with their happy chefs, dancing chickens, and mile-high pies. Joe couldn't tell if it was for effect or coincidence. "Oh shit. I am hungry—I totally worked through lunch. Maybe we should just get something to eat."
"I told you." He was smiling now, glad that he had broken the spell and gotten through to her. "Don't forget, you still owe me a guilt dinner," he said, immediately regretting it.
She peered over her glasses at him.
Joe cleared his throat theatrically. "Even though, uh, I'm currently the guilty one."
* * *
They went to Loui's in Hazel Park for square pizza and antipasto salad. It was where they went when they were both feeling depressed. It was absolutely delicious high-fat food that never failed to cheer them up. The decor of the place didn't hurt either. Pink walls splashed with glitter, and clusters of old Chianti bottles hanging everywhere. Somewhere among the hundreds of bottles hanging from the walls of Loui's was one from their third date, magic-markered with both of their names.
"I feel so much better," said Ana, after two plates of meat-and-cheese-heavy antipasto salad and a piece of pizza.
"Me too. Are you going to have another slice?"
"I'm waiting for this one to settle. Let's see if it turns into a cheese bomb in my stomach."
"Trust me, it will." He started to cut a slice in half, and then decided to just take the whole thing. "When are you leaving for LA?"
"Sunday afternoon. Monday we'll scout locations. Tuesday we'll go for a pre-preproduction meeting. On Wednesday the client will be in and we'll do our final prepro with wardrobe. Thursday and Friday are the shoot. I'll probably fly back Saturday, unless I decide to surprise you again and come home Friday night."
"I'll keep that in mind." He liked that they were joking about this a little. It made him feel like they were getting past it somehow.
"Joe?"
"What?" he said, cutting into his pizza with a knife and fork.
"Why are the MILFs so different from me? What's the attraction?" She drank her last sip of wine, but continued to hold the glass with both hands.
So much for that. He set down his utensils next to the plate and exhaled through his nose, hoping he didn't sound as exasperated as he felt. "Oh god, Ana. I don't know."
"Why did you say that then?"
"Say what?"
"You know, that those women don't look anything like me."
He groaned. "I don't know why I said that. It was like you were being too understanding or something. It freaked me out."
"Just tell me, Joe."
"Ana."
"You're making me mad. Just tell me."
"I don't know! Because they don't. They aren't you."
Ana firmly set the wineglass onto the table where it made a loud noise. She raised her voice. "What is it? Is it because they're cum hungry?"
"Everything good here?" said the waitress, an extremely large woman, like all of the Loui's waitresses, who just at that moment had decided to stop by to make sure they were well taken care of. Joe watched her face contract and redden when she realized what she had walked into. Before she could scurry off, Joe ordered another boomba of Labatt.
"Well, is it?" said Ana, still loudly and apparently oblivious to what had just happened with the waitress.
"Please lower your voice." He held up his right hand, folded at the knuckles, then lowered it, as if notching down her personal potentiometer.
"I don't want to."
"If you do, I'll tell you, all
right?"
A pause. "Okay, tell me," she finally said, her voice gentler now.
"They're just different, all right? That's all. They're not you. They're all fixed up, all overbeautified and surgically augmented and tarted up."
"What? Am I so disgusting?"
He sighed. "No, of course not. You're not disgusting at all. I think you're beautiful. I love the way you look."
"Okay then. So it is because I'm not cum hungry?"
"Good god, would you shut up about the cum hunger?"
"Now you're the one yelling."
"No I'm not!"
"Come on, is that it? You want more blow jobs? Why don't you just say it?"
He couldn't believe he was having this conversation. "Excuse me? More blow jobs? There'd have to be any at all before there could be more."
"Go fuck yourself, Joe."
"I tried to, but you interrupted."
"You're an asshole."
"Fuck you."
His beer arrived. The waitress left the check and just about ran away from the table.
Ana shook her head. "I'll be glad to get away from you for a week."
"You and me both."
Joe drank the beer off in one long draft, then leaned back into the red Naugahyde banquette, ready to get the hell out of there. He stared at the check, then at Ana, but she was lost in her rage. They sat there for two long minutes. "Do you want to go?" he said finally.
"Yes, I do."
"Are you going to get that?" he said, nodding toward the check in its worn black vinyl folder.
Finally, she understood why they were still sitting there. Ana shook her head, sighed loudly, leaned forward, and picked up the check.
"I'll get the tip," Joe said, after she put down two twenties.
"Think you can manage it, Rockefeller?"
They didn't speak again before Ana left for Los Angeles.
2
8
The Little Visitor
Was she the only Midwesterner who felt this way in Los Angeles? Was it just her, or was the climate exactly the same every day, every time she visited? It was bizarre to Ana, this unvarying spook-weather, hour after eerily comfortable hour of vapid sunshine bleeding into one generically beautiful day after another. Of course, it was a relief to her light-deprived, iced-over Michigan constitution, and she certainly didn't miss the snow and freezing temperatures that were currently surging through her home state, but this was just plain strange. But then, Michiganians were always thinking that the gods were conspiring against them when it came to weather—why would she be any different?
All of which was not to say that it wasn't quite fabulous to shed her parka and scarves and boots and walk around in jeans and flip-flops and a Detroit Technology T-shirt. (She would definitely not be wearing an eighties hair-metal concert tee, despite the fact that they were currently considered fashionable in LA. Oh, what a surprise to realize that the embarrassing musical choices of her youth had quietly turned ironic.) When in LA, she felt the need to represent her hometown. As paranormally pleasant as it might be here, she would never want to be mistaken for an Angeleno. Of course, with her Middle West nasal twang, decidedly unfake boobs, ghostly pallor, and the stray extra pounds distributed here or there (mostly there), that would probably never happen.
