Speaker 1: I clear our dining table with the same casual intent
Speaker 1: as every other Thursday. There's a certain meditative rhythm to it.
Speaker 1: By now a shallow bowl in the center for olives,
Speaker 1: candles moved an inch so the wicks don't drown in
Speaker 1: last week's wax wineglasses clustered toward the side of the
Speaker 1: place settings. Because Ben always talks with his hands, I
Speaker 1: click on our old playlist, something motown and bright, nothing
Speaker 1: too intrusive for conversation, and try to shake off a
Speaker 1: work day that left me feeling more faded than usual
Speaker 1: in our place. Thursday nights promise a rotating cast of
Speaker 1: the sort of friends we've collected steadily since Tara and
Speaker 1: I moved here. Four, sometimes six, occasionally just a game
Speaker 1: night pair with opinions about everything from experimental theater to
Speaker 1: the best noodles west of the river. Tara, technically running late,
Speaker 1: has always been the one who looks more forward to these,
Speaker 1: At least on the face of it, her energy is contagious.
Speaker 1: When the door bell rings, she can diffuse any tension,
Speaker 1: pull shy newcomers into stupid charades, transform a work stress
Speaker 1: into a joke every one can share to night at
Speaker 1: a quarter past seven, my phone buzzes. I expect a
Speaker 1: message from Ben. He and Jewels have switched to biking
Speaker 1: nights and are always threatening to be late. But it's Tara,
Speaker 1: gig ran over, can't make dinner. Tell every one high
Speaker 1: for me. An animated gift of a dog dramatically apologizing
Speaker 1: follows the sort of thing she sends when she really
Speaker 1: is sorry. I text back, We'll hoard your share of
Speaker 1: the spannercopeter as punishment, then open a decent bottle I
Speaker 1: was pretending to save. The dinner moves, along with the
Speaker 1: right amount of banter and gossipy venting about a concert
Speaker 1: gone wrong. Nobody seems to miss Tara, though Ben does
Speaker 1: ask if her latest clients are the recluse type, then
Speaker 1: make some crack about freelanced designers having secret passageways under
Speaker 1: every tea cafe. I laugh, top up Jewels's glass and
Speaker 1: try not to mind the streak of disappointment that I'd
Speaker 1: anticipated her slipping through the door late, but luminous making
Speaker 1: a joke about favoring us with her presence. It's a
Speaker 1: little after eleven when the last guest leaves. I carry
Speaker 1: the plates in two quiet trips and scrape up olive pits,
Speaker 1: debating whether I want one more drink alone or to
Speaker 1: head straight to bed. Our apartment feels dimmer, and I'm
Speaker 1: rehearsing how to say you missed a lot in a
Speaker 1: way that doesn't sound like a dig. As I hear
Speaker 1: her key at the door, she walks in, carrying her
Speaker 1: work tote, her cheeks a little flushed hair loose in
Speaker 1: a way that makes her look younger. Hey, she says,
Speaker 1: and immediately wraps her arms around me, nestling her face
Speaker 1: into my neck. She's warm, soft, Her presence feels like
Speaker 1: a solution, the thing that always settles whatever brief loneliness
Speaker 1: I allow in. She steps back, her face sheepish. I know,
Speaker 1: I know, worst wife, right. Some crisis with the tea
Speaker 1: room mural client kept tweaking the colors on the fly.
Speaker 1: I barely got paid for my patience. I grin, accepting
Speaker 1: the apology. Ben says, you're off purlining secret design jobs.
Speaker 1: Did they at least keep you in snacks? She lets
Speaker 1: her bag thump onto the floor. Not even real snacks,
Speaker 1: soggy rice crackers and over brewed tea. I think I'm
Speaker 1: getting scurvy. She starts to unwind her scarf. Then it
Speaker 1: hits me, faint but insistent, as sent not one of
Speaker 1: her usual perfumes or shampoos. Something smokier, heavier, layered with spices,
Speaker 1: like someone had spilled incense and cardamom in a linen drawer.
Speaker 1: I lean closer, lightly, joking, you sure you didn't go
Speaker 1: clubbing at some goth bar? After she laughs, pulling her
Speaker 1: sweater over her head. Not unless goth bars host freelancer critiques.
Speaker 1: Now the tea house is brand new, run by this
Speaker 1: cluster of impro vegans keeps trying different incense blends to
Speaker 1: I don't know, summon prosperity. I think they must have
Speaker 1: hot boxed us. Her smile is easy, unforced. Maybe this
Speaker 1: is a detail I've missed before, a part of a
Speaker 1: new gig. But as she ducks into the shower, I
Speaker 1: notice she lingers longer than usual and skips her post
Speaker 1: party rituals. No foraging for the good left overs, no
Speaker 1: folding on to the sofa with my foot in her lap.
Speaker 1: I tell myself, I'm reading too much into it. Work
Speaker 1: was hard, she worked late. She's trying out weird spaces
Speaker 1: for inspiration. Tara and I truthfully We've outlasted a lot
Speaker 1: of our friends relationships because we don't give oxygen to paranoia.
Speaker 1: I eat a few pieces of backla are meant for her,
Speaker 1: tack a sticky note on to the fridge left over
Speaker 1: pastor in here not too late for a midnight raid,
Speaker 1: then try to sleep off the pimprick feeling that I'm
Speaker 1: still missing a beat. By morning, Tara is back to
Speaker 1: her usual self, cheery, mug of coffee in both hands,
Speaker 1: ribbing me about my heroic dish washing before her eleven
Speaker 1: a m. Video call. She finds the sticky note, smiles,
Speaker 1: and munches past her cold out of the container, as
Speaker 1: if last night's missed dinner never happened. I want to
Speaker 1: shake off the sliver of vague suspicion. We're fine. It
Speaker 1: still surprises me sometimes how easy it is to slip
Speaker 1: into our shared rhythm. We met ten years ago at
Speaker 1: a rooftop party throne by a mutual friend, one of
Speaker 1: those sticky bluesy evenings when the city feels half way
Speaker 1: between dangerous and promising. Tara wore bright green shoes and
Speaker 1: spent the entire night pulling people into a group sels
Speaker 1: a lesson while I hovered at the bar, trying to
Speaker 1: memorize people's names. She spotted me hovering, made a joke
Speaker 1: about allergic reactions to small talk, and offered me a
Speaker 1: drink one that wasn't even hers. Our conversation went from
Speaker 1: surface banter to a winding debate about music and crowd dynamics,
Speaker 1: to hours later, a sneaking out for pizza and losing
Speaker 1: our way home. Our dynamic has always been a balance
Speaker 1: her impulsiveness and warmth meshed with my methodical steadiness. I'd
Speaker 1: watch her improviser three course meal with whatever was in
Speaker 1: the fridge. She'd roll her eyes at my color coded schedules,
Speaker 1: but still text me her plans out of habit. We
Speaker 1: love our friends, our dinners, our little urban rituals, But
Speaker 1: what matters most is always the end of the day,
Speaker 1: the walk home through city darkened blocks, the collapsing together
Speaker 1: on the sofa, the way we still laugh at each
Speaker 1: other's dumbest jokes. We have friction shure. I'm often the
Speaker 1: one who has to drag us back into the land
Speaker 1: of late bills and monthly budgets. Tara hates routine complains
Speaker 1: about clients she ghosts for wanting too much structure, and
Speaker 1: I sometimes feel a predictable dread that she finds my
Speaker 1: groundedness boring. Even our arguments, though are oddly graceful, She
Speaker 1: exaggerates I deadpan, and it ends in an affectionate truth.
Speaker 1: We promised, vowed really years ago that nothing was off
Speaker 1: limits in conversation. Minor jealousies, work failures, moments of insecurity
Speaker 1: all fair game. Our friends joke that we process for sport,
Speaker 1: But the more battered relationships we've seen around us, the
Speaker 1: more I've come to value our brand of honesty. So
Speaker 1: when Tara disappears behind her freelance schedule, weeks of unpredictable gigs,
Speaker 1: last minute cancelations, wave after wave of creative emergencies, I
Speaker 1: roll with it. She's always been restless, more alive. When
Speaker 1: juggling three projects than one, we cross wires sometimes. I'm
Speaker 1: not against a little unpredictability, but I've always taken it
Speaker 1: for granted that we're honest with each other. When it
Speaker 1: counts about a month after the first miss Thursday, I'm
Speaker 1: counting down until seven again, Tara texts at six thirty,
Speaker 1: swamped deadline, freaking out. I'll be on calls all night,
Speaker 1: don't wait up. Jewels and Ben are already carving up cheese.
Speaker 1: When I relay the message, she better not get famous.
Speaker 1: Ben says, she'll forget us little people. I play along,
Speaker 1: sharing a photo of the spread with Tara. She replies
Speaker 1: with a dozen heart emojis, plus a meme of a
Speaker 1: stressed designer at a laptop, head in hands. I notice, though,
Speaker 1: when I return from walking Jewels downstairs, that the kitchen
Speaker 1: is tidier than usual, No impulsive snack runs, none of
Speaker 1: Tara's usual handwritten reminders taped near the coffee grinder. I
Speaker 1: wonder if she's exhausted or just preoccupied. But when she
Speaker 1: returns home even later that night, her mood is strangely buoyant.
