Speaker 1: I stand with my right hand wrist deep in a
Speaker 1: bowl of preserved lemons, breathing in the ferocious, candid acid
Speaker 1: that will haunt my palms for hours. The tiny spice jars,
Speaker 1: meticulously assembled in a neat row next to the sink,
Speaker 1: always seem to multiply when I try a new dinner
Speaker 1: party theme to night. It's Moroccan, my attempt to ride
Speaker 1: out every winter with bright flavors and camouflaged hope razel
Speaker 1: hanout in the lamb, fresh mint for the cuscus, and
Speaker 1: a table set with way more enthusiasm than money. The
Speaker 1: lights overhead cast a gold glow over the teal napkins
Speaker 1: Michael and I once bartered for during a trip to Marrakesh,
Speaker 1: the kind of spontaneous getaway we used to plan just
Speaker 1: for each other, not for Instagram. I check my phone,
Speaker 1: no new messages. Michael knows everything is ready. Six fifty eight.
Speaker 1: I take a bottle of shape newf Dupap from the rack,
Speaker 1: his favorite, and gently wipe us smudge from the label
Speaker 1: with the hem of my sleeve. He chose it himself
Speaker 1: the last time we splurged, tracing a finger down my
Speaker 1: back as he leaned past me. At the wine shop.
Speaker 1: Now every party, I try to open one special bottle
Speaker 1: just for him, a small anchor in the storm of
Speaker 1: his job. I hear Olivia's laugh before the door bell
Speaker 1: even rings, the bravado of someone arriving somewhere. She actually
Speaker 1: wants to be open up. It's freezing, she shouts, muffled
Speaker 1: by the old wood of the vestibule. I slide the
Speaker 1: dead bolt, and she's already half way through the crack,
Speaker 1: tossing her scarf on too the first available hook. Adam
Speaker 1: trails her, a practiced smile buried under layers of cautious
Speaker 1: politeness and his own oversized coat. Wouldn't miss Moroccan Knight
Speaker 1: for the world, m Olivia declares, balancing a tin of
Speaker 1: backlaver against a bottle of something white and too cold.
Speaker 1: She hugs me tightly. I breathe in a vanilla perfume
Speaker 1: and try to let the evening's excitement soak through before
Speaker 1: the rest of the crowd arrives. Guests soon trickle in.
Speaker 1: Meyer and John with a mason jar of preserved lemons
Speaker 1: from the Union Square Green Market comparison shopping, Alex with
Speaker 1: his mini projector for background. Casablanc of visuals the familiar
Speaker 1: chaos of coats, wine bottles, candles flickering as shoes scrape
Speaker 1: against the beat up floors. Somewhere in all the noise,
Speaker 1: some one asks, Michael's already home. A quick hopeful glance
Speaker 1: at the closed office door. I force a smile, turning
Speaker 1: a Tajan so it doesn't burn, and interject he's running
Speaker 1: a bit late something with the Huron Street project and
Speaker 1: a client call. He should be here soon. I can
Speaker 1: feel Olivia's gaze skating over the unspoken Michael is always
Speaker 1: late lately. My phone buzzies, a text bubble tied up.
Speaker 1: Will be there in Tilda forty five. Sorry, don't wait
Speaker 1: for me, m If this were six months ago, i'd
Speaker 1: believe the apologetic exclamation, the affectionate m he tacks on,
Speaker 1: as though it's shorthand for love to night. All I
Speaker 1: feel is an emptiness around his usual chair, which I've
Speaker 1: still set with an indigo napkin and a fresh glass.
Speaker 1: I respond with a thumbs up, adding hurry, every one's here.
Speaker 1: I set the phone face down on the counter and
Speaker 1: stir the lamb one more time. The meal spins into gear.
Speaker 1: Wine bottle after wine bottle bits of torn flatbread dipped
Speaker 1: with loud approval. Adam and Olivia bantering about Casablanca. Now
Speaker 1: I get to be ingrid Bergmann. Michael is mentioned more
Speaker 1: than once, mostly as a punchline for jokes about architecture hours.
Speaker 1: No one says what feels obvious? When Olivia leans into
Speaker 1: my ear and says, I swear he'll walk in with
Speaker 1: sawdust on his collar. I try to laugh, but it
Speaker 1: sounds off practiced. We both pretend not to hear the
Speaker 1: question behind her joke. I don't remember exactly. When Michael
Speaker 1: does arrive, the door opens, Bags and blueprints clatter to
Speaker 1: the floor. He looks, flushed hair askew, sketches still rolled
Speaker 1: under one arm. Did every one already eat everything? He calls,
Speaker 1: though he knows we haven't. I gather up the bottle
Speaker 1: I'd saved, glass half full and meet him at the door.
Speaker 1: He hugs me one armed, barely brushing my cheek with
Speaker 1: his lips, then glances around. He's already searching, but for
Speaker 1: what for me? For Olivia, no Adam. His gaze pauses
Speaker 1: as Adam straitens from a corner arm chair, hands flicking
Speaker 1: away invisible crumbs. Missed you I murmur against his shoulder,
Speaker 1: catching a wisp of his cologne, a hint of some
Speaker 1: one else's cigarettes. Michael grins, but the warmth flickers. Something
Speaker 1: about him is tightly wound. Sorry, Love, it's just he
Speaker 1: gestures to the drawings. He's carrying something unfinished about the
Speaker 1: quick apology. He heads to the kitchen, shouldering past Adam,
Speaker 1: and then, for a moment, the two of them are
Speaker 1: in the half light, silhouetted against the open fridge. Something
Speaker 1: passes between them, a burst of laughter, Michael's voice low
Speaker 1: and amused. Adam says something back, his head tipped sideways,
Speaker 1: and their faces split in matching grins. I can't hear
Speaker 1: the joke, it's too private, but Olivia looks up at
Speaker 1: the sound, an unreadable shadow in her eyes. Later, as
Speaker 1: dessert is served and Michael finally takes his place, he
Speaker 1: squeezes my thigh under the table. This is perfect, he says,
Speaker 1: too loudly. He asks hectic questions about everyone's night, teases
Speaker 1: Meyer about her market addiction, promises to coordinate next weekend's dinner.
Speaker 1: When Adam cracks wise, Michael's eyes flick toward him, just
Speaker 1: for a second, then back to me. Inside I catalog
Speaker 1: every glance. Is it just camaraderie? Men can be friends
Speaker 1: with men, of course, even affectionate, even conspiratorial. Michael's never
Speaker 1: been jealous. In fact, he's always teased me for flirting
Speaker 1: with baristas. But the kitchen laughter lingers in my mind
Speaker 1: like a pulled thread. I try to let it go
Speaker 1: to trust in the five years we've built here, the teams,
Speaker 1: we've grown into a community. But something in that one
Speaker 1: moment needles. What is Michael hiding? I wonder? And why
Speaker 1: does this stupid, tiny crack feel like the start of
Speaker 1: something I won't be able to ignore. I blame the
Speaker 1: uncertain shape of our lives for the anxiety blooming in
Speaker 1: my chest. After every one's gone, After Michael kisses my forehead,
Speaker 1: distracted and promises to help clean to morrow, I spend
Speaker 1: two long wiping counters that are already clean. It's almost
Speaker 1: two in the morning before I convince myself that it's nothing,
Speaker 1: that I'm just tired, that the night came together as
Speaker 1: it was meant to. But even in sleep, Michael's place
Speaker 1: beside me is heavy with new possibility, as though something
Speaker 1: unseeable has shifted the weight of the bed we share.