All that aside, she was pleased to be there, except for the situation with Joe. She was sorry for how things had gotten entirely out of hand with their argument. She was holding up fine, considering she had never gone this long without speaking to him. Ana knew that the fight was not entirely about the wanking incident. With a little distance between them, she could see that there was more going on than that. Certainly, she was tired of supporting Joe, but even more tired of him being snotty about it. If she had wanted a sullen teenage son, she would have had one the old-fashioned way. She didn't need to both pay the bills and be resented for it. Still, Ana missed him and hated that they were fighting.
Adrienne could tell something was up, even though Ana had judiciously avoided the subject so far, even on Sunday after a few too many gimlets at the Standard bar after they got in. The subject had been easy to avoid in the crew van scouting locations yesterday (car sickness keeping her woozy and nauseous as they bounced across the Valley), all the way up to today, until they were having breakfast at Hugo's before heading to the production company office in Santa Monica, where they would meet up with their producer, Joan, who was staying down there.
"You've been pretty quiet, lady. What's going on?" said Adrienne, dangling her fork in Ana's general direction.
"I have?"
"Yes. Very quiet. You haven't exactly been a boatload of fun. Frankly, you're snuffing my glow. You're harshing my mellow."
Ana playfully tinked away Adrienne's fork with her own. "Really? Am I chumping your flava?"
"Yes. You are fading my gingham. Knock it off."
Ana dropped her fork, then reached over to pat Adrienne's left hand. "I'm sorry, Ade. I thought I was being pretty good."
Adrienne put down her fork as well. "Oh, I'm mostly kidding. You're being okay. You just seem a little off or something. What's up?"
"I'm still fighting with Joe."
"Dude. Really? Is he still being a whack-job? Emphasis on the whack."
"I guess so. But it's not just him. Or that . . . I don't know what it is."
Adrienne picked her fork back up, then put it down and reached for her glass of grapefruit juice. "How long have you guys been shacked up? Tell me again."
It was starting to get embarrassing to Ana to admit how long it had been. She thought about how she and Joe had run into an old neighbor recently, at an estate sale. They hadn't seen Mark in at least ten years. When he saw the two of them, he said, "You guys are still together? Wow. How long has it been?" He said it in such a condescending way, as if they were somehow emotionally retarded simply because they were still together. She couldn't quite understand why it had bothered her because the guy had always been a jerk, but it did. Rationally, Ana knew there was nothing wrong with being with someone for a long time, but it now just made her feel old to say it.
"Fifteen years."
Adrienne drained the glass, plucked a pip off her tongue, and looked at Ana incredulously. "Well, fuck me."
"I thought you knew how long it had been."
Adrienne put down the glass, picked up her napkin, and held it to her mouth as if to mask her astonishment. Then Ana realized that she was just burping. Adrienne threw the napkin on the table. "I knew it was a long time, but I didn't realize that it had been that long."
"Well, it has."
"Dang."
Ana's nostrils flared slightly as she glared at her friend. "Okay, you can stop being so surprised now."
"I'm sorry, it's just that I forget how domesticated you are."
"God, Adrienne, I see you every day of my life practically. We're together at least nine hours a day. I probably see more of you than I do of Joe. You could try to remember a little bit more about me."
"I know. I'm sorry, I probably just repressed it. Take it as a compliment. You just don't seem that old and boring and married."
"I'm not married."
"Not officially, but you are."
"Yeah, I know." Ana looked tentatively at Adrienne. "So I don't seem old and boring?"
"No, you're fun. Not today, but usually. You're not like some of those people we work with. The ones who have been married for ages and are so ridiculously boring—"
"Like Dawn? She says she can't even stay up past nine. She falls asleep trying to watch a movie."
"The weird thing is that she's proud of it. She practically brags about it. You are certainly not like that."
Ana smiled at her partner. "All right. You've redeemed yourself."
"Have you talked to Joe since we got here?"
Ana examined what was left of her fruit plate and shook her head. "I haven't talked to him in like three and a half days."
Adrienne grimaced. "Yikes."
"Yeah, I know. We got into a big fight the night of the, you know, the thing, and we haven't spoken since. All weekend. He didn't even tell me to be careful when I left. He always says that whenever I go anywhere. I hardly even saw him. He was working at the Limbus every night." Unexpectedly, Ana felt herself near tears. This had been happening a lot lately, just not in front of other people. She was having a hard time breathing.
"You should call him. It's obviously bothering you. Fuck it, just give him a call. You'll feel better."
Ana's eyes were welling up by this time. "I know," she managed to say. "You're right."
"Why don't you go do it right now?"
"You think?"
"Yes. Just go outside and give him a call." Adrienne pulled a packet of tissues from her purse and handed it over. "Here, loser."
Ana plucked a tissue from the packet and tried to blot her eyes without making too much of a mess of her mascara. "Okay. Thanks, Ade."
"Now go. I'll take care of the check."
Ana blew her nose. "Be sure to put both our names on the receipt."
"Yes, Mom. Go."
Outside, there was another swell of tears. Ana hadn't had a sobbing fit like this in a while. She tucked her cell in her pocket while she pulled a couple more tissues from the packet. That was when she saw people heading toward the front door—some insanely young, ridiculously attractive, miniskirted LA girls, so she scurried into the parking lot behind the restaurant. After a set of yoga breaths next to someone's giant black BMW, she felt more composed. She pulled out her phone and called. It rang twice, and then Joe picked up.
"Ana?" His voice cracked as if it were the first time he had spoken today.
"Hi."
"Are you all right?" Of course he would think there was something wrong. The worried tone of his voice intensified what she was already feeling.
The Narcissism of Small Differences Page 5