Speaker 1: She tosses her bag over the chair and wraps her
Speaker 1: arms tight around me, peppering my face with kisses, talking
Speaker 1: a mile a minute about a funny typo in her
Speaker 1: client's project briefs. She's outwardly affectionate, almost as if overcompensating.
Speaker 1: You should have seen this spreadsheet, she laughs, digging for leftovers,
Speaker 1: they'd listed incest sticks instead of incense. I nearly died
Speaker 1: trying not to snort laugh in front of every one.
Speaker 1: She keeps the conversation on me. What did Jules and
Speaker 1: Ben argue about this time? Did I finally get to
Speaker 1: play Djay? Was there enough dessert? She wants me to
Speaker 1: be the one story telling, and every time I edge
Speaker 1: a question about her night, she veers away. Oh, just
Speaker 1: the usual chaos. I won't bore you, I tease her gently.
Speaker 1: So when do I finally get to sample this co
Speaker 1: opse mystery tea? Trying to keep the mood light, Tara
Speaker 1: grins a bit too speedy. Trust me, it's not your vibe.
Speaker 1: Windowless fluorescent lights, every one on keyboards, very antisocial. I
Speaker 1: mostly exist there as a caffeine delivery system. You be
Speaker 1: bored out of your mind. I nod file it away
Speaker 1: and move the conversation back to our friends latest drama.
Speaker 1: By the time we collapse into bed, I feel the
Speaker 1: beginnings of a friction. I struggle to explain. She's warm
Speaker 1: and affect, but her focus is scattered. She asks after
Speaker 1: my work, my mood, but never expands on her own projects.
Speaker 1: It's subtle, but different from before. The Next Saturday, as
Speaker 1: I'm emptying Tara's coat pockets for change to feed the laundry,
Speaker 1: I find a tiny decorative match box. I almost don't
Speaker 1: notice it. It's square, brightly tiled, the kind you get
Speaker 1: at an old world cafe, with unfamiliar lettering in gold
Speaker 1: on the side. When I shake it, it rattles half full.
Speaker 1: I fidget with it, breathing in ascent that clings to
Speaker 1: my fingers, smoky, deep, tinged with rose and something resinous.
Speaker 1: It doesn't match any brand we keep in the house.
Speaker 1: I also find a folded receipt slightly creased, for a
Speaker 1: Turkish restaurant up town. The name is unfamiliar, the transaction
Speaker 1: time stamped just after ten p m. Last Thursday, the
Speaker 1: night she claimed to be stuck with her laptop and
Speaker 1: bad coffee. I almost confront her outright, but the thought
Speaker 1: that she might have ordered takeout for her rush design session.
Speaker 1: Maybe the co op is next to this place, maybe
Speaker 1: her client offered her dinner gives me pause. I put
Speaker 1: it back, telling myself it's probably nothing. She's always loved
Speaker 1: little tokens from places she works, business cards, flyers branded
Speaker 1: anything still that now. Familiar. Unease threads through the day.
Speaker 1: We fall into our usual weekend routines, grocery shopping, a
Speaker 1: friend's art show, a slow evening with takeout in a movie,
Speaker 1: and Tara is herself laughing, affectionate, lively. When she's here.
Speaker 1: Nothing feels wrong enough to spoil it. I tell myself,
Speaker 1: I'm being ridiculous. A match box and a receipt aren't
Speaker 1: evidence of anything. The next Thursday, she's gone again. By
Speaker 1: now it's almost customary, she leaves a hasty voicemail around dinner,
Speaker 1: apologizing jokes about wanting to steal leftovers. The next morning,
Speaker 1: the routine itself begins to feel pointed. A part of
Speaker 1: me wants to believe she's simply overbooked, that this rush
Speaker 1: of overlapping gigs is just another hazard of her career.
Speaker 1: We've always given each other room for ambition as long
Speaker 1: as we return to our shared ground. But as the
Speaker 1: missed Thursdays pile up, and as Tara's stories about where
Speaker 1: she's been grow broader, less detailed, I find myself tuning
Speaker 1: into every shift in her voice. Some weeks it's a
Speaker 1: new coffee house with terrible Wi Fi. Others an art studio,
Speaker 1: or Angela, a new client I've never heard of. She
Speaker 1: describes Angela as a picky perfectionist in scattered, abstract terms.
Speaker 1: The stories change shape every time I try to pin
Speaker 1: them down. I try once to surprise her at work,
Speaker 1: texting on a Thursday to ask if she wants a
Speaker 1: quick dinner delivery, so she is doomed to whatever sprouted
Speaker 1: bread they feed you. She replies instantly, can't talk client,
Speaker 1: freaking deadline. Hell, we'll be home late, promise. Tara arrives
Speaker 1: after midnight again. There's that haze of incense and spices,
Speaker 1: less perfume, more the dense atmosphere of a place that
Speaker 1: steeps in its own traditions. She sits on the edge
Speaker 1: of the bed, sighs, then mumbles, I know, I know,
Speaker 1: I missed to night again. Angela's in full breaked on mode,
Speaker 1: last minute edits unpaid hours. You know, I want to say,
Speaker 1: I don't know, but she looks wrecked, hair knotted, eyes smudged.
Speaker 1: She crawls under the blankets and is out cold. Before
Speaker 1: I can decide how to probe without sounding hostile. This
Speaker 1: becomes a sort of rhythm. Tara's Thursday nights disappear into
Speaker 1: a haze of supposed freelance emergencies, art sessions, and vague
Speaker 1: new clients. She stops pretending she'll join us for dinner.
Speaker 1: The incenses, sometimes woodsy, sometimes floral, always mixed with something smoky,
Speaker 1: linger around her long after she's home. Payments from odd
Speaker 1: venues start cropping up on our statements. A Moroccan hooker lounge,
Speaker 1: a minimalist uptown bar, occasionally an artisanal perfumery with a
Speaker 1: French name. I can bear pronounce small amounts, but always
Speaker 1: on Thursdays, always late. I dabble with the idea that
Speaker 1: Tara ESTs found a new routine that doesn't include me,
Speaker 1: not out of malice, just out of creative restlessness. She's
Speaker 1: always cycled through obsessions. For a while, it was silent discos,
Speaker 1: then lives, story telling, then rooftop gardening. Maybe she's doing
Speaker 1: research for a client. Maybe I'm grasping at things out
Speaker 1: of my own anxiety, afraid I'm turning dull. But sometimes
Speaker 1: her stories collide. One week, she says she's at a
Speaker 1: music venue brainstorming with Angela. The next week it's an
Speaker 1: art studio, too far for you to visit. I ask
Speaker 1: if she can ever bring Angela by for dinner. She's
Speaker 1: super private, Tara says, and kind of a workerholic. She'd
Speaker 1: be insufferable at a party. There's another subtle shift too.
Speaker 1: Tara starts withdrawing from social media, where we used to
Speaker 1: post photos of Sunday brunches, city walks, or just cozy
Speaker 1: shots of our mismatched feet on the coffee table. Lately,
Speaker 1: she mostly posts blurred images of food candles, cryptic creative
Speaker 1: session captions. Sometimes there's a hand in the frame that's
Speaker 1: clearly not hers, once a wineglass balanced on unfamiliar painted nails.
Speaker 1: Most weeks, the space between us narrows, as if nothing's changed.
Speaker 1: We watch our shows collapse into the comfortable sink of
Speaker 1: joint errands, tease each other about our quirks. But something
Speaker 1: is off kilter and it won't let me alone. During
Speaker 1: a week ND brunch with friends, I try to drop hints,
Speaker 1: asking Tara gently, how es Angela are the sessions still
Speaker 1: as frantic? She responds vaguely shrugging. She's still wild, exhausting,
Speaker 1: but at least the check clears. She deflects, easily, sharing
Speaker 1: almost nothing. Instead, she laughs along with Jewels about an
Speaker 1: idiotic neighbor, and when her phone buzzes, she excuses herself
Speaker 1: for a client call. She spends almost ten minutes in
Speaker 1: the hallway before slipping back into conversation as if nothing happened.
Speaker 1: When we're home alone, I ask if she wants to
Speaker 1: share the project with me, maybe brainstorm away out of
Speaker 1: her client's chaos. Tara smiles, nobody. But you would offer ELI,
Speaker 1: but it's just too messy. You'd be bored. Her words
Speaker 1: are gentle, oddly final. Later, curious, I mention Angela to Jamie,
Speaker 1: a close friend who sometimes shares freelance contacts with Tara.