Speaker 1: The next morning, I wake to the clang of Michael's
Speaker 1: phone against the marble bathroom counter. He's already dressed, tie askew,
Speaker 1: sleeves rolled, still balancing coffee in one hand while answering
Speaker 1: emails with the other. He comes back into the bedroom
Speaker 1: and leans in for a quick kiss, the smell of
Speaker 1: tooth paste mixing with coffee. Sorry, I was off last night,
Speaker 1: he says, running a hand through hair that's not quite dry.
Speaker 1: Work's a mess. You were amazing. Every one adores you
Speaker 1: got that dinner party magic. I forced myself to smile.
Speaker 1: You didn't have to bring work home, I say gently,
Speaker 1: But he's already checking his calendar, barely hearing already elsewhere.
Speaker 1: Our week ends when we first met were all about
Speaker 1: being present together, picnics in Prospect Park, where he'd orchestrate
Speaker 1: scavenger hunts for us, sometimes roping near by kids into
Speaker 1: the fun. His humor was infectious, always quick to be
Speaker 1: silly for my benefit, or to diffuse a tense exchange
Speaker 1: with a ridiculous pun. When he proposed just us late
Speaker 1: on a Saturday in the tiny apartment above a Chinese
Speaker 1: bakery on Flatbush, I said yes before he could even
Speaker 1: finish the question. Back then, our circles overlapped so fluidly,
Speaker 1: Olivia plopping down at any hour, sometimes crashing on our couch,
Speaker 1: Meyer and John trailing in for movies, and red Wine,
Speaker 1: Alex bringing his revolving cast of partners until he settled
Speaker 1: on Laurie. When Michael and I bought this brownstone, it
Speaker 1: felt like a miracle, a fixed lapper with just enough
Speaker 1: space for our friends to gossip in the kitchen and
Speaker 1: argue over politics in the living room. Every wall held
Speaker 1: a relic or a joke, the hideous good luck horseshoe
Speaker 1: we found at a thrift store, the framed admission sticker
Speaker 1: from the night we first toured the met together. He'd
Speaker 1: text me inside jokes about bizarre market fines, and I'd
Speaker 1: send him shots of weird architectural details I titled Michael Core.
Speaker 1: After my last teaching contract fizzled, I started my m FA,
Speaker 1: living off tutoring gigs and haunted by the programs relentless deadlines.
Speaker 1: Michael took to picking up more shifts, more hours, insisting
Speaker 1: I stay enrolled, that my stories meant everything to him,
Speaker 1: that he'd make the logistics work. We became a partnership,
Speaker 1: creative equals, or so I thought. We fit together in
Speaker 1: routines that felt sacred, Saturday wine tastings, grocery runs at
Speaker 1: dawn before the crowds, even the way we folded kitchen
Speaker 1: towels together after parties, talking about the ways we'd reinvent
Speaker 1: ourselves next year. Now, the Brownstone is two things at once,
Speaker 1: a shelter and a stage for performing together. For friends
Speaker 1: who expect seamlessness, You're the glue, Olivia said once, He's
Speaker 1: the sparkle. My friends mean everything to me, especially in
Speaker 1: New York, where loneliness always lurks. I've seen relationships splinter
Speaker 1: here for less, seen friends disappear into couples or careers.
Speaker 1: Our parties, our little self made community, were a defense
Speaker 1: against all that I believed almost religiously in us and
Speaker 1: what we'd made. But lately cracks have run through even
Speaker 1: the most basic rituals. It's not just Michael's promotion and
Speaker 1: long nights, though those are a wedge between us. Sometimes
Speaker 1: I feel left behind, adrift among his glittering, successful colleagues,
Speaker 1: while my own workshops become a quiet struggle that I
Speaker 1: barely talk about any more. I mention this to Olivia.
Speaker 1: One Sunday morning, when she meets me at the Grand
Speaker 1: Army Plaza market. We both juggle iced coffees and plastic
Speaker 1: sacks of whatever herbs are in season. She's glowing, happier
Speaker 1: than I've seen her in years, chatting about Adam, the
Speaker 1: new boyfriend, so smart, so sweet, and weirdly already comfortable
Speaker 1: in our circle. I let her talk, absorbing the warm
Speaker 1: fuzz of her approval. How quickly she folds Adam into
Speaker 1: the group's language. When she asks about Michael, I shrug,
Speaker 1: busier than ever, I say, but we're good, tired, but good.
Speaker 1: Later that afternoon, I start prepping for another dinner, may
Speaker 1: be Vietnamese this time, or some comfort food. I go
Speaker 1: to uncork the last bottle of our shape newf dow pape,
Speaker 1: a ritual for the two of us, only to discover
Speaker 1: its missing. The court hawk is already in the trash,
Speaker 1: label stained, and a single glass sits clean and unused
Speaker 1: on the draining board. Michael had said he wanted to
Speaker 1: save that bottle for a surprise at work, something to
Speaker 1: toast a new contract. But now it's here, quietly gone,
Speaker 1: no celebration, no story. I want to believe it's just
Speaker 1: a mix up. Maybe he brought the last glass to
Speaker 1: our bedroom and forgot. But something twists in my chest,
Speaker 1: a tiny splinter I can't dig out. At brunch a
Speaker 1: few days later, Adam drops a comment that stops me cold.
Speaker 1: Remember that tajen joke from last time, he asks Olivia,
Speaker 1: But he looks at me, grinning. I haven't been able
Speaker 1: to get that phrase out of my head all week.
Speaker 1: Olivia laughs, then pokes fun at something else, But I
Speaker 1: file the moment away. That joke was just between Michael
Speaker 1: and me, about the time I mistook cinnamon for coming
Speaker 1: and nearly upended the whole recipe. Only we would laugh
Speaker 1: about it. How did Adam know? Later that night, as
Speaker 1: we finish a rare evening home together, Michael's foam pings
Speaker 1: a string of texts lighting his screen. He excuses himself annoyed,
Speaker 1: saying it's a client. I hear the front door close outside.
Speaker 1: I catch a glimpse of him pacing, hunched, talking rapidly,
Speaker 1: one palm slapping a thigh in frostration. When he comes back,
Speaker 1: he's quiet, slightly hollowed, brushing off questions with just annoying
Speaker 1: client drama. Nothing you need to worry about. I blame myself.
Speaker 1: Then maybe my insecurity is leaking into everything. Maybe stress
Speaker 1: is contagious. Michael is the most hard working person I know,
Speaker 1: always driven, always turning stress into something positive. I vow
Speaker 1: not to ask about the wine, not to replay the
Speaker 1: morning's joke, not to interrogate each minute of his absence.
Speaker 1: I resolve to be the cool, understanding spouse, the one
Speaker 1: who doesn't make his long days even longer with useless jealousies.
Speaker 1: But as the week passes, the distance between us sharpens.
Speaker 1: Michael's late nights multiply, and his sleep is fractured. I
Speaker 1: listen as he mumbles in his dreams, sometimes tossing Adam's
Speaker 1: name in the jumble of architecture jargon, sometimes calling out
Speaker 1: for sight plans or contracts. When I press a palm
Speaker 1: to his back, he startles awake, apologizing for nothing in particular.
