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Authors: Tom Perrotta
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imposing in his rented tux, Missy a bit awkward in a sleeveless orange dress with a poufy skirt, a tight bodice—an unwieldy corsage had been pinned directly over her left breast—and spaghetti straps that emphasized the powerful girth of her shoulders. Her blond French twist seemed strangely luminous, almost iridescent, as she kissed Paul on the cheek, straightened his bow tie, and then ducked into the car. He was just about to follow her when he turned suddenly, as if drawn by Ruth’s gaze, and looked straight at her.
That moment of eye contact couldn’t have lasted more than a second or two, just long enough for Ruth to see that he’d gotten a haircut—nothing drastic, just a trim of a couple inches all around—and to notice his peculiar expression, as if his face had gotten stuck halfway between a fake smile for the cameras and a mute apology to her.
Or maybe she was imagining the apology part, because what did he have to apologize for? Ruth wasn’t his girlfriend, never had been. They’d just had some fun, and now it was over. She had no right to be jealous, no right to wish herself inside the limo in a pretty dress after having just been applauded by her neighbors, no right to call out and ask him to reconsider, to remember how he’d stroked her hair and told her that she was the kind of girl guys wrote love songs about.
He held his arms close to his body and shrugged, as if to say there was nothing he could do. She had the feeling he was about to say something, but the limo driver stepped in before he had the chance, placing his hand on Paul’s shoulder and guiding him gently into the car. He was still looking at her as the door slammed shut, his face baffled and unhappy, then lost behind the tinted window.
Who Do We Appreciate?
RUTH ARRIVED LATE AND MILDLY HUNGOVER FOR HER DAUGHTER’S soccer game on Saturday morning. Smiling queasily, she made her way down the sideline, nodding hello to the more punctual parents, many of whom she hadn’t seen in quite a while. A few of the spectators were sitting in collapsible chairs, but most were on their feet, chatting in sociable clumps as they sipped from state-of-the-art, stainless-steel travel mugs, giving the whole scene the air of an outdoor cocktail party.
As usual, Ruth’s ex-husband, Frank, had removed himself from the talkers, his attention focused solely on the game. He stood like the baseball player he’d once been—knees bent, hands resting on his thighs—observing the action with an expression of intense absorption that Ruth might have mistaken for disgust if she hadn’t known him so well.
“Morning,” she said, tugging gently on his sleeve. “How we doing?”
“Tied at two,” he muttered, shooting her a reproachful glance. “First half’s almost over. Maggie thought you forgot.”
“I overslept.”
“Ever hear of an alarm clock?”
“Didn’t go off,” she explained, leaving out the part about how she’d unplugged the thing in a fit of three-in-the-morning insomniac misery. Because, really, what was worse than lying wide-awake in the dark, watching your life drip away, one irreplaceable minute after another?
“Come on, blue!” Frank bellowed through the loudspeaker of his cupped hands. “Move the ball! You’re dragging out there!”
Ruth squinted at the field, cursing herself for forgetting her sunglasses. She’d actually had them on the first time she left the house, but she’d decided to dart back inside for one final pit stop, knowing all too well that once she got to the game, her only alternative would be an off-kilter Port-A-Potty at the edge of the woods. She must have removed her shades to use the toilet—not that she couldn’t pee perfectly well in the dark—because they were no longer on her face when she pulled into the gravel parking area at Shackamackan Park.
“Candace!” Frank had both hands above his head and was waving them like one of those guys with the sticks on the airport tarmac. “You’re
That moment of eye contact couldn’t have lasted more than a second or two, just long enough for Ruth to see that he’d gotten a haircut—nothing drastic, just a trim of a couple inches all around—and to notice his peculiar expression, as if his face had gotten stuck halfway between a fake smile for the cameras and a mute apology to her.
Or maybe she was imagining the apology part, because what did he have to apologize for? Ruth wasn’t his girlfriend, never had been. They’d just had some fun, and now it was over. She had no right to be jealous, no right to wish herself inside the limo in a pretty dress after having just been applauded by her neighbors, no right to call out and ask him to reconsider, to remember how he’d stroked her hair and told her that she was the kind of girl guys wrote love songs about.
He held his arms close to his body and shrugged, as if to say there was nothing he could do. She had the feeling he was about to say something, but the limo driver stepped in before he had the chance, placing his hand on Paul’s shoulder and guiding him gently into the car. He was still looking at her as the door slammed shut, his face baffled and unhappy, then lost behind the tinted window.
Who Do We Appreciate?
RUTH ARRIVED LATE AND MILDLY HUNGOVER FOR HER DAUGHTER’S soccer game on Saturday morning. Smiling queasily, she made her way down the sideline, nodding hello to the more punctual parents, many of whom she hadn’t seen in quite a while. A few of the spectators were sitting in collapsible chairs, but most were on their feet, chatting in sociable clumps as they sipped from state-of-the-art, stainless-steel travel mugs, giving the whole scene the air of an outdoor cocktail party.
As usual, Ruth’s ex-husband, Frank, had removed himself from the talkers, his attention focused solely on the game. He stood like the baseball player he’d once been—knees bent, hands resting on his thighs—observing the action with an expression of intense absorption that Ruth might have mistaken for disgust if she hadn’t known him so well.
“Morning,” she said, tugging gently on his sleeve. “How we doing?”
“Tied at two,” he muttered, shooting her a reproachful glance. “First half’s almost over. Maggie thought you forgot.”
“I overslept.”
“Ever hear of an alarm clock?”
“Didn’t go off,” she explained, leaving out the part about how she’d unplugged the thing in a fit of three-in-the-morning insomniac misery. Because, really, what was worse than lying wide-awake in the dark, watching your life drip away, one irreplaceable minute after another?
“Come on, blue!” Frank bellowed through the loudspeaker of his cupped hands. “Move the ball! You’re dragging out there!”
Ruth squinted at the field, cursing herself for forgetting her sunglasses. She’d actually had them on the first time she left the house, but she’d decided to dart back inside for one final pit stop, knowing all too well that once she got to the game, her only alternative would be an off-kilter Port-A-Potty at the edge of the woods. She must have removed her shades to use the toilet—not that she couldn’t pee perfectly well in the dark—because they were no longer on her face when she pulled into the gravel parking area at Shackamackan Park.
“Candace!” Frank had both hands above his head and was waving them like one of those guys with the sticks on the airport tarmac. “You’re
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