Speaker 1: Jamie tilts his head, puzzled. Angela, don't think she mentioned
Speaker 1: a new client by that name. Tara said she was
Speaker 1: scaling back this month, something about finally being sick of
Speaker 1: all nighters. The contradiction sits beside me all evening. That night,
Speaker 1: I scroll our joint credit card statement and confirm what
Speaker 1: I've been noticing, Like clockwork, every Thursday. There's another charge,
Speaker 1: always somewhere we've never been, Turkish restaurants, scent shops, niche bars.
Speaker 1: Whenever I wonder about these, Tara tells stories about crappy
Speaker 1: vegan snacks or a studio with terrible heating. I steel
Speaker 1: myself to ask about it, but stall out, haunted by
Speaker 1: the idea of humiliating myself. If it's all normal. We
Speaker 1: promised not to be one of those couples, the ones
Speaker 1: who tear each other apart over phantom suspicions. Still, I
Speaker 1: start to wonder who Tara is when she leaves the building,
Speaker 1: if she's not working, who is she with and why
Speaker 1: the secrecy money starts slipping through the cracks. Tara takes
Speaker 1: out cash for some expenses in small but regular bursts,
Speaker 1: something we never did much trusting our digital paper trail.
Speaker 1: The details map out a web I can't quite decode.
Speaker 1: Each Thursday, a new destination, each explanation slightly askew, never
Speaker 1: overlapping for long. Our apartment, once the sight of easy routines,
Speaker 1: now feels punctured every Thursday, stitched together only for the
Speaker 1: comfort of the rest of the week. I try once
Speaker 1: to catch her in a lie about the venue, but
Speaker 1: she's quick. Oh, I had to switch tea shops. Construction
Speaker 1: on the main drag. Plus Angela's obsessed with these new
Speaker 1: candle scents makes me do sniff tests every week. I know,
Speaker 1: design a life glamorous. I smile and let it drop,
Speaker 1: frustrated with myself for prying then stewing in the silence
Speaker 1: after she goes out again. One Monday morning, as I
Speaker 1: tidy Tara's work space, a small chaotic desk tucked by
Speaker 1: the living room window, I find a torn corner of
Speaker 1: a photo wedged behind her laptop. On the back is
Speaker 1: her handwriting until Thursday Night, can't wait. The rest is
Speaker 1: ripped away, nothing to connect it directly to Angela. Underneath,
Speaker 1: just a cryptic, looping capital C. The letter is written
Speaker 1: in her favorite purple pen, the one she uses for
Speaker 1: birthday cards and little jokes. I hold it between my fingers,
Speaker 1: my mind racing in circles. Does C stand for Angela's
Speaker 1: last name? A code for an event, a slip of
Speaker 1: intimacy meant for someone else? Nothing fits neatly. I want
Speaker 1: to believe Tara. She's affectionate, never cruel, always the first
Speaker 1: to improvise solutions to even our worst fights. She hates secrets,
Speaker 1: at least in theory. But every answer leads me back
Speaker 1: to these unease ridden Thursday nights. Later that week, I
Speaker 1: resolve to dig a little deeper. Tara leaves for another
Speaker 1: sight meeting at her new studio, the time conveniently aligning
Speaker 1: with her usual Thursday slot. I wait half an hour,
Speaker 1: then log into our shared online calendar. Supposedly are commons
Speaker 1: for both our gigs and appointments. There are work blocks
Speaker 1: on every Thursday, stretching from early evening to late night.
Speaker 1: The titles read only client session or design meeting, no
Speaker 1: specific names. Her entries, once full of little jokes or
Speaker 1: color coded gig notes, have grown blunt and sterile. I
Speaker 1: open another browser window and pull up the website for
Speaker 1: the Turkish restaurant from the receipt. Anxious, I call and
Speaker 1: ask if any one by Angela had reserved a table
Speaker 1: last Thursday. The voice on the other end hesitates, then replies,
Speaker 1: not that I remember. We do have a table blocked
Speaker 1: every Thursday for two for a Carmen, very regular, very particular,
Speaker 1: always asks for the back booth. The name strikes a chord.
Speaker 1: See Thursday night Carmen. I jot down the details. My
Speaker 1: pulse quickening. I try searching my memory as Tara ever
Speaker 1: mentioned a Carmen a designer from her conference circuit. No
Speaker 1: one comes to mind. That night. I hover as Tara
Speaker 1: unpacks her messenger bag. Another new incense stick pokes out
Speaker 1: from a zipp'd side pocket, Its sand lord unmistakably strong.
Speaker 1: I run my hand over her back, squeeze her shoulders,
Speaker 1: and say, must be nice to find a client who
Speaker 1: actually tips in fancy sense. She laughs overly, bright, almost
Speaker 1: makes up for the all nighters. Angela's a bit much,
Speaker 1: but she keeps me on my toes. I want a
Speaker 1: press to mention Carmen outright to ask about the restaurant,
Speaker 1: but the notion of crossing some invisible boundary of becoming
Speaker 1: the spouse who polices every answer keeps me silent. The
Speaker 1: next day, I reach out to two of Tara's regular
Speaker 1: freelance collaborators under the guise of sharing upcoming project leads. Casually,
Speaker 1: I ask about Angela if she's launched any new creative
Speaker 1: gigs recently. Vic, one of Tara's closest work friends, writes back,
Speaker 1: she actually turned down two projects from me lately, said
Speaker 1: she was overloaded and needed some quiet as she found
Speaker 1: real work life balance finally, or is she hiding out
Speaker 1: at a spa that night? Acutely on edge, I recall
Speaker 1: how our neighbor Drew once made a teasing comment in
Speaker 1: the elevator saw Tara heading out Thursday night. She always
Speaker 1: looks so put together. Who's the lucky date? I'd brushed
Speaker 1: it off. But now I linger outside his door as
Speaker 1: he's hanging his bike. Hey, Drew, random question, when you
Speaker 1: saw Tara last Thursday? Was she alone or with any
Speaker 1: one from the building? Drew looks uncertain, a little guilty. Ah, Honestly,
Speaker 1: she was with someone tall woman, pretty, sheic, big scarf,
Speaker 1: all black, looked kind of intense. Figured may be a
Speaker 1: designer friend, since you guys always have those creative types
Speaker 1: floating around. They looked happy. Tara was all grins. Didn't
Speaker 1: want to be weird, so I just nodded. I thank him.
Speaker 1: Mind racing that image doesn't fit with the story of
Speaker 1: being told it's not Angela, not a male client, but
Speaker 1: another woman, Carmen, some one entirely new. My mind scrolls
Speaker 1: through every mutual friend, every Instagram handle, any one Tara's
Speaker 1: mentioned offhand. Nothing. Through the next week, my uncertainty calcifies
Speaker 1: into something harder. I debate whether I've been misreading the
Speaker 1: cues all along, testing the boundaries of trust against the facts.
Speaker 1: I want to believe Tara's version, the project overload, the
Speaker 1: fussy client, the artistic deadlines. But Angela is a phantom
Speaker 1: in all our circles. Carmen's name is nowhere, but that
Speaker 1: restaurant book I start noticing more. Tara is quick to
Speaker 1: turn her phone screen down when it lights up. She
Speaker 1: started using cash for incidental expenses, telling me it's just easier.
Speaker 1: Those credit card notifications stress me out. She posts less
Speaker 1: and less about us, more about quiet bowls of soup
Speaker 1: or dark backgrounds with cryptic captions. A new hand appears
Speaker 1: in one post, a ring I don't recognize. Still, when
Speaker 1: we're together the rest of the week, she's the Tara
Speaker 1: I know, flawed, funny, never unkind. It would almost be
Speaker 1: easier if she'd pulled away. The affection is still there,
Speaker 1: woven into our mornings, our weekend coffee runs, the long,
Speaker 1: lazy brunches where she nudges me with her bare feet.
Speaker 1: But the city feels different, stripped of some comfort. I
Speaker 1: no longer trust my own judgment. Each Thursday, my anxiety
Speaker 1: spikes my thoughts running in loops. I can't find a
Speaker 1: way out of am I missing an intricate piece. Am
Speaker 1: I conjuring ghosts out of coincidence, sabotaging myself by looking
Speaker 1: for patterns that mean nothing? Or am I watching my
Speaker 1: marriage unravel? Thread by thread so slowly and gracefully that
Speaker 1: neither of us can say it out loud. I replay
Speaker 1: every key moment. I can remember our last anniversary, strolling
Speaker 1: through the city, the way Tara toasted us in front
Speaker 1: of our friends, loud and proud and sentimental, her laughter,
Speaker 1: which always called me out of my cave of worry.
Speaker 1: The private jokes are names for types of rain. Her
Speaker 1: rain check texts every Thursday. I want to believe that's
Speaker 1: enough to anchor us, to keep us honest. I want
Speaker 1: to believe that when I finally muster the courage to
Speaker 1: ask Tara what's really happening, she'll look me in the
Speaker 1: eye and tell me the whole truth, even if it's
Speaker 1: something I can't comprehend. But I also remember the way
Speaker 1: the incense clings to the air after she enters, How
Speaker 1: she never eats the leftovers, How she lingers in the
Speaker 1: shower as if trying to wash off a different life,
Speaker 1: before coming back into mine, sometimes holding the torn piece
Speaker 1: of the photo. I wonder if Thursday nights are the
Speaker 1: only real hours in her week, the rest just an
Speaker 1: afterglow she brings home to me. I stare at our
Speaker 1: shared calender on my phone, fingers hovering over the Thursday entry.