Speaker 1: Expense reports begin pinging through our shared inbox, another note
Speaker 1: in our domestic symphony. I'm sorting tuition payments and glancing
Speaker 1: down the column when a familiar entry stops me. Been
Speaker 1: two hundred twenty, followed by the date of the last
Speaker 1: party and the amount precisely matching the price of our
Speaker 1: special wine. It appears on Michael's business card, beneath the
Speaker 1: heading for entertainment. I click through lips pressed. Why would
Speaker 1: he expense our wine into his work account instead of
Speaker 1: paying from home? How could our private ritual become fodder
Speaker 1: for some architectural celebration he never mentioned. At the next dinner,
Speaker 1: Michael and Adam arrive together, laughing too loudly as they
Speaker 1: climb the stoop. Their hands brush as they say down groceries.
Speaker 1: For a moment, their arms are still touching even as
Speaker 1: they split off, moving toward different parts of the room. Olivia,
Speaker 1: always the brightest face in the group, barely says a
Speaker 1: word the whole night. She watches the men with something
Speaker 1: sharp in her posture, her smile brittle. I catch her
Speaker 1: glancing sideways whenever Michael or Adam speaks, then looking away
Speaker 1: too fast to meet my eyes. Conversation at the table
Speaker 1: is twitchier than usual, people asking about work stuff and
Speaker 1: new projects with a peculiar orchestrated superficiality. It's small things,
Speaker 1: but the air is different, tense enough that I keep
Speaker 1: fishing for laughter, trying to reset the energy with old
Speaker 1: stories or extra wine. When Michael disappears to clean up
Speaker 1: after dessert. Adam follows, mentioning an inside joke about putting
Speaker 1: away the glasses. I step into the pantry for paper
Speaker 1: towels and freeze, just out of sight. The kitchen is
Speaker 1: a low hum cabinet, doors, plates stacking. Michael's laugh again, warm, fond,
Speaker 1: fond in a way I don't entirely recognize. When the
Speaker 1: kitchen door swings open, Adam is bent close to Michael,
Speaker 1: lips moving rapid and low. They stop talking when they
Speaker 1: see me, Michael jerking upright, his face closing like a fist.
Speaker 1: Adam grins at me too wide. Just teaching your husband
Speaker 1: about glassware, he jokes, he's trainable. I try to laugh,
Speaker 1: but it sounds thin in my own ears. Afterwards, Michael
Speaker 1: is quieter than usual. When I ask if he's seen
Speaker 1: my keys, He's defensive, snaps that Adam already returned them
Speaker 1: last weekend. Didn't you notice? I hadn't, But I let
Speaker 1: it drop the way Michael says, Adam's name is new,
Speaker 1: more familiar, more practiced, more something. A week later, while
Speaker 1: cleaning out Michael's jacket before running it to the dry cleaners,
Speaker 1: I find a slip of paper tucked into an inside
Speaker 1: pocket in Adam's spinly looping script, Thanks for last night,
Speaker 1: no context, no date. Was Adam thanking him for a party,
Speaker 1: for something else. Michael isn't home to ask. He's out
Speaker 1: again on a sight visit. Olivia used to be my anchor,
Speaker 1: the friend I could text at any hour who'd celebrate
Speaker 1: my every story, acceptance or rejection, over ramen or whisky.
Speaker 1: Now her replies are sparse, perfunctory. Every attempt to get
Speaker 1: together as couples is rebuffed, Adam's slammed, or we really should,
Speaker 1: but I'm swamped, or yes soon. The warmth that knit
Speaker 1: us together ebbs replaced by something skittish. I try to
Speaker 1: overdose on normalcy, movie nights with Meyer, writing sprints at
Speaker 1: the library, solo walks in the park, But it all
Speaker 1: feels stale, truncated. My nerves are frayed. The next time
Speaker 1: Michael claims to be out at a client dinner, I
Speaker 1: scroll idly through Instagram in bed, half listening to an
Speaker 1: old playlist. A mutual acquaintance, Laurie has posted a photo
Speaker 1: from a dimly lit speakeasy uptown. She tags every one
Speaker 1: at the table. Michael and Adams stand together, drinks raised high,
Speaker 1: both grinning like they have a secret. No sign of clients,
Speaker 1: no hint of a work function. A boutique hotel charge
Speaker 1: shows up, buried among transportation receipts and architectural book orders.
Speaker 1: Michael claims it's for a client put up overnight, too
Speaker 1: tired to get home. It's a name I should recognize,
Speaker 1: but when I press him for details, he stutters, rattles
Speaker 1: off a generic. They're a big client, you don't know them.
Speaker 1: It's complicated. I let it hang, watching his face grow guarded,
Speaker 1: the muscles in his jaw tight as he turns back
Speaker 1: to his laptop. The next dinner party is awkward. Adam
Speaker 1: and Michael orbit each other, yet try too hard not to.
Speaker 1: Olivia spends most of the evening helping me in the kitchen,
Speaker 1: barely eating her own food, washing already washed glasses. Mutual
Speaker 1: friends exchange uncertain glances when the conversation lulls, everyone sensing
Speaker 1: an invisible wall forming. That night, after cleaning up, Michael
Speaker 1: rests a hand on my should. The PreCure strange, reassuring
Speaker 1: but also distant. You've been stressed about money again, He
Speaker 1: says that wine Adam and I opened it for the
Speaker 1: firm to celebrate landing the Huron site together. I charged
Speaker 1: it to the project, but that was my call. Sorry,
Speaker 1: I didn't mention you know how busy it's been. I
Speaker 1: want to yell, to test the many holes in his story,
Speaker 1: but I don't. Instead, I close my eyes and remember
Speaker 1: the better times, the hope that things can still make sense.
Speaker 1: I pretend to accept Michael's explanation. There's enough plausible deniability
Speaker 1: to keep the peace in the mornings. His hand finds
Speaker 1: mine under the covers, but his grip is faint. A
Speaker 1: few days later, Michael suggests a getaway. Let's get out
Speaker 1: of the city, he says, suddenly catching me off guard
Speaker 1: as I'm rinsing coffee mugs. We haven't really connected in ages.
Speaker 1: He sounds almost earnest, so I nod, relieved and let
Speaker 1: him take the lead. He books a rental in the Catskills,
Speaker 1: just for two nights, a reset button, he promises. We
Speaker 1: drive north, listening to old playlists, the kind that conjure
Speaker 1: the first summer we met. Michael seems softer, apologetic, without words.
Speaker 1: At dinner, he paus me real attention, asks about my writing,
Speaker 1: my workshops, jokes about my obsession with saffron rice. The
Speaker 1: air feels easier between us in the tiny rented kitchen.
Speaker 1: He pulls me into a kiss so familiar it aches
Speaker 1: that night. It's like rediscovering an old language. Only we
Speaker 1: speak wrapped in a blanket beside a fire pit that
Speaker 1: smells of pine. He looks almost childlike, the city stripped
Speaker 1: off his face. I know I've been impossible, he says,
Speaker 1: into my neck. Things at work, pressure, deadlines, all of it.
Speaker 1: I hate being this guy. I miss us, I miss
Speaker 1: your stories, your weird herb obsessions. He laughs, a hint
Speaker 1: of the old Michael in that lop sided grin. Let's
Speaker 1: try again. I want us to feel good again. I
Speaker 1: believe him in that moment. I let the relief slide
Speaker 1: over me, warm as the fire. For that week end,
Speaker 1: I try not to worry about Adam or Olivia or
Speaker 1: missing bottles of wine. Michael holds me close all night.
Speaker 1: In the morning, there's coffee and laughter, and I let
Speaker 1: myself imagine, if only briefly, that I've been foolish. Let
Speaker 1: jealousy grow wild for nothing. Back in Brooklyn, the bubble
Speaker 1: bursts quickly. Adam stops coming to our dinners. Olivia, impossible
Speaker 1: to pin down, always claims a late work call. I
Speaker 1: text her one morning brunch soon need you. She ignores that,
Speaker 1: then replies days later with a single heart emoji. With
Speaker 1: Michael at work, I sought the laundry, a mindless ritual.
