on their honeymoon, I couldn’t call either of them about this.
I felt gross-repulsive-obvious. Even though I’d never taken my mom’s advice-I’d never said anything to Peter- everyone knew. Everyone knew I was such a pathetic loser that I went dateless to watch the love of my life marry my best friend.
I threw the cell phone down on the passenger seat. I bit my nails until my fingers bled, spitting chips of Raisin Sunset polish into the console. I drove with my knee while I put my hair in a ponytail and then used one hand to rip the elastic out of my hair two minutes later.
I ate the gumdrops I picked up in the rest stop gift shop. They stuck in my teeth, and just as I’d free the remains of one, I’d pop another one in my mouth like I couldn’t control it. I grabbed a green one after I swore I was done, so I rolled down the window, chucked it out, and watched it bounce down the road in my rearview mirror like a frog jumping. I grabbed two more and threw them out at the same time. They bounced into each other and disappeared. I threw gumdrops out the window until I had one left. I ate it, and spent the last twenty minutes of my drive picking orange goo out of my teeth.
I wasn’t comforted by the bump at the end of the driveway, or the sound of the garage door opening. Coming home wasn’t the refuge that it usually was. I felt like Diane’s check was working to evict me already. I tapped the garbage can with my bumper, so I knew I was in far enough, and closed the garage door. I grabbed my purse but didn’t bother taking my overnight bag out of the trunk.
My condo was stale. It was cold and I could smell the carpet pad. It wasn’t a home. It was just a place to crash. I had tried to make it a home. I spent a week taping paint chips to the walls and studying them at different times of day like I’d read you were supposed to do. I went to Home Depot and bought every little roller, corner brush, and width of blue tape I could find. I got a different color of paint for every room, and a big orange book on home repair that had a chapter on painting. I read the chapter over and over until I was sure I knew the drill. I started in the living room. I taped and put down drop cloths and cut in like the book said. I got the wall behind the couch painted bright blue. But the blue didn’t have that midnight-in-Venice kind of quality the little chip had. It looked like Superman’s tights, so I stopped with that one wall, thinking I’d fix it eventually. I told Janie and Pete I’d picked it on purpose, and painting one wall was the newest style on the design shows that plagued the cable channels late at night.
Except for the blue wall, the whole condo was department store white and neutral. Even the things I’d bought for the condo were neutral. I was going to buy a red toaster, but Janie talked me out of it.
“That’s awful, Van. Who buys a red toaster?”
Every time I saw that eggshell-colored toaster I wanted to scream.
I kicked off my shoes, pulled a plastic pitcher out of the cabinet under the counter, and made some grape Kool-Aid. I grabbed one of the twenty-four-ounce plastic cups the pizza place gives you when you get delivery, and filled it halfway with ice. I filled it up another quarter with Kool-Aid, and topped it off with vodka. I stuck a bendy straw in it, and walked around to check on the rest of the house. No phone messages. I didn’t bother going out to check the mail. I never got anything other than utility bills and credit card offers. The bathroom smelled like mildew, because I hadn’t cleaned up my wet towels before I left. The spider plant I never watered was more brown than green now. Other than that, nothing changed. Everything was right where I left it. No surprises.
I slurped my Kool-Aid down to the ice and went back to the kitchen to make myself another drink. The toaster was sitting on the counter, mocking me. I unplugged it and threw it in the garbage. It was almost as satisfying
I felt gross-repulsive-obvious. Even though I’d never taken my mom’s advice-I’d never said anything to Peter- everyone knew. Everyone knew I was such a pathetic loser that I went dateless to watch the love of my life marry my best friend.
I threw the cell phone down on the passenger seat. I bit my nails until my fingers bled, spitting chips of Raisin Sunset polish into the console. I drove with my knee while I put my hair in a ponytail and then used one hand to rip the elastic out of my hair two minutes later.
I ate the gumdrops I picked up in the rest stop gift shop. They stuck in my teeth, and just as I’d free the remains of one, I’d pop another one in my mouth like I couldn’t control it. I grabbed a green one after I swore I was done, so I rolled down the window, chucked it out, and watched it bounce down the road in my rearview mirror like a frog jumping. I grabbed two more and threw them out at the same time. They bounced into each other and disappeared. I threw gumdrops out the window until I had one left. I ate it, and spent the last twenty minutes of my drive picking orange goo out of my teeth.
I wasn’t comforted by the bump at the end of the driveway, or the sound of the garage door opening. Coming home wasn’t the refuge that it usually was. I felt like Diane’s check was working to evict me already. I tapped the garbage can with my bumper, so I knew I was in far enough, and closed the garage door. I grabbed my purse but didn’t bother taking my overnight bag out of the trunk.
My condo was stale. It was cold and I could smell the carpet pad. It wasn’t a home. It was just a place to crash. I had tried to make it a home. I spent a week taping paint chips to the walls and studying them at different times of day like I’d read you were supposed to do. I went to Home Depot and bought every little roller, corner brush, and width of blue tape I could find. I got a different color of paint for every room, and a big orange book on home repair that had a chapter on painting. I read the chapter over and over until I was sure I knew the drill. I started in the living room. I taped and put down drop cloths and cut in like the book said. I got the wall behind the couch painted bright blue. But the blue didn’t have that midnight-in-Venice kind of quality the little chip had. It looked like Superman’s tights, so I stopped with that one wall, thinking I’d fix it eventually. I told Janie and Pete I’d picked it on purpose, and painting one wall was the newest style on the design shows that plagued the cable channels late at night.
Except for the blue wall, the whole condo was department store white and neutral. Even the things I’d bought for the condo were neutral. I was going to buy a red toaster, but Janie talked me out of it.
“That’s awful, Van. Who buys a red toaster?”
Every time I saw that eggshell-colored toaster I wanted to scream.
I kicked off my shoes, pulled a plastic pitcher out of the cabinet under the counter, and made some grape Kool-Aid. I grabbed one of the twenty-four-ounce plastic cups the pizza place gives you when you get delivery, and filled it halfway with ice. I filled it up another quarter with Kool-Aid, and topped it off with vodka. I stuck a bendy straw in it, and walked around to check on the rest of the house. No phone messages. I didn’t bother going out to check the mail. I never got anything other than utility bills and credit card offers. The bathroom smelled like mildew, because I hadn’t cleaned up my wet towels before I left. The spider plant I never watered was more brown than green now. Other than that, nothing changed. Everything was right where I left it. No surprises.
I slurped my Kool-Aid down to the ice and went back to the kitchen to make myself another drink. The toaster was sitting on the counter, mocking me. I unplugged it and threw it in the garbage. It was almost as satisfying
Similar Books
