Read Online The Theory of Opposites by Allison Winn Scotch - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Allison Winn Scotch
Tags: Contemporary
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borderline inhuman — until I have nothing left to do but get moving and stomach the day.
“You lost your job?” Shawn says when he sees me. I was deep into REM when he and Nicky got home from the Yankees game. He must have slept on the couch again. He’s still wearing a Jeter jersey.
I glower at Vanessa. “You told him?”
“I didn’t tell him anything. I’m just eating eggs. Minding my business.” She flourishes her fork in the air and takes an overzealous bite as if to make a point.
“Nicky told me. Were you planning to?”
“I was, of course.”
I pull out a stool, and out of habit, like an assembly line technician, he sets a plate in front of me. He has made eggs every Sunday morning since we moved in together. When we first married, he would place bacon in the shape of a smile at the base of the plate and two little strawberries up top — a face to greet me to start my day. Now — I eye the eggs with distrust — now, they’re just a plop of eggs . I should be grateful that he’s still honoring our Sunday ritual, that he hasn’t insisted on, like, brunch at some hip place in Williamsburg or bought a crepe maker from Sur La Table or something, but the gratefulness is seeping out of me now, slowly, like my appreciation has been dumped into a sieve. I move some of the eggs around with my fork, buying my time.
“I was planning to tell you,” I say finally. “I just really haven’t seen you much alone since it happened. But now you know. Hannah was all coked up and made me do Adult Diapers by myself, and I told you that the meeting was disastrous, and so they dropped us as a client, and then she got fired, and then I got fired. And you know, it’s all live free or die, Shawn! That’s what it’s about! Live free or fuckin’ die! ”
Now it’s my turn to take an overzealous bite of eggs, as if stuffing them in and bulging my eyes is the exclamation point for my story .
“What does that even mean? What are you even talking about?”
“It’s the goddamn universe, Shawn!” I bark. “Like, what the hell was I supposed to do anyway?”
Vanessa sighs audibly and Shawn scowls. “Why are you taking that tone with me? I’m not to blame here.”
I swallow and drop my forehead to the counter.
“I’m sorry,” I look up at him. “I should have told you. And I’m sorry for my tone. I’m resolving as of this moment to stop being mad at you. Anger is pointless.”
Vanessa makes a face like she bit into a sour grapefruit.
“I didn’t realize that you were angry with me,” Shawn says.
He dumps the remaining eggs in the pan onto a spare plate and sets them aside for Nicky who will likely make a gagging noise at the sight of them and just ask for, like, some Pop Rocks and Sprite for breakfast. Which we’d give him. (That kid from the ’80s’ stomach totally didn’t explode, in case you were wondering about our parenting. I googled it.)
“I’m thinking we should get going,” Vanessa says. “I have to be there by nine — they have a camera crew there, so I need make-up, which is sort of ridiculous since they better not be doing a close-up of me hanging upside down with my face all morphed and bulging.” She scrambles off her stool. “And also, I don’t know why I just ate these since I’m probably now going to throw them up before I jump. The whole theory of what goes down, must come up.”
“Wait,” Shawn says to me (not Vanessa, who is shoving the last bites in her mouth too quickly). “Seriously, why are you mad at me?”
“When did you take up golfing?” my tone is a little too forthright to be casual, a little less kind than conversational.
“I…I don’t know. I’m trying new things. Recently.”
“And that jacket over there…” I gesture to a motorcycle jacket that I am only now noticing thrown over the couch. “What is that? Do coders wear that?”
“Ooh, that’s actually really nice.” Vanessa gets up to paw it. “This isn’t ridiculous. This is the
“You lost your job?” Shawn says when he sees me. I was deep into REM when he and Nicky got home from the Yankees game. He must have slept on the couch again. He’s still wearing a Jeter jersey.
I glower at Vanessa. “You told him?”
“I didn’t tell him anything. I’m just eating eggs. Minding my business.” She flourishes her fork in the air and takes an overzealous bite as if to make a point.
“Nicky told me. Were you planning to?”
“I was, of course.”
I pull out a stool, and out of habit, like an assembly line technician, he sets a plate in front of me. He has made eggs every Sunday morning since we moved in together. When we first married, he would place bacon in the shape of a smile at the base of the plate and two little strawberries up top — a face to greet me to start my day. Now — I eye the eggs with distrust — now, they’re just a plop of eggs . I should be grateful that he’s still honoring our Sunday ritual, that he hasn’t insisted on, like, brunch at some hip place in Williamsburg or bought a crepe maker from Sur La Table or something, but the gratefulness is seeping out of me now, slowly, like my appreciation has been dumped into a sieve. I move some of the eggs around with my fork, buying my time.
“I was planning to tell you,” I say finally. “I just really haven’t seen you much alone since it happened. But now you know. Hannah was all coked up and made me do Adult Diapers by myself, and I told you that the meeting was disastrous, and so they dropped us as a client, and then she got fired, and then I got fired. And you know, it’s all live free or die, Shawn! That’s what it’s about! Live free or fuckin’ die! ”
Now it’s my turn to take an overzealous bite of eggs, as if stuffing them in and bulging my eyes is the exclamation point for my story .
“What does that even mean? What are you even talking about?”
“It’s the goddamn universe, Shawn!” I bark. “Like, what the hell was I supposed to do anyway?”
Vanessa sighs audibly and Shawn scowls. “Why are you taking that tone with me? I’m not to blame here.”
I swallow and drop my forehead to the counter.
“I’m sorry,” I look up at him. “I should have told you. And I’m sorry for my tone. I’m resolving as of this moment to stop being mad at you. Anger is pointless.”
Vanessa makes a face like she bit into a sour grapefruit.
“I didn’t realize that you were angry with me,” Shawn says.
He dumps the remaining eggs in the pan onto a spare plate and sets them aside for Nicky who will likely make a gagging noise at the sight of them and just ask for, like, some Pop Rocks and Sprite for breakfast. Which we’d give him. (That kid from the ’80s’ stomach totally didn’t explode, in case you were wondering about our parenting. I googled it.)
“I’m thinking we should get going,” Vanessa says. “I have to be there by nine — they have a camera crew there, so I need make-up, which is sort of ridiculous since they better not be doing a close-up of me hanging upside down with my face all morphed and bulging.” She scrambles off her stool. “And also, I don’t know why I just ate these since I’m probably now going to throw them up before I jump. The whole theory of what goes down, must come up.”
“Wait,” Shawn says to me (not Vanessa, who is shoving the last bites in her mouth too quickly). “Seriously, why are you mad at me?”
“When did you take up golfing?” my tone is a little too forthright to be casual, a little less kind than conversational.
“I…I don’t know. I’m trying new things. Recently.”
“And that jacket over there…” I gesture to a motorcycle jacket that I am only now noticing thrown over the couch. “What is that? Do coders wear that?”
“Ooh, that’s actually really nice.” Vanessa gets up to paw it. “This isn’t ridiculous. This is the
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