Speaker 1: Just work, no hints, no color codes. I leave it
Speaker 1: for now. The city outside our window slides into blue hour,
Speaker 1: and the apartment grows quiet, except for the whir of
Speaker 1: the dishwasher and the faintest hint again of expensive incense,
Speaker 1: sweet and sharp. I breathe it in. I'm sure whether
Speaker 1: it's in the air or just the memory of her
Speaker 1: already gone. A week limps by, too ordinary to justify,
Speaker 1: lurking under the surface. Tara spends a little more time
Speaker 1: at home that Monday and Tuesday, tapping out emails, humming
Speaker 1: along to her headphones. She tries a new soup recipe,
Speaker 1: asks after my coworkers by name, votes for a movie marathon.
Speaker 1: I know she secretly finds boring, but picks because she
Speaker 1: thinks I like it. In quiet moments, her affection is careful,
Speaker 1: almost performative. She pours me a second glass of wine
Speaker 1: for surviving your meeting, tucks her cold feet under my
Speaker 1: thighs on the sofa, and teases me into laughing about
Speaker 1: our first terrible vacation. Now we spent an entire day
Speaker 1: stranded in a rain storm playing cards on a hotel towel,
Speaker 1: Yet Thursday's approach whittles the room between us down into
Speaker 1: something sharp. That morning, she moves through the apartment restless,
Speaker 1: starting things, then drifting away from them. She untangles her
Speaker 1: necklaces at the dining table, then half way through, wanders
Speaker 1: into the kitchen and lines up old jars along the
Speaker 1: window sill. She loses her train of thought twice before
Speaker 1: leaving for a supposed brief coffee with a client. When
Speaker 1: she returns, she's back in focus, chattering about a street
Speaker 1: performer juggling fire near the subway. Late afternoon, she walks
Speaker 1: into the bedroom with a towel turbaned around her hair,
Speaker 1: smelling of unfamiliar soap and the faintest suggestion of petuli.
Speaker 1: She stands there for a moment, watching me tie my shoes,
Speaker 1: looks as if she's about to say something important, then
Speaker 1: just shrugs it off. Long day ahead, she mumbles, scooping
Speaker 1: up her planner. I should be home by midnight at
Speaker 1: the latest. Don't wait up, okay, who's to night? I ask?
Speaker 1: Not bothering to disguise the edge in my voice, Angela
Speaker 1: or some one else. She gives a short laugh. Definitely Angela,
Speaker 1: with a supporting cast of spreadsheets and desperation. I fake
Speaker 1: a smile, trying to keep things casual. You make it
Speaker 1: sound so glamorous. I know, right, she says, voice, light,
Speaker 1: eyes sliding past mine, modern penthouse lifestyle if the penthouse
Speaker 1: is a windowless back room. I nearly ask if she
Speaker 1: wants company and imprompt you dinner before her meeting, but
Speaker 1: the thickening air between us stops me. She packs up
Speaker 1: her laptop and is gone before I can follow that
Speaker 1: urge through. When I come home from work, the apartment
Speaker 1: is dark except for the hallway lamp. I set my
Speaker 1: bag down, try to focus on dinner for myself, but
Speaker 1: my thoughts keep wandering to where she is, who might
Speaker 1: be sitting opposite her, What she's not telling me. The
Speaker 1: urge to text her a joke, to coax a photo
Speaker 1: out of her this time curdles into something desperate instead.
Speaker 1: I mop up spilled curry with a piece of bread.
Speaker 1: Let the television play quietly. I glance at the door
Speaker 1: more often than I realize. Around eleven thirty p m.
Speaker 1: Her key scrapes at the lock. She steps inside, rain
Speaker 1: flecked on her shoulders, face bright but exhausted, her eyes
Speaker 1: a wild in a way that makes her look both
Speaker 1: younger and far away. Hell night, she says, dropping her
Speaker 1: bag and tugging her shoes off. I think Angela nearly
Speaker 1: hired an exhausist for her indesigned files to night. Sorry
Speaker 1: for being late, she leans in for a kiss, but
Speaker 1: I smell something else beside her shampoo and city air,
Speaker 1: A sweet, dense perfume, A touch of clove chained to
Speaker 1: something resinous beneath the incense that by now feels like
Speaker 1: a warning flare. Did you eat? I ask, aiming for routine.
Speaker 1: She lifts her eyebrows ate too much Turkish food, actually,
Speaker 1: client insisted, amazing lamb ruined by nerves. Please, no more
Speaker 1: food talk that knocks at some nerve in me. Turkish,
Speaker 1: I repeat too quietly. She doesn't notice, already pulling her
Speaker 1: hair down. Honestly, never again. I can't believe any one
Speaker 1: can eat two hole mes plates and still spell their
Speaker 1: own name. I dig for a joke to bridge us.
Speaker 1: I thought bad vegan snacks were the tradition. Even I
Speaker 1: hear the accusation buried beneath. Tara smiles, but there's a
Speaker 1: studdedness about it. Her gaze sliding away, her hands restless.
Speaker 1: Angela's partner is swearing off meat this week, so the
Speaker 1: staff just kept bringing new things to the table. They
Speaker 1: think we're celebrities, I swear. She retreats into the bathroom.
Speaker 1: I hear the shower run longer than either of us
Speaker 1: likes to admit. On the water bill. I sit on
Speaker 1: the edge of our bed. The room's steamier than it
Speaker 1: should be, listening to the pipes and the soft thump
Speaker 1: of her lotion bottles shifting behind the door. It's nearly
Speaker 1: one before she comes to bed, her hair damp, face
Speaker 1: bare of make up. She slides in beside me, whispers
Speaker 1: a soft apology, and coils toward my back, arms tight
Speaker 1: like she's anchoring herself. Her breathing slows. I think she's
Speaker 1: asleep before I realize I'm still wide awake. I scroll
Speaker 1: through my in the darkness, visiting the Turkish restaurant's website again,
Speaker 1: flipping endlessly between possible explanations. I consider texting Jamie, maybe
Speaker 1: invent a new excuse to clarify what Tara's weak looks like. Instead,
Speaker 1: I close my eyes and count through breathing exercises, old
Speaker 1: habits that used to work when I felt the world
Speaker 1: slipping away. When I wake, Tara is already gone. A
Speaker 1: note on the counter, her slanted print, meeting coffee before work,
Speaker 1: see you for dinner EXO Friday. At work, I struggle
Speaker 1: to focus. At lunch, I text her, want to order
Speaker 1: dinner in to night your pick. She sends a string
Speaker 1: of FORECN knife emojis. Then, as long as it's not Turkish,
Speaker 1: I might survive. At home that evening, she's warm, funny present.
Speaker 1: We eat on the floor watching trash TV. She falls asleep,
Speaker 1: pressed against me, our legs tangled, and for a little
Speaker 1: while the mystery shrinks, but the scent lingers vegetable smoke
Speaker 1: threaded into her pillow case. Saturday morning, I offer to
Speaker 1: run errands together, an old habit, one of those anchors
Speaker 1: we created for busier seasons. She hesitates, but agrees. As
Speaker 1: we walk up to the bakery, she squeezes my hand.
Speaker 1: Chatter easy interrupted only when she checks her phone. Once,
Speaker 1: she turns the screen away before stuffing it back in
Speaker 1: her coat. In line, Ben spots us and waves us over.
Speaker 1: He launches into gossip about the neighborhood's new pop up gallery.
Speaker 1: Hey didn't see you at dinner, Tara, the cheese board
Speaker 1: missed your commentary. Tara smiles, no teltial flicker. I bet
Speaker 1: it made up for me with calories. Ben grins at her.
Speaker 1: You're working with anyone new on these mural projects. You've
Speaker 1: been too mysterious, Tara shrugs. It's all client chaos, nothing fun.
Speaker 1: I'll show you pictures when there's something to show, I promise.
Speaker 1: Her hand slips into mine, warm, squeezing twice in the
Speaker 1: signal we used to use for rescue me from small talk.
Speaker 1: We pivot out of the conversation with fresh quassas and
Speaker 1: orange juice. Walking home in a sheen of late winter sun,
Speaker 1: I try to read her face, hoping for reassurance, but
Speaker 1: she's humming to herself, tapping a silent rhythm into my palm.