Speaker 1: I empty out his jacket pockets for change before stuffing
Speaker 1: them into the machine, and my hand lands on a
Speaker 1: fabric unlike any of his usual business ties. I tug
Speaker 1: it free and stare a silk tie navy with a
Speaker 1: thin gold stripe monogrammed delicately at the end in faint
Speaker 1: script a s Michael doesn't have any monogram ties. I
Speaker 1: stand there the fabric, cool and slightly stiff between my fingers,
Speaker 1: willing it to make sense. I bring it to my
Speaker 1: nose faint cologne, not Michael's usual scent, something lighter, citrus
Speaker 1: blades over musk. I turn it in my hands for
Speaker 1: several minutes, considering whether to say anything, whether to return
Speaker 1: it quietly to his drawer, whether to ask Adam or Olivia. Instead,
Speaker 1: I tuck it away in my own bureau evidence with
Speaker 1: no context. Late at night, I start going back through
Speaker 1: old party photos, nostalgia and anxiety, platted together, slide after slide,
Speaker 1: dinner tables lined with friends and bottles, laughter bent into corners.
Speaker 1: Michael and Adam together in the background of so many shots.
Speaker 1: Some images are nothing, friends side by side, the warmth
Speaker 1: of a shared joke. But in others, they linger at
Speaker 1: the edges, their faces closer than the rest, eyes tilted
Speaker 1: toward each other when everyone else elsewhere. I don't know
Speaker 1: what to believe. Each day brings a new contradiction, a
Speaker 1: new small betrayal or half explanation. Michael grows quieter at home,
Speaker 1: still busy, still full of loving touches and careful words,
Speaker 1: but never quite present. Olivia is impossible to reach in
Speaker 1: any real way. Her texts grow awkward, conversations cut short.
Speaker 1: One Thursday, after gathering my courage, I call a friend
Speaker 1: of Michael's from the firm, Alex, to ask about the
Speaker 1: supposed client dinners over drinks. Alex laughs, Confused Michael, he's
Speaker 1: barely been out lately, actually too slammed with paperwork, pretty
Speaker 1: much drops in, drops out these days. When I probe
Speaker 1: about Adam, he hesitates, then says they've worked late a
Speaker 1: couple times on projects, stuff, but nothing wild. Why I
Speaker 1: brush it off with a quick excuse, but the tension
Speaker 1: throbs between my ears. A few days later, Olivia asks
Speaker 1: if I want to grab coffee. We meet at a
Speaker 1: quiet cafe in cobble Hill, each picking nervously at a quassa.
Speaker 1: She's tense, eyes rimmed pink, and after a few minutes
Speaker 1: of forced small talk, she sighs. Adam and I, She begins,
Speaker 1: it's weird we keep missing each other. I don't know.
Speaker 1: Everything's off. I nod, swallowing my own commentary. You seem upset,
Speaker 1: I say softly. She shrugs, avoiding my eyes. Work's killing
Speaker 1: me and Adam's just He's gotten distant, is all. Her
Speaker 1: voice hitches. Not that you need my drama on top
Speaker 1: of your own. There's something unspoken in her words, a
Speaker 1: plea to stop or to ask more. But I don't push.
Speaker 1: I can't. Walking home, I finally decide to ask Adam
Speaker 1: directly about the parties, about Olivia, about my own doubts.
Speaker 1: I invite him to coffee under the pretense of helping
Speaker 1: me plan a surprise for Olivia's birthday, which is weeks away,
Speaker 1: far enough to seem plausible. Adam arrives late, and when
Speaker 1: He's spots me seems skittish, fidgety. He orders a black coffee,
Speaker 1: sits across from me, too stiffly. Thanks for doing this,
Speaker 1: I begin, then, falter. I just wanted your help with Olivia.
Speaker 1: She's worried. You both seem off. He looks down, tracing
Speaker 1: a finger along the table top. It's not you, he says,
Speaker 1: voice flat. It's just being complicated with everything. I forced
Speaker 1: myself not to press yet. You and Michael have gotten close,
Speaker 1: haven't you, I ask, letting the words hang casually. Adam's
Speaker 1: shoulders tense, but he manages a quick smile. I guess
Speaker 1: we're both night owls, stuck at those endless parties, needed
Speaker 1: someone to vent to. The Silence between us grows heavy.
Speaker 1: He finishes his coffee, still not meeting my eyes. Look,
Speaker 1: whatever s happened, just no, none of us meant for
Speaker 1: it to get messy. On the way home, my phone
Speaker 1: buzzes again. Michael's name lights the screen. Dinner to night,
Speaker 1: something quick, just us, he writes. When we meet, he's
Speaker 1: tense and distracted during our tie take out. His phone
Speaker 1: pings steadily from the counter. I see it light up
Speaker 1: with Adam's name. At least three times. Michael glances down
Speaker 1: silences it, each time, holding his face too carefully blank.
Speaker 1: I keep my words measured, but inside every suspicion solidifies
Speaker 1: the truth I realize is close enough to touch. But
Speaker 1: I still don't know where phantasy ends and reality begins.
Speaker 1: I walk through the Brownstone after Michael falls asleep, rooms
Speaker 1: lit by only one lamp. The traces of our rituals,
Speaker 1: the wine rack, the souvenir teacups, the tiny pile of
Speaker 1: extra napkins from our last dinner now feel like props
Speaker 1: in the dark. I remember the moment in the kitchen,
Speaker 1: laughter thick with meaning I wasn't meant to overhear, and
Speaker 1: the details once background noise, return with new clarity. Michael
Speaker 1: and Adams hands brush as they set down groceries, The
Speaker 1: private jokes that exclude even Olivia, the wine bottles that
Speaker 1: vanish without explanation. I try to summon anger, tell myself
Speaker 1: I should storm into the bedroom and shake an answer loose,
Speaker 1: but exhaustion and some stubborn, poisoned hope keep me still.
Speaker 1: I hold the tie in my hand, turn it over
Speaker 1: one more time, and slip it into my pillow case,
Speaker 1: tucking questions under my head as I fall into uneasy sleep.
Speaker 1: In the life we build, every object, every friend, every
Speaker 1: ritual now seems to hold a second meaning, one I
Speaker 1: can almost see, if I could only bring myself to
Speaker 1: look closer. The next morning, I barely register the faint
Speaker 1: light bleeding into our bedroom as the city starts its
Speaker 1: metallic song. Michael leaves before dawn, as quietly as I
Speaker 1: imagine someone can leave a life. I hear the shuffle
Speaker 1: of dress shoes, the paws near my side of the bed,
Speaker 1: a hesitation that almost wakes me, almost but not quiet.
Speaker 1: When I finally sit up, the tie is still tucked
Speaker 1: beneath my pillow, like a misplaced charm, velvet soft and
Speaker 1: full of threat. I moved through the day, haunted by
Speaker 1: the feeling of being out of step, like every one
Speaker 1: else knows the choreography except me. In the kitchen, the
Speaker 1: stacked dishes seem to whisper off with their uneven towers.
Speaker 1: Its grocery day, and I consider skipping. But muscle memory
Speaker 1: winds canvas bag coat, a list sketched in Michael's handwriting,
Speaker 1: left magnetized to the fridge from last week. I stare
Speaker 1: at his blocky all caps lemons, saffron r A and
Speaker 1: I ar cherries June red onions, not shalots. Remember he
Speaker 1: added a wobbly smiley face next to red onions. How
Speaker 1: meticulous he could be when he wanted at the store.