Speaker 1: That afternoon, while Tara naps on the sofa, I empty
Speaker 1: the laundry hamper. I check her coat for tissues before
Speaker 1: tossing it into the machine, and pause at a folded
Speaker 1: envelope in the inside pocket. It's blank except for a
Speaker 1: thin lavender smudge, her favorite pen Again. Inside is a
Speaker 1: receipt from a high end perfumery uptown for an item
Speaker 1: called dervish room blend and a slim bottle. Single word
Speaker 1: written beside Carmen. My gut flips the same initial that
Speaker 1: signed her note, but now paired not with a client,
Speaker 1: but with a purchase perfume more incense, likely bought on
Speaker 1: Thursday night. I set the envelope back in her pocket
Speaker 1: and start the wash, hands trembling. By late Sunday, nothing
Speaker 1: has changed on the surface. We cup tea red next
Speaker 1: to each other, share our weekly to do lists. If
Speaker 1: Tara senses the edge in me, she doesn't ask about it.
Speaker 1: But the next Thursday, she's already prepping her laptop at four,
Speaker 1: hair pulled back keys by the door. I hover in
Speaker 1: the kitchen, half stalling, half stewing. Big night, She shrugs,
Speaker 1: sliding on her boots. Same as ever. You want a
Speaker 1: ride somewhere. Weathers supposed to turn ugly, She laughs, a
Speaker 1: little tightly. That's sweet. But Angela's picking me up. She claims.
Speaker 1: She has the only playlist in the city that doesn't
Speaker 1: give me a migrain I nod. But the idea of
Speaker 1: Angela picking her up is new. I thought you usually
Speaker 1: met at the tea house. We are mixing it up.
Speaker 1: Clients get restless too. She brushes my cheek with a
Speaker 1: soft kiss, backpacks slung over her shoulder, and vanishes into
Speaker 1: the building's elevation. I watch the doors close and picture
Speaker 1: her standing there beside a stranger, angela Carmen, some one else,
Speaker 1: smiling in a way I can't see. I tell myself
Speaker 1: I'll stay up, but I can't settle. I pace the apartment,
Speaker 1: make and unmake the bed. Flip through our calendar, the
Speaker 1: block for Thursday stands out, bold and anonymous, nothing but work.
Speaker 1: I boot up Tara's old iPad, searching for anything to
Speaker 1: solve the riddle. She signed out of her email, cleared
Speaker 1: her browser history, but one notification blinks A shared calendar reminder,
Speaker 1: but with a different tag than our usual one. Gold
Speaker 1: Room seven zero zero p M Bring design drafts. I
Speaker 1: google Gold Room. It's the private back room of the
Speaker 1: Turkish restaurant from the receipt, known for its velvet curtains
Speaker 1: and antique side tables. No mention of a co op
Speaker 1: workspace anywhere. I scroll back to earlier entries for the
Speaker 1: last month. The god Old Room shows up every Thursday,
Speaker 1: sometimes with updates, review sketches, lighting, mock up scent test.
Speaker 1: I hear her key at twelve thirty a m. She
Speaker 1: walks in, hair slightly must cheeks high with color. She
Speaker 1: smells like the cigarette smoke that clings to hook A lounges,
Speaker 1: and her shirt is faintly tinged with something deep and resinous. Hey,
Speaker 1: she whispers, sorry if I woke you. I sit up
Speaker 1: playing at half asleep. All good clients keep you late.
Speaker 1: She peels off her scarf, thinking Angela went on a
Speaker 1: tier about logo placement. Never again, I'm going to charge
Speaker 1: double for difficult people after this, she laughs, But it's
Speaker 1: forced shallow. The shower runs again for a long time.
Speaker 1: I watch steam coil from under the bathroom door. The
Speaker 1: next day, Jewels text me still okay for dinner Next Thursday,
Speaker 1: Tara's gig calming down. I stare at the message thumb hovering.
Speaker 1: It would take only a handful of words to explain
Speaker 1: my confusion to ask for help reading these signs, but
Speaker 1: I type yep, will be there instead. I want so
Speaker 1: badly to will things back to normal. The next Thursday,
Speaker 1: I try to break the cycle. I leave work an
Speaker 1: hour early, grab pastries from Tara's favorite shop, and take
Speaker 1: the subway toward the Turkish place. I have no plan,
Speaker 1: no disguise, just the breast b and firm intuition that
Speaker 1: something will clear if I put myself at the edge
Speaker 1: of her story. The restaurant is a study in intimacy,
Speaker 1: low golden lamplight, heavy curtains, an open room at the back,
Speaker 1: occupied by just two people. I recognize Tara's cropped hair
Speaker 1: from behind, her bright scarf tossed over the back of
Speaker 1: the booth. The woman facing her is tall, dramatic in
Speaker 1: a long black coat, her posture relaxed, chin propped on
Speaker 1: a hand. They're laughing as a small copper teapot is
Speaker 1: set between them, eyes locked into some private joke. I
Speaker 1: duck away before either can see me, heart hammering. As
Speaker 1: I reach the end of the block, I almost double back,
Speaker 1: but some deeper cowardice has already rooted me to the sidewalk.
Speaker 1: On the subway home, I rehearse all the questions I
Speaker 1: could ask. Did she meet Angela? There was this Carmen?
Speaker 1: Had I seen what I thought I'd seen? When Tara
Speaker 1: returns that night, she finds me slumped on the sofa,
Speaker 1: a movie paused on the screen. You're up late. She
Speaker 1: looks tired, but her eyes are shining, her mouth soft
Speaker 1: at the edges. I wonder if it's possible to be
Speaker 1: in love with two people at the same time. I
Speaker 1: wonder if I'm a fool or simply seeing what I
Speaker 1: want to. She collapses beside me, curling toward my body,
Speaker 1: and I let my arm drape over her. In that moment,
Speaker 1: I almost believe the story will right itself. I almost
Speaker 1: believe she's within reach. But later, as she sleeps, I
Speaker 1: walk to the kitchen and sit in the dark, the
Speaker 1: city glowing against our windows, the scent of unfamiliar spices
Speaker 1: hanging liminal in the air. On Friday, I fish for answers,
Speaker 1: any chance I get to meet Angela soon. I feel
Speaker 1: like a bad spouse, not knowing your new project partners.
Speaker 1: Tara's eyes flick up from her phone. She folds her hands,
Speaker 1: cocks her head. She's private, honestly, like extremely private, the
Speaker 1: type who would take a fake name at Starbucks. I nod,
Speaker 1: not trusting my voice. Why, she asks, quietly, just wondering
Speaker 1: if she's even real. I joke, rolling my eyes. Her
Speaker 1: laugh is too sharp at the edges. She's real, all right.
Speaker 1: You'd wish she wasn't if you saw my inbox. The
Speaker 1: fronts we present, the lazy derision, the easy charm now
Speaker 1: feel like armor. Every Thursday looms like a test of endurance.
Speaker 1: I find myself dialing into recipes, chores, tasks, anything that
Speaker 1: keeps me grounded while she's in the invisible gold room world.
Speaker 1: By the time our next weekend together arrives, the gap
Speaker 1: between us is something I can recognize and still can't
Speaker 1: fully name. We sit together in cafes, talk about the headlines,
Speaker 1: walk through the neighborhood, sharing opinions on new construction. She's lighter,
Speaker 1: a little distracted, and far readier to offer affection in public,
Speaker 1: clutching my arm, tucking her head against my chest in
Speaker 1: the market. At home, I catch her staring into space,
Speaker 1: a small smile on her lips, like she's half listening
Speaker 1: to some one else's music. Once I reach for her
Speaker 1: hand and she startles, then recovers with a quick squeeze.
Speaker 1: The next Thursday, I don't try to stop her. I
Speaker 1: don't text or call or hover by the door. I
Speaker 1: let her story stretch to the breaking point. When midnight
Speaker 1: turns into one a m then two, I lie awake,
Speaker 1: counting passing cars, building names for the constellation of secret
Speaker 1: lives she's built. She comes home at dawn, shoes in
Speaker 1: her hand. I see the corner of a photo peeking
Speaker 1: from her bag, the same purple handwriting I now know
Speaker 1: almost as well as my own. She staggers into the shower,
Speaker 1: water running full blast. I lie on my back, heart thundering,
Speaker 1: and realize I'm past hoping for an innocent answer. That afternoon,
Speaker 1: I decide I can't pull everything apart alone. I text
Speaker 1: Drew ask to talk over coffee about something from last
Speaker 1: week at the cafe. He arrives, looking slightly uneasy. I
Speaker 1: cut straight to it. I keep seeing Tara leave Thursday
Speaker 1: nights with someone new. Did you notice anything different? I
Speaker 1: try to make it sound casual, Drew fidgets, Honestly, I
Speaker 1: only noticed because she looked happy, like she was, let's say,
Speaker 1: dressed up in a way I haven't seen her for work.
Speaker 1: The woman she was with tall, sharp, stylish. Actually, she
Speaker 1: hugged her real close before they got in a cab.
Speaker 1: I stare at my coffee. Did you recognize her? He shrugs, apologetic.
Speaker 1: Not from around here, that's for sure. Sorry, you want
Speaker 1: me to check next time, I wave him off, both
Speaker 1: relieved and mortified. No, that's thanks really. Later, treacherously, I
Speaker 1: scroll Tara's social feed for old designer workshop posts, searching
Speaker 1: desperately for a Carmen, any new name lurking in her
Speaker 1: likes or her tags Carmen Carmen. There are none, not
Speaker 1: a single tagged post in the last twelve months with
Speaker 1: that name. On Impulse, I send a careful inquiry through
Speaker 1: Tara's work email using our business contact, not my name,
Speaker 1: about studio rentals on Thursday nights. I receive a response
Speaker 1: signed c. Thank you for your inquiry. Studio space only
Speaker 1: available to returning members. Please reply with full credentials a
Speaker 1: signature ce Bernal. So now I have it, Carmen's surname.
Speaker 1: Late that night, I search art collectives and workshop leader bios.
Speaker 1: She exists a set designer involved with immersive installations, mid thirties,
Speaker 1: sharp eyed and creative. Her photo looks like a shadow,
Speaker 1: all angles and dark, wavy hair pulled back. I stare
Speaker 1: at the screen long after my heart beat calms, replaying
Speaker 1: every mumbled excuse, every mysterious client, every story about the
Speaker 1: private Angela. I decide not to say anything that night. Instead,
Speaker 1: I set a loose plan. See if Tara will crack
Speaker 1: if I give her space. Maybe there is some plausible explanation.
Speaker 1: I am missing something that is more creative collaboration than betrayal.
Speaker 1: On Monday, she's back to her softer self, cooking up
Speaker 1: a breakfast hash, running a finger tip down my back
Speaker 1: as I brush my teeth for an afternoon. I almost
Speaker 1: believe I am the person she comes home to, not
Speaker 1: a mere place holder for some other world. But that Thursday,
Speaker 1: when she dresses in her favorite black sweater, the one
Speaker 1: she usually saves for our anniversaries, my last bits of
Speaker 1: hope start to unravel. She packs her perfume, the dervish
Speaker 1: room blend into her bag. This time, when she leaves,
Speaker 1: she doesn't kiss my cheek. She only waves from the door,
Speaker 1: wide eyed and distant, already half imagining herself somewhere else.
Speaker 1: I pour myself a drink, I pace, I play our
Speaker 1: mote and playlist low, hoping the notes will ground me.
Speaker 1: I thumb the torn edge of her note until Thursday night.
Speaker 1: Can't wait see I finish my drink, shut the music off,
Speaker 1: and set the match box I found weeks ago by
Speaker 1: her keys, staring at the gold shapes the unfamiliar script,
Speaker 1: the memory of her laugh as yet another Thursday pause.
Speaker 1: Into the early morning, the apartment grows still. I watch
Speaker 1: our city slide from blue to indigo, the hours dissolving
Speaker 1: in my gut. I know the shape of what I'm
Speaker 1: fearing is clear enough, a different kind of love or
Speaker 1: longing or desperate escape that has nothing to do with
Speaker 1: me at all. And still I wait for her explanation,
Speaker 1: for a sign, for whatever truth the incense smoked air
Speaker 1: finally yields. The match box sits by Tara's keys when
Speaker 1: she steps into the apartment just past one thirty in
Speaker 1: the morning. I've left the hall light on, every other
Speaker 1: room dark. Her boots make a careful hush against the floorboards.
Speaker 1: She sees me, then the little square, and goes still
Speaker 1: at the threshold. Hey, she says. Her voice is low,
Speaker 1: brittle in the quiet apartment. I just nod toward the table.
Speaker 1: You left something. Tara sets her bag quietly by the door,
Speaker 1: but doesn't touch the match box. She stands there, one
Speaker 1: hand on the strap, caught between leaving and staying. She
Speaker 1: looks different tonight, her make up worn off, hair must
Speaker 1: but there's a layer I can't see through as if
Speaker 1: she rehearsed how this would go, and still can't find
Speaker 1: her lines. I stand, palms raw from clenching the arm
Speaker 1: of the chair. Was it good the restaurant? I mean,
Speaker 1: I don't recognize my own voice, tight and steady, almost gentle.
Speaker 1: Her eyes flick up startled. A yea, I guess something
Speaker 1: old and practiced in her tries to smile, but it
Speaker 1: fails half way. I can feel her calculating what I know,
Speaker 1: what I want, what I might say next, And for
Speaker 1: the first time in years, I realize that I'm an
Speaker 1: unknown to her too. There's a long pause, ere thick,
Speaker 1: with incense still lingering from her clothes. I finally say,
Speaker 1: you told me you were working at the studio to night.
Speaker 1: You said Angela was driving you. Her entire posture stiffens.
Speaker 1: The silence draws out between us. She tucks a lock
Speaker 1: of hair behind her ear, her usual move when she's
Speaker 1: searching for the safest truth to offer. I was, she says,
Speaker 1: at last, just plans changed? I nod. Each word is
Speaker 1: a step further from the life I knew. Did you
Speaker 1: have dinner in the gold room again? She stares at
Speaker 1: the floor. It's complicated, Eli. I look at her, at
Speaker 1: the small nervous movements, her thumb running over her knuckles,
Speaker 1: the way her shoulders are curled in make it simple,
Speaker 1: I answer. For a moment, I almost believe she'll walk away,
Speaker 1: but Tara sighs and slips off her coat, drops it
Speaker 1: beside her bag, and steps into the dim kitchen. The
Speaker 1: match box remains between us on the table as she
Speaker 1: pulls out a chair. She doesn't sit, just stands there,
Speaker 1: back braced against the counter. I didn't want to hurt you,
Speaker 1: she says, finally, voice fraying. That's it's the only thing
Speaker 1: that's actually simple. Her words are a wedge, unwanted but unstoppable.
Speaker 1: I feel everything slow. Who's Carmen, I ask. Tara looks
Speaker 1: up and for a moment she doesn't blink. Her mouth opens, closes,
Speaker 1: and then she laughs, a soft, bitter sound. You always
Speaker 1: notice everything. This is not the answer I want, but
Speaker 1: it's the answer I deserve. My voice barely rises above
Speaker 1: a whisper. Are you sleeping with her? There's the faintest
Speaker 1: shift in her chin. It's not defiant, it's the collapse
Speaker 1: of an exhausted defender. Yes, we stand the space between us,
Speaker 1: the width of our whole history. My heart pounds so
Speaker 1: loudly I think she might hear. How long I press,
Speaker 1: unable to stop myself. A tremor runs through her shoulders.
Speaker 1: A few months, maybe longer if you count the time
Speaker 1: I tried to convince myself it was just work. Her
Speaker 1: hands twist at the hem of her shirt. We she
Speaker 1: was supposed to be just a collaborator, design sessions, creative experiments.
Speaker 1: It got closer, too close. Something in me wants to howl, break,
Speaker 1: demand every detail, but I myself still A ringing fills
Speaker 1: my ears. But under it is the quietest kind of relief.
Speaker 1: The not knowing is over. Why all the lies, I say, Angela,
Speaker 1: the tea house, the co op, all of it. She
Speaker 1: shakes her head, the confession making her smaller. I didn't
Speaker 1: know how to say it. I kept thinking it would
Speaker 1: fizzle once this show is over, once the project raps.
Speaker 1: There was always an excuse. I'd come home and you'd
Speaker 1: be here, steady, waiting, still you. I thought maybe I'd
Speaker 1: come to my senses. I thought maybe I was still
Speaker 1: deserving of this, of us. I can't stand how she
Speaker 1: says this, as if our life together is a posture.
Speaker 1: She's borrowing. So what is she to you? A fling
Speaker 1: or something more. Tara lifts her gaze meets my eyes
Speaker 1: for the first time all night. I don't know, she says. Finally,
Speaker 1: I don't know what to call it. I wanted to
Speaker 1: hold both, to be someone who could have everything, So
Speaker 1: I was just what side be my voice until now
Speaker 1: firm cracks open with the disbelief I've tried not to voice.
Speaker 1: Her eyes go wet. She swipes at them with the
Speaker 1: heel of her palm. No, that's not fair. I loved you,
Speaker 1: she chokes, then shakes her head. I love you. It
Speaker 1: just wasn't enough for everywhere in me. I guess for
Speaker 1: a second, I remember her hand in mine under a
Speaker 1: string of city lights, a time when us meant the
Speaker 1: world had walls. That memory is a knife. Now, she says,
Speaker 1: I never wanted to be someone who lied to you.
Speaker 1: The sentence is a plea, but all it does is
Speaker 1: echo the choices already made. I step back the kitchen counter,
Speaker 1: cold through my shirt. You could have told me, I say,
Speaker 1: I almost believe it. It's the story I've been telling
Speaker 1: myself for months. You could have let me try to
Speaker 1: fight for us. The tension hangs, she says nothing. I
Speaker 1: watch her, her hands trembling, her mascar are smudged, the
Speaker 1: scent of some one else's cologne coiling around her shoulders. No,
Speaker 1: we're already beyond salvage. Tara lowers her eyes. I'm sorry,
Speaker 1: she says, quietly, simply. The apology lands soft and too late.