Speaker 1: I almost text Olivia for a quick lunch. I hover
Speaker 1: thumb over her name in my phone, anxious, indecisive, afraid
Speaker 1: of her silence more than her words. Instead, I run
Speaker 1: into Mire by the cheese counter. She hugs me a
Speaker 1: little too tightly. How are you em? You look? I
Speaker 1: don't know thin, I allow her concern, leaning into the
Speaker 1: familiarity long semester, I say, then, before I can stop myself,
Speaker 1: have you seen much of Olivia lately? Not really, Maya says, frowning,
Speaker 1: she's been flaky. I ran into her at the gym
Speaker 1: and she said work is a madhouse, but she looked
Speaker 1: really tired. And Adam, well, I haven't seen him since
Speaker 1: your last party. Did something happen? The directness of the
Speaker 1: question surprises me almost as much as the surge of
Speaker 1: relief I feel at not being the only one noticing.
Speaker 1: I nearly confess everything right there, but instead I pivot
Speaker 1: deflection now my second language. I just feel like everyone's
Speaker 1: too busy lately. Michael too Meyer gives me a knowing look,
Speaker 1: as if she can read the rest in my face.
Speaker 1: Invite people for a wine night, low pressure. Sometimes we
Speaker 1: just need an excuse to talk it out. I promise
Speaker 1: I'll think about it, though already my appetite for hosting
Speaker 1: feels brittle. Walking home with groceries biting into my palms,
Speaker 1: I try to rewind each memory from the last few weeks.
Speaker 1: Adam's disappearance, Olivia's retreat, Michael's late meetings, the expense report,
Speaker 1: the monogram tie burning a hole in my consciousness. And Alex,
Speaker 1: the friend who'd slipped, said Michael was barely at after
Speaker 1: work events. How could Michael and Adam have so many
Speaker 1: overlapping nights but with no one else present. Later, Michael calls,
Speaker 1: claiming he'll be late again. The words clipped and details
Speaker 1: conveniently vague. Love you, he says by wrote, which stings
Speaker 1: more than it soothes. I set two places anyway, half
Speaker 1: hoping he'll walk in on time. Just once he doesn't.
Speaker 1: I eat alone, the scrape of my fork echoing in
Speaker 1: the two large room around ten. Olivia's name lights up
Speaker 1: my phone. I snatch it up, hope flaring. Hey, she says,
Speaker 1: her voice wobbily, A little raw, live you okay? She hesitates.
Speaker 1: Then I just needed to hear a friendly voice. She
Speaker 1: doesn't elaborate, and neither do I. We talk about nothing,
Speaker 1: market prices, the impossibility of getting an affordable massage in Brooklyn,
Speaker 1: a TV show. Neither of us watches everything but Michael Adam,
Speaker 1: the gravity pulling us apart. Finally, just before we hang up,
Speaker 1: Olivia drops her guard and notch you ever feel like
Speaker 1: you're the last to know something, even about your own life.
Speaker 1: And because it's Olivia, because we've been friends since we
Speaker 1: were nineteen and naive, I say every day lately, an
Speaker 1: uneasy peace settles. The following Saturday, I wake to the
Speaker 1: sound of footsteps. Michael is home for once, with no
Speaker 1: explanation for his early return. He moves silently through our
Speaker 1: morning routine, pouring oatmeal into bowls, slicing bananas with measured precision.
Speaker 1: He doesn't ask about my plans, and I don't offer
Speaker 1: for a long stretch. All we do is inhabit the
Speaker 1: same space, each quietly orbiting our own pain. After breakfast,
Speaker 1: he lingers in the kitchen, scrolling his phone. I watch
Speaker 1: him from the hallway, unseen. A thin, secret smile twitches
Speaker 1: across his lips as he types, then quickly disappears. When
Speaker 1: he senses me watching, he slips the phone away and
Speaker 1: smiles too brightly walk to the market with me. We
Speaker 1: stroll together, arms close but not touching the city's bustle
Speaker 1: knitting around us. Michael points out architectural quirks, cornices, lintels,
Speaker 1: the lost art of brick bond patterns. He talks about
Speaker 1: work with the old enthusiasm, but there's a mechanical edge
Speaker 1: to it. I try to ask questions, hoping to find
Speaker 1: the pulse beneath his words, but every answer is too quick,
Speaker 1: too smooth. At the vendor stalls, we run into Adam
Speaker 1: on his own. He's holding a coffee, sunglasses pushed up
Speaker 1: into his hair. Michael em his smile is nervous, but
Speaker 1: he recovers with practiced charm. The three of us stand
Speaker 1: awkwardly beside a stall selling blood oranges. Michael talks fast
Speaker 1: about the new hotel lobby redesign, insisting Adam give input.
Speaker 1: Adam demurs, stammering something about deadlines of his own. Come
Speaker 1: by for dinner next week, I offer, testing the atmosphere.
Speaker 1: Adam looks at Michael before answering depends, he says, and
Speaker 1: then I'll check in with live and get back to you.
Speaker 1: Michael's eyes linger too long on Adam's profil, and when
Speaker 1: Adam leaves, there's a strange relief in his posture. We
Speaker 1: collect our market treasures in silence. Michael tries to joke
Speaker 1: something about Adam being lost without Olivia's shopping lists, but
Speaker 1: I catch the strain behind it. By the time we
Speaker 1: walk home, I feel stretched thin, my patience eroded by
Speaker 1: endless half truths. When we reach the stoop, Michael's phone pings.
Speaker 1: He glanced at it, then at me. Just Olivia, he claims,
Speaker 1: though I see the tension return to his jaw. She okay,
Speaker 1: I ask, Michael, shrugs. She wants Adam to help her
Speaker 1: pick a sofa to morrow. I almost laugh at the absurdity.
Speaker 1: Since when did Adam have opinions about furniture? Doesn't sound
Speaker 1: like him. He's full of surprises, isn't he, Michael says,
Speaker 1: and though he smiles, it doesn't soften his face. That night,
Speaker 1: after Michael claims exhaustion and goes to bed early, I
Speaker 1: sit in the living room, laptop balanced on my knee,
Speaker 1: half a glass of wine untouched. I open our shared photos,
Speaker 1: scroll backward. One picture snags my attention, A birthday from
Speaker 1: two months ago. Michael and Adam cheek to cheek, Michael's
Speaker 1: hands splayed across Adam's shoulder. It could be innocent, an
Speaker 1: ordinary party snap shot. But now I see the way
Speaker 1: their bodies lean together, the secret current. Something unsettles in me,
Speaker 1: a slow internal landslide. I sleep fitfully, caught in dreams
Speaker 1: where voices whisper just out of hearing, faces blur and sharpen.
Speaker 1: I wake at four a m. To the dull glow
Speaker 1: of Michael's phone, screen down on the night stand. I
Speaker 1: don't touch it, but I think about what I would
Speaker 1: find if I did. On Sunday, Michael spends most of
Speaker 1: the day on his laptop, headphones in, typing furiously. I
Speaker 1: busy myself with writing half started stories, abandoned after a
Speaker 1: paragraph or two. In the late afternoon, I find the
Speaker 1: tie again, still tucked inside my drawer. I turn it
Speaker 1: over beneath the window light, tracing the letters A s
Speaker 1: Adam Smith no way around it. Impulsively, I text Olivia
Speaker 1: tie navy with gold stripe monogrammed a s ever seen
Speaker 1: Adam ware one. Immediately, I regret it. I wait, heartbeat fluttering,
Speaker 1: but after an hour no reply comes. Instead, I get
Speaker 1: a text from Adam. Hey, m did you need something
Speaker 1: from me? Live says you messaged about a tie. My
Speaker 1: stomach clenches. How did he know so fast? I type
Speaker 1: and erase three versions of a response before settling on
Speaker 1: just found it in laundry. Wasn't sure if it was
Speaker 1: Michael's or Adam's. Two little dots bounce as Adam responds,
Speaker 1: then vanish. Finally, yeah, it's mine. Must have left it
Speaker 1: last time we were over. Sorry, I want to ask
Speaker 1: when the time lane is fuzzy. Adam wasn't at the
Speaker 1: last dinner or the one before, but I let it drop,
Speaker 1: unwilling to open a new front. Later that evening, Michael
Speaker 1: is sullen, distracted, fussing with a set of blueprints at
Speaker 1: the kitchen table. I ask, do you want to talk
Speaker 1: about anything? He frustrates, snapping his pencil in half. Talk
Speaker 1: about what. I'm fine, just tired. It's all this, he
Speaker 1: waves at the papers, And I feel like you're angry
Speaker 1: at me. All the time. I grapple with a bitter laugh.
Speaker 1: I'm not angry, I'm confused. I just want to know
Speaker 1: what's going on. He stands nearly knocking his chair over.
Speaker 1: You're reading into everything. His voice is tight, small, who's
Speaker 1: filling your head with all this? Live? Olivia's barely speaking
Speaker 1: to me. The anger slips out louder than I intend.
Speaker 1: Michael stares at me wounded. Look, I'll try harder. Okay,
Speaker 1: let's just can we go back to how things were?
Speaker 1: I don't know what to say. Maybe it's not a
Speaker 1: matter of wanting. Maybe we're beyond the possibility. That week,
Speaker 1: I throw myself into my writing, into Errand's, anything that
Speaker 1: will fill the empty spaces where Michael used to reside
Speaker 1: the few classes I attend Blur at the Edges. One night,
Speaker 1: as I lock the door behind me after a workshop,
Speaker 1: I see Adam standing on the opposite curb, hands jammed
Speaker 1: in his pockets. I'm not sure if he sees me.
Speaker 1: I duck my head, walking quickly, pulse a drum beat
Speaker 1: in my chest. Michael texts before I get home, out
Speaker 1: with the guys, don't wait up, no details, no warmth.
Speaker 1: That night I don't sleep at all. On Thursday, Olivia
Speaker 1: calls unexpectedly. She wants to walk. We meet at Carroll
Speaker 1: Park dusk, Licking at the edges of the playground's iron fence.
Speaker 1: She seems frayed, eyes shadowed, her coat buttoned wrong. I
Speaker 1: haven't been myself, she admits, her voice a rush of air.
Speaker 1: Adam and I. He's not talking. You and Michael seem
Speaker 1: I don't know. Everything's all split apart, and no one
Speaker 1: will tell the truth. I touch her hand. Do you
Speaker 1: think there's some one else? She balks, shakes her head.
Speaker 1: I've wondered. He's always texting someone, always saying it's work stuff.
Speaker 1: But then when I look at him, he looks so tired.
Speaker 1: She laughs raggedly. He told me he needed space to write.
Speaker 1: Now he barely writes at all. I want to confess
Speaker 1: all my suspicions, lay them between us, like mismatched laying cards.
Speaker 1: But there's something fragile about Olivia's composure. I'm afraid the
Speaker 1: truth will be too much. Instead, we walk in silence,
Speaker 1: city lights coloring the air. Before we part, I squeeze
Speaker 1: her arm, Promise me if you find out anything. She nods,
Speaker 1: her face crumpling a little you too. The next morning,
Speaker 1: Michael is gone long before my alarm on the kitchen
Speaker 1: counter a note dinner to night, let's try. I spend
Speaker 1: all day rehearsing what I want to say. He comes
Speaker 1: home at seven, carrying takeout. We sit on the back steps,
Speaker 1: food cooling in cardboard containers. Conversation is forced, so I
Speaker 1: shift the topic to music, to old stories, to the
Speaker 1: night we met at that ridiculous nineties themed bar. For
Speaker 1: a moment, I catch a glimpse of the old Michael,
Speaker 1: but his phone is never out of reach. Twice I
Speaker 1: see Adam's name light up in previews once a heart emoji.
Speaker 1: Michael snatches the phone away each time. Finally I break Michael,
Speaker 1: what's going on with you and Adam? He freezes nothing.
Speaker 1: We're friends? Are you sure? My voice trembles because this
Speaker 1: it doesn't feel like friendship any more. He stares at
Speaker 1: me a long beat than a too casual laugh. You
Speaker 1: sound insane, em you're jealous of Adam. Now I don't respond.
Speaker 1: It's not worth defending myself against a half truth. Meyer
Speaker 1: invites us both over for a casual movie night that
Speaker 1: week end. I agree, insisting Michael come too. Part of
Speaker 1: me desperate for a return to old pattens any hint
Speaker 1: of unity. We show up late. Olivia and Adam are
Speaker 1: already there, tensions swimming between them like a visible current.
Speaker 1: Half Way through the film, I step outside for air.
Speaker 1: Adam follows. We stand facing each other beneath the stoop light.
Speaker 1: The cities roar, a shield for quiet treachery. You know,
Speaker 1: I say not a question. Adam nods gaze averted. I'm sorry, Emily.
Speaker 1: His voice is almost a whisper for what I force.
Speaker 1: He can't answer. Instead, he says, I never meant to
Speaker 1: hurt any one. A breeze sweeps past, heavy with rain.
Speaker 1: When I re enter, Olivia glances up. Her eyes are wet,
Speaker 1: but she smiles as if nothing is wrong. After the movie,
Speaker 1: Adam hugs me good bye, his arms linger a moment
Speaker 1: too long. Olivia watches, arms crossed, draw tight. Michael is
Speaker 1: nowhere to be seen. Back home, the Brownstone feels cavernous.
Speaker 1: I clean the kitchen, washed dishes. When I open Michael's
Speaker 1: laptop to check for a recipe I'd bookmarked, a message
Speaker 1: pings in the browser. Adam's name again in a thread
Speaker 1: of recent chats. I don't read them. I can't. Instead,
Speaker 1: I close the laptop and turn out the lights. That night,
Speaker 1: I dream of dinner parties, friends gathered, candles flickering. I'm
Speaker 1: serving dessert, but everyone is blurred except Michael and Adam,
Speaker 1: who laugh together, heads close. Olivia is just out of reach,
Speaker 1: leaving the door open as she slips into the night.
Speaker 1: The next morning, I wake up knowing not a single fact,
Speaker 1: no irrefutable evidence, only the relentless ache of what has
Speaker 1: hollowed out our life. My hands shake as I poor coffee,
Speaker 1: but I steady them. I need a plan, not more questions.
Speaker 1: I email Alex at Michael's firm, carefully avoiding suspicion. We
Speaker 1: are planning Michael's birthday, trying to gather work friends too.
Speaker 1: Does any one from the last project want to join?
Speaker 1: You think? Alex's reply is brisk, No one really. He's
Speaker 1: been working solo lately. If he's seen any one outside
Speaker 1: the office, I don't know about it. Later that day,
Speaker 1: walking home, I make one last try for the truth.
Speaker 1: I text Adam coffee, justus needed to ask you something.
Speaker 1: He responds almost instantly. Sure. Tomorrow, work ten am. We
Speaker 1: meet in a little place we used to joke about
Speaker 1: the one with bad art on the walls and the
Speaker 1: world's most aggressive lavender scones. Adam looks exhausted, hair must
Speaker 1: skin sallow. He orders tea. For a long moment, neither
Speaker 1: of us speaks. Why did you and Michael start hanging
Speaker 1: out without Olivia? I finally ask, voice low, careful. He
Speaker 1: looks up, mouth set in a firm line. It wasn't
Speaker 1: supposed to be like this, like what a long loaded pause. Finally,
Speaker 1: Adam sighs, rubbing his eyes. We connected over work stuff.
Speaker 1: At first, late night talks. I was struggling writing, fitting
Speaker 1: into the group. I felt lost. Michael listened more than
Speaker 1: Olivia did, honestly, and he felt lonely too, or so
Speaker 1: he said. And then Adam fidgets with his tea cup,
Speaker 1: staring at the chipping line a glaze. Things got blurry.
Speaker 1: We didn't mean for it, but we started meeting outside
Speaker 1: of everyone. Drinks turned into more, I swear Emily, I
Speaker 1: didn't want to hurt any one. We tried to stop it,
Speaker 1: but there's something difficult about the way he looks at
Speaker 1: you and then at me. I feel nauseous, my hands
Speaker 1: trembling under the table. Adam's words wash over me. Confirmation
Speaker 1: and betrayal interwoven. So it's true, I murmur, you and Michael.
Speaker 1: He nods, eyes glossy. I'm so sorry. I push away
Speaker 1: from the table, barely remembering to grab my bag, the
Speaker 1: room closing in. I walk for blocks, up and down
Speaker 1: Atlantic Avenue, tears blurring shop fronts, shoes biting at my heels.
Speaker 1: At home, the Brownstone is empty, Michael is still at
Speaker 1: work or somewhere else. I go to the kitchen, pour
Speaker 1: a glass of our special wine I've been saving, and
Speaker 1: sip it, slowly, letting the taste turn acid in my mouth.
Speaker 1: When Michael comes home that night, I am waiting for
Speaker 1: him at the table, The empty glass between my palms
Speaker 1: candles unlit. He places his bag down, quietly, uncertainty flickering
Speaker 1: across his face as he sees me sitting there. The
Speaker 1: evidence has closed in around us, a monogram tie, an
Speaker 1: expense report, marked by our ritual whine, memories rendered estranged
Speaker 1: by the way two friends look at each other when
Speaker 1: no one else is watching. I summon my voice, steady
Speaker 1: with pain and determination. He stands shivering in the entry away,
Speaker 1: keys clutched so tight I hear them creak. The Brownstone
Speaker 1: is quieter than it's been in years, only the slow
Speaker 1: hiss of the radiator marking time. Michael's eyes flick from
Speaker 1: my empty glass, to the untouched dinner, to the tie
Speaker 1: my hand, navy gold striped. The endal's barely visible in
Speaker 1: this light. He doesn't speak first. I wait, watching him
Speaker 1: as anxiety works through his jaw, tightening every muscle in
Speaker 1: his face. For the first time, I watch him not
Speaker 1: as my husband, but as someone who has changed everything.
Speaker 1: He sits, He chooses the chair at the far corner
Speaker 1: of the table, the wrong chair, not the seat I
Speaker 1: set for him. Every time he fumbles with the cuffs
Speaker 1: of his shirt, smoothing non existent wrinkles, the silence is
Speaker 1: open raw. I want a scream, to run, to sweep
Speaker 1: every bottle off the rack and make him admit what
Speaker 1: I already know. But I hold myself still smaller than
Speaker 1: I have ever felt. I set the tie between us,
Speaker 1: not speaking, just watching his hands as he clocks it,
Speaker 1: lifts it, palms it like evidence in a trial. His
Speaker 1: cheeks flush, he stares straight at me. Adam left it,
Speaker 1: he says, as though stating a weather fact. The last
Speaker 1: time you invited every one there is a plea in
Speaker 1: his voice, a hope that this small truth, this fraction,
Speaker 1: is all I want. I lean forward, voice rough. When
Speaker 1: was that, Michael? Because Adam hasn't been at a dinner
Speaker 1: in weeks. He looks away, rubbing at the tie as
Speaker 1: if he'll raise the initials eraise me. I must be
Speaker 1: mixing up the weeks. The room feels smaller, as though
Speaker 1: gravity itself is compressing around us. I set my hand
Speaker 1: on the table, fingers splayed a top, chipped wood. You
Speaker 1: don't have to lie, please, just my voice cracks. Just
Speaker 1: don't lie to me any more. The air between us
Speaker 1: thick catches on his next words, em don't start this
Speaker 1: again tonight, he says softer. But the again is a knife.
Speaker 1: He sees the fury, the heartbreak flicker through me. It
Speaker 1: spurs him toward a gentling that is more condescension than comfort.
Speaker 1: I'm telling you it isn't what you think. Adam and I.
Speaker 1: He's been going through stuff. I tried to help you
Speaker 1: know how Olivia's been absent. Adam didn't have any one
Speaker 1: else to talk to. I shake my head, his tie,
Speaker 1: your jacket, hotel, charges the wine, Michael's stock stop making
Speaker 1: me run through the list. I know with each word
Speaker 1: my breath gets shorter, Panic and disappointment crawling up from
Speaker 1: my lungs. He's silent, twisting the tie. I see a
Speaker 1: shudder move through him, a decision passing across his face,
Speaker 1: the look of someone who cannot maintain the dam. Finally
Speaker 1: he lets go. We got close. I fucked up. I
Speaker 1: know I did. There's defeat and relief tangled together, some
Speaker 1: current I don't recognize, insulating the edges of his confession.
Speaker 1: He doesn't look at me. We didn't mean for it
Speaker 1: to happen. Not at first. It was late nights, and
Speaker 1: then it was more. He crumples elbows on the table
Speaker 1: head in hands. I want to hate him, but I
Speaker 1: mostly want him to keep talking to Lance the wound
Speaker 1: with every ugly truth, so I can finally stop hoping.
Speaker 1: What is it? I ask, unable to stem the tears
Speaker 1: that now come. Is this love or just loneliness? I
Speaker 1: don't even know? He whispers it's both, or it started
Speaker 1: as lonelines, long days, deadlines, feeling invisible. Adam listened. He
Speaker 1: understood in a way that he stops, and I hear it,
Speaker 1: the implication that I did not the accusation is almost
Speaker 1: too much. I stare him down and Olivia, did you
Speaker 1: even think? He flinches? No, I screwed up, Em. I
Speaker 1: kept thinking it had burn out. I'd end it before
Speaker 1: it got complicated. He was unhappy. I was it just
Speaker 1: one night we were working. It was late, and I
Speaker 1: wish I could take it back, but I can't. I
Speaker 1: want a scream. Did you ever plan to tell me?
Speaker 1: Did you ever plan to stop? Instead? I ask? How long? Michael?
Speaker 1: He breathes out, shaky, counting silently, since that second dinner
Speaker 1: party with Adam four five months? It wasn't all the time.
Speaker 1: Sometimes we just talked. His hands shake as they fold
Speaker 1: the tie slow motion before pushing it half way across
Speaker 1: the table. So this whole time, I say, and I'm
Speaker 1: not even sure what I mean. The dinners, the picnics,
Speaker 1: the night in the Catskills, making love by the fire.
Speaker 1: Was any of it real? Or just a patch to
Speaker 1: keep me from knowing? I never wanted to hurt you,
Speaker 1: he says. I love you, Em. That never changed. I
Speaker 1: tried to pull away, but Adam, every time we tried,
Speaker 1: we just ended up. He trails off. Is it over?
Speaker 1: I forced the question out? He looks miserable. I told
Speaker 1: him last week we had to stop. He's still texting
Speaker 1: a lot. I didn't I didn't want to blow up
Speaker 1: the group. I didn't want to lose everything. My laugh
Speaker 1: is brittle. You've lost it anyway. He nods, eyes glassy.
Speaker 1: I know there is a long, terrible silence, the kind
Speaker 1: where every second drags a decade behind it. My chest hurts,
Speaker 1: my hands cold. I trace a groove in the table,
Speaker 1: the wood worn from years of plates and glasses and
Speaker 1: elbows knocking in easy joy. It feels like trespassing now,
Speaker 1: like living in some one else's curated story. Finally, he
Speaker 1: reaches for me, Please, m can we try to fix
Speaker 1: this therapy space? Anything? Please? I study his outstretched fingers
Speaker 1: for the first time I can remember. I feel nothing
Speaker 1: in response, not anger, not desire, not even grief, only
Speaker 1: a clearness, an ugly and necessary relief. I shake my
Speaker 1: head gently. You need to go. He closes his eyes, nods.
Speaker 1: I'll pack a bag. He moves down the hall, gathering
Speaker 1: clothes in a dull haze. There's a reverence in the
Speaker 1: way he folds each shirt, as though still playing out
Speaker 1: the muscle memory of our partnership. I know in the
Speaker 1: feeble way. Memory persists that he'll look back later and
Speaker 1: wish for a dramatic scene, one of us throwing plates
Speaker 1: or slamming doors. Instead, everything is muted, practical, his hand
Speaker 1: on the banister, the suit case creek, the zipper's slow
Speaker 1: whine like a wound. Refusing to close. I text Olivia,
Speaker 1: my hands shaking so hard. The phone slips twice from
Speaker 1: my grip live. I know about Michael and Adam. I'm sorry.
Speaker 1: I hits end, then power the phone off, unable to
Speaker 1: bear the silent response, or worse the lack of one.
Speaker 1: Michael comes to where I sit. For a long moment,
Speaker 1: he just stands there, suit case in one hand, the
Speaker 1: tie in the other. He could offer a promise, a regret,
Speaker 1: a plea, but he's emptied of everything but defeat. He
Speaker 1: sets the tie next to me on the table and
Speaker 1: walks out with nothing else. I wait for the door
Speaker 1: to close, then crumple over my knees, sobbing, as though
Speaker 1: I can shed five years of love and betrayal in
Speaker 1: one night. The news goes off in clumsy ripples. A
Speaker 1: group thread splinters with a dozen unread messages. When Michael's
Speaker 1: absence from our circle is noticed. An invitation from Alex
Speaker 1: goes unanswered. Myer texts are question mark, then nothing more.
Speaker 1: The tradition is over before any one can name the ending.
Speaker 1: I hear from Olivia at three a m. Her message
Speaker 1: is short. I can't believe it. I'm sorry I didn't
Speaker 1: tell you. I didn't want to believe. We'll talk one day.
Speaker 1: I hold the phone to my chest, a tiny weight.
Speaker 1: There is no comfort in the shared pain, only confirmation
Speaker 1: of what is irretrievably broken. I drift from room to
Speaker 1: room those next hours, touching surfaces as though their textures
Speaker 1: will return me to my old life. The brownstone, stripped
Speaker 1: of noise, is cavernous. The echo of laughter from a
Speaker 1: thousand dinners still clings to corners, and after image of
Speaker 1: belonging I can't reach. I stare at our Spotify playlists,
Speaker 1: at the shelves lined with souvenirs, at the dumb horseshoe
Speaker 1: above the door. I know I'll never host another party
Speaker 1: here without feeling exposed, without wondering who is looking at
Speaker 1: whom and at what cost. Later, I stumble through sleep.
Speaker 1: Sometime near dawn. I sit upright in bed, suddenly cold, Michael,
Speaker 1: so of the bed is empty permanently. This time, I
Speaker 1: twist the tie around my hand, and for once I
Speaker 1: do not cry. Sunrise creeps across the walls, coloring the
Speaker 1: kitchen with a thin lemon light. I let it illuminate
Speaker 1: the fragments. Two wine glasses, one unwashed, one clean, A
Speaker 1: plate bearing the skeleton of last night's meal, the tie
Speaker 1: coiled and silent on the table. I take the tie,
Speaker 1: the phone, and Michael's key and set them all in
Speaker 1: a shoe box. I lock the front door for the
Speaker 1: first time since he left, change the alarm code, walk
Speaker 1: the staircase from one end to the other, checking for
Speaker 1: forgotten traces, a sock, a shaving kit, an extra charger.
Speaker 1: I gather them quietly, putting them by the door. I
Speaker 1: call my mother, the first real voice I have reached
Speaker 1: for in years. My voice shakes. I need you, I
Speaker 1: tell her. I do not give a reason. I text
Speaker 1: Maiya quietly, we won't be hosting Sunday. Sorry for the mess.
Speaker 1: Take care of Olivia if she'll let you. I cancel
Speaker 1: all upcoming parties, every gathering i'd scheduled, mark them as
Speaker 1: indefinite hiatus. The group chat falls silent. No one argues.
Speaker 1: I spend the day cleaning, moving through our rooms with
Speaker 1: a strange calm. With every object I touch, I remember
Speaker 1: how we made this life together, Every ritual, every secret,
Speaker 1: every vulnerability now hollowed out. I clean the kitchen top
Speaker 1: to bottom, empty the wine rack but for one last bottle,
Speaker 1: and carry it to the living room, setting it uncorked
Speaker 1: by the candles we never lit. Late afternoon, I make
Speaker 1: one final pass through the house. Every surface gleams, the
Speaker 1: brownstone remade, almost sterilized of comfort, but mine alone for
Speaker 1: the first time in years. I sit on the front
Speaker 1: steps and count the passing runners, mothers with strollers, old
Speaker 1: men hauling groceries. No one glances up. I am invisible,
Speaker 1: a small loss in a too big city near sunset.
Speaker 1: I take the tie from where it lay all day,
Speaker 1: wrap it tightly, and set it in the trash outside.
Speaker 1: There is nothing left for that kind of evidence. There
Speaker 1: is no message to send, no apology to text, no
Speaker 1: grand gesture to erase the reality of his absence. Rattling
Speaker 1: around this house. Evening closes around me, the city awakening,
Speaker 1: street lights blinking on, the sharp sound of laughter from
Speaker 1: a passing stoop catches me off guard, and for a
Speaker 1: moment I nearly smile. I go back inside, pour the
Speaker 1: last glass from our special bottle, and take it to
Speaker 1: the table. The sense of lamb preserved lemon old wine
Speaker 1: and a faint echo of Michael's cologne still coat the air.
Speaker 1: I sit alone, glass in hand, at the seat Michael
Speaker 1: once took at a hundred dinners, gaze steady at the
Speaker 1: darkening window. For a long time, I listened to Brooklyn's
Speaker 1: night sounds, letting each small noise remind me what I
Speaker 1: still possess. I raise my glass, no toast, no claim,
Speaker 1: just the steady act of continuing, and let