Speaker 1: We're both silent. The only sound the fridge kicking to life.
Speaker 1: I fold my arms, squeezed tight. Outside, the city hums
Speaker 1: on inside. Something vital between us flickers out for a
Speaker 1: long moment. Neither of us moves. I think about every
Speaker 1: Thursday that led here, the way doubt grew and grew
Speaker 1: too slow for one clean break, There is nothing left
Speaker 1: to say. I straighten words thin. I need some space.
Speaker 1: I'll pack a bag to night. She flinches a quick,
Speaker 1: pained motion. You don't have to. I'll sleep on the couch.
Speaker 1: I can I shake my head. No. I don't want
Speaker 1: to wake up here to morrow and pretend. Tara nods, silent,
Speaker 1: wiping her cheeks before she turns away to the window,
Speaker 1: knuckles pressed to her lips. I move through our bedroom,
Speaker 1: grabbing a duffel and an armful of clothes, my mind,
Speaker 1: numb and methodical, tooth brush, sneakers, a jacket, my phone charger.
Speaker 1: I move fast, not trusting what I'd say if I
Speaker 1: stop to look around, to notice the photos clipped along
Speaker 1: the mirror, the travel souvenirs on her shelf. From the
Speaker 1: living room, I hear Tara on the phone, her voice
Speaker 1: a rasp. She's calling Jewels, maybe or Ben, some one
Speaker 1: who will help her fill in the space I'm leaving behind.
Speaker 1: I sit for a moment on the edge of our
Speaker 1: unmade bed, duffle between my knees. There's a ring mark
Speaker 1: on the side table from her tea mug. The sight
Speaker 1: of it feels final. I walk back out. Tara is
Speaker 1: sitting at the far end of the sofa, staring blankly
Speaker 1: at the wall. She stands when she sees me, but
Speaker 1: neither of us reaches for the other. I slide my
Speaker 1: wedding ring from my finger and set it on the bookshelf,
Speaker 1: next to a photo of us at City Island, smiling
Speaker 1: almost unrecognizable. Now, text me once you're settled, Tara whispers,
Speaker 1: voice spent and small. I nod. I slip on my shoes,
Speaker 1: pick up my bag, and open the apartment door. A
Speaker 1: gust of colder air rushes in from the stairwell. I
Speaker 1: look back once at our shared home, the clutter of
Speaker 1: dishes out, the playlist paused on some forgotten chorus, the
Speaker 1: match box still sitting unopened by her keys. Tara stands
Speaker 1: her ground, arms folded in front of her stomach, as
Speaker 1: if it will help her hold in everything that needs saying.
Speaker 1: I pull the door shut. It clicks in the frame,
Speaker 1: final and quiet. I walk down the four flights, my
Speaker 1: bag heavy, the city's lights pressed against the dark outside.
Speaker 1: Each floor creaks beneath my feet, the familiar echo of
Speaker 1: my steps flattening into something unrecognizable. In the lobby, I hesitate.
Speaker 1: I scroll through my phone and book a car to
Speaker 1: Ben's place. I clutch my duffel until my knuckles ache.
Speaker 1: On the street, the night smells of winter, damp and
Speaker 1: car exhaust, nothing perfumed, nothing left of what lingered upstairs.
Speaker 1: The car pulls up. I slide in, say my friend's address,
Speaker 1: and lean my head back, feeling every muscle in my
Speaker 1: body sees and release as the city sweeps past. As
Speaker 1: we turn onto the main boulevard, I remember all those thursdays,
Speaker 1: the easy laughter, the bright spill of voices through our kitchen,
Speaker 1: the weightless, unguarded way we moved through the beginning. The
Speaker 1: car grows quiet, the world outside dull and slow. I
Speaker 1: cradle my bag in my lap, stripping off the final
Speaker 1: version of myself that still believed Thursday Nights belong to
Speaker 1: both of us. The car's tailights retreat in the city's hush.
Speaker 1: It glides away from the place that still feels against
Speaker 1: all logic, like it should be home. Ben's building is
Speaker 1: close enough that I recognize the string of mural graffiti,
Speaker 1: the familiar bakery with its closed awning, the endless glitter
Speaker 1: of some one else's windows high above. I don't call ahead,
Speaker 1: just text coming up. Sorry. When we pull to the curb,
Speaker 1: Ben answers the door in sweats, bleary but instantly concerned. Man,
Speaker 1: it's late. Are you what happened with Tara? The words stick?
Speaker 1: I try not to look lost as a stray. Let
Speaker 1: my duffel thunk by the entryway, breathing hard through my nose.
Speaker 1: Things got screwed up? Can I crash here a while?
Speaker 1: He scans my face for the whole story, but thankfully
Speaker 1: doesn't push, just leads me to the spare Futon points
Speaker 1: out a folded blanket and leaves water on the night stand.
Speaker 1: I find myself absurdly thanking him for the hospitality, as
Speaker 1: if I'm a polite guest, not someone whose chest feels
Speaker 1: freshly hollowed. The city's sounds outside the hum of a
Speaker 1: late truck, a passing couple's laughter, unt gentle. They seem
Speaker 1: to underline every choice already made. Sleep doesn't come, but
Speaker 1: morning drags over the sky regardless. I lie staring at
Speaker 1: the ripples in Ben's plaster ceiling, watching the pale light
Speaker 1: organize itself into a new day. When Ben brings coffee,
Speaker 1: he waits with the particular patience of a friend, and
Speaker 1: sure what terrain is safe to cross? Did something big happen?
Speaker 1: I don't give details. She's seeing someone, not a guy,
Speaker 1: some one new. She lied about it for a while.
Speaker 1: The facts gather in the air, strange and undramatic, Stripped
Speaker 1: of all the guessing, Ben grimaces Christ. He mutters, after
Speaker 1: a moment, do you want to talk or I shake
Speaker 1: my head, cradling the mug with both hands. I don't
Speaker 1: even know what to say. I just didn't expect for
Speaker 1: it to already be over My voice is hoarse. I
Speaker 1: didn't even realize I might cry again after last night.
Speaker 1: He sits across from me, elbows on knees. Look, you
Speaker 1: can stay as long as you want. Seriously, don't rush.
Speaker 1: I'll text Jewels so she doesn't barge in. For most
Speaker 1: of that day, I manage logistics on autopalette. There are
Speaker 1: messages from Tara, first as simple are you safe? Then
Speaker 1: a hesitant shall we talk about what to tell every one?
Speaker 1: I leave both unread for hours. When I finally respond,
Speaker 1: my message is brief, told Ben I need space. I'll
Speaker 1: sort work stuff with h R. Please don't contact my
Speaker 1: family yet. She replies with just okay, I'm so sorry.
Speaker 1: I set the phone faced on and leave it that way.
Speaker 1: When hunger finally drives me out for a late lunch,
Speaker 1: I realize for the first time how much the city
Speaker 1: seems to have changed overnight. Every street seems charged with
Speaker 1: the weight of a thousand Thursday Nights. Shop windows I
Speaker 1: recognize from lazy walks, the wine shop where Tara and
Speaker 1: I used to argue over bottles, the burned out neon
Speaker 1: sign above our corner bar. People drift by at odd angles,
Speaker 1: voices blurred as if submerged. The sensation is both foreign
Speaker 1: and suffocating. By evening, my body feels like it's moving
Speaker 1: someone else's limbs. I take calls from work, mumbling about
Speaker 1: a family and urgency, and promising to remote in next week.
Speaker 1: Jules leaves a worried voicemail. I can't bring myself to return.
Speaker 1: Every hour stretches, punctured only by the beep of another message,
Speaker 1: or the thought that I should be making a plan,
Speaker 1: finding a permanent place, alerting my parents, dividing the practicalities
Speaker 1: that make a life together solid. Ben comes home late,
Speaker 1: shuffling groceries onto his narrow counter and offers rahmen and whiskey.
Speaker 1: We eat in near silence, the clinking of spoons loud
Speaker 1: as accusation. I try to ask about his work, about
Speaker 1: anything not anchored in the gravity well of my own unraveling.
Speaker 1: It's mostly a performance, but he plays along, grateful for
Speaker 1: the pretense. When he finally asks what I want next,
Speaker 1: I shake my head. Right now, I just don't want
Speaker 1: to think about any of it. The truth is, loss
Speaker 1: isn't loud. It's just vast. There's no single wound, no
Speaker 1: clean edge, just the echo room after room of every
Speaker 1: moment divided into before and after. On the third day gone,
Speaker 1: Tara texts, we should probably talk soon about bills, the
Speaker 1: least I don't want to make it harder. I stare
Speaker 1: at the words for a long time, unable to formulate
Speaker 1: a reply that's business like instead of bitter. Eventually I
Speaker 1: ask Ben if he'd mind me staying until Friday. His
Speaker 1: only answer is to restock the fridge and set a
Speaker 1: fresh towel out. That afternoon, I draft a message to
Speaker 1: my parents, a hasty, ambiguous update about taking space, nothing
Speaker 1: to worry about. My mother calls in alarm. I let
Speaker 1: it ring out, then texts that I'm safe, will explain soon,
Speaker 1: Love you. I can't bear to narrate the rest aloud.
Speaker 1: I don't want the details to become markers in other
Speaker 1: people's stories. Just yet, the city's rhythm refuses to match
Speaker 1: my sense of devastation. I buy groceries, I answer a
Speaker 1: work email. I take the long walk up the avenue
Speaker 1: to nowhere in particular, I pass the Turkish restaurant by accident,
Speaker 1: catching the gold old script on its awning and stop,
Speaker 1: absurdly drawn to peer inside, even knowing neither Tara nor
Speaker 1: Carmen will be there now. The interior is empty, the
Speaker 1: tables set in careful symmetry for dinner service, candles waiting
Speaker 1: to be lit for a second. I hate the place
Speaker 1: for mattering at all. The next time Tara calls I answer.
Speaker 1: We agree to meet in the lobby of our building
Speaker 1: that evening to discuss splitting utilities, the next rent payment,
Speaker 1: and who should notify the landlord. It is the most
Speaker 1: transactional conversation we have ever had. She's waiting on the
Speaker 1: bench when I arrive, and Manila folder on her knees.
Speaker 1: Dressed plainly, make up gone. She looks up. There's a
Speaker 1: tremor of recognition, pain, something unspeakable in her eyes. We
Speaker 1: exchange details, swapping account numbers and checklists, electricity, internet forwarding addresses.
Speaker 1: She insists quietly, you should keep the place, Eli. I
Speaker 1: can stay with friends, or maybe fine in something up
Speaker 1: state for a while. I don't want you to lose
Speaker 1: more than you have to. Her voice isn't pitiful, just
Speaker 1: spent and unfamiliar. I only nod somewhere. Gratitude twitches, but
Speaker 1: I tamp it down. Let's talk about it later. I
Speaker 1: just can't decide right now. She slides over a spare
Speaker 1: set of keys and a list of the art pieces
Speaker 1: that are hers. It's all practical, soft voiced, transactional. What
Speaker 1: once would have taken an afternoon of coffee, banter and
Speaker 1: mutual teasing now becomes negotiation. Reluctant, exhausted. There's a lull,
Speaker 1: the kind that used to be filled with anticipation or
Speaker 1: a joke, now noisy, with everything unsaid, Tara fidgets with
Speaker 1: her phone, then looks at me, throat working. I really
Speaker 1: am sorry, Eli. I don't expect forgiveness. I manage. I
Speaker 1: know the finality sits between us. Inert and heavy. She
Speaker 1: stands to go, brushing invisible dust off her jacket. I
Speaker 1: feel the urge to reach for her, absurd after all
Speaker 1: of this, but I keep my arms at my sides.
Speaker 1: We part without a hug, a handshake, or any gesture
Speaker 1: of ritual farewell. She hesitates at the lobby doors, looking
Speaker 1: back once before slipping into the current of the evening crowd.
Speaker 1: I ride the elevator up alone. Later, as I collect
Speaker 1: a few more things, a stack of books, a favorite mug, our,
Speaker 1: battered salt shaker. I catch my reflection in the window,
Speaker 1: drawn and flat in the gleam of glass, I see
Speaker 1: not just myself, but the shadow of every vanished habit,
Speaker 1: all the old certainties peeled away. For the next few nights,
Speaker 1: my routines are empty placeholders, a microwave dinner, eaten, staring
Speaker 1: at Bens in different cats. Messages from well meaning friends
Speaker 1: pile up. Let's grab coffee here for you man, But
Speaker 1: I'm not ready. Can't fake small talk about normal things.
Speaker 1: I text work that I'll take sick time for the week.
Speaker 1: The world astonishingly does not fall apart. It's a couple
Speaker 1: of days before I realize how much of my anger
Speaker 1: is melting into a kind of surreal calm. The urge
Speaker 1: to confront Tara all over again, demanding reasons, counterfactuals, alternate endings,
Speaker 1: shifts replaced by numb clarity. What's broken was already broken
Speaker 1: before last night, split through by countless unknown thursdays. I
Speaker 1: feel a dull shame, not at her choices, but at
Speaker 1: my own blindness, my desperate attempts to patch cracking trust
Speaker 1: with rationalizations and patience. On my fourth evening away, Jewels
Speaker 1: shows up at Ben's urging with takeout and cheap wine.
Speaker 1: We sit on the futon. The meal barely touched. She
Speaker 1: keeps her questions gentle stories light. Ben says, you're not sleeping.
Speaker 1: I've got a playlist for that, She adds, after a pause.
Speaker 1: You don't have to talk about anything. In those hours.
Speaker 1: I let myself be distracted by her nonsense, jokes and
Speaker 1: an episode of the reality show We All Love to Hate.
Speaker 1: I almost sleep through the night, waking only one once
Speaker 1: to the sound of rains scraping the window. The city
Speaker 1: below me isn't mine any more, not the way it was.
Speaker 1: But for the first time all week, I don't feel
Speaker 1: like every shadow is a remnant of us. Friday comes.
Speaker 1: The plans are set to clear out my side of
Speaker 1: the closet, move a few boxes, return the last library
Speaker 1: book signed out on our joint card. Tara isn't there.
Speaker 1: She's already left word with the door staff, her absence
Speaker 1: and intentional kindness. I move quickly, mind racing through lists, socks,
Speaker 1: winter coat, the old chest set my father sent. There
Speaker 1: are fragments of her everywhere. A note she never mailed,
Speaker 1: two dried stems of lavender in the hall vase, the
Speaker 1: leftovers of a failed bread recipe in the freezer. I
Speaker 1: fight the impulse to line everything up as we used to,
Speaker 1: wanting instead to keep each task mechanical impersonal. My last
Speaker 1: sweep is the kitchen. I open the cabinet where the
Speaker 1: match box had sat for weeks. It's gone, no oh trace,
Speaker 1: emptied with Tara's remaining belongings. The shelf feels oddly vacant,
Speaker 1: The room, brittle with sunlight, holds its breath. Suddenly I
Speaker 1: spot a single tea cup, Tara's favorite, ceramic, chipped at
Speaker 1: the rim, always used for the good tea. She d
Speaker 1: left it at the very back. May be on purpose,
Speaker 1: maybe not. I turn it in my hands, feeling the
Speaker 1: faint residue of incense and clove on its surface, the
Speaker 1: scent impossibly stubborn. I set the cup down, fingers trembling,
Speaker 1: and let the room fill with the silence i'd kept
Speaker 1: out all weak. Now the apartment is emptied of everything
Speaker 1: personal that isn't strictly mine. A courier arrives delivers a
Speaker 1: package I had forgotten to redirect, a replacement filter for
Speaker 1: Tara's air diffuser, Ironically useless. Now I sign for it,
Speaker 1: place it by the door, and steel myself to leave.
Speaker 1: I look around the apartment. One last time. The pale
Speaker 1: impressions on walls were are frames hung, the corners cleared
Speaker 1: of stacks of books, the echoes of laughter ricoshing through
Speaker 1: rooms that now feel airless. I reach up to the
Speaker 1: kitchen cabinet and take down the worn yellow posted Tara
Speaker 1: had once stuck above the stove Thursday dinner, you plus
Speaker 1: me for ever. I ball it in my hand, can't
Speaker 1: bring myself to throw it out, and slip it into
Speaker 1: my pocket before locking the door, I pause by the
Speaker 1: old playlist speakers, thumb the Thursday que I'd used for
Speaker 1: each weekly gathering. The display shows our usual moton opener. Familiar, impossible.
Speaker 1: I shut the screen off gently, leaving the house in
Speaker 1: perfect stillness. I step out into the hallway and pull
Speaker 1: the door shut, the latch clicking with a flat certainty.
Speaker 1: None of the sentiment I'd braced for. My keys are heavier,
Speaker 1: missing one's shape. Downstairs, the doorman looks at me as
Speaker 1: if he's deciding whether to speak, then simply nods. On
Speaker 1: the street, the city hasn't changed. The sharp scent of
Speaker 1: burnt leaves from a near by food cart drifts past,
Speaker 1: reminding me unreasonably of how incense would cling to her
Speaker 1: long after Thursday was over. I close my eyes, breathing
Speaker 1: it in once, letting the old ache bloom and pass.
Speaker 1: It is over, not with a final word or explosion,
Speaker 1: but in the way all habits die quietly, then completely,
Speaker 1: until I am just a man with no home to
Speaker 1: hurry toward. Nothing left but the memory of how deeply
Speaker 1: trussed can be appended, and how hollow a room can
Speaker 1: ring after its emptied for good. And that is the end.
Speaker 1: Thank you for listening, and I will see you in
Speaker 1: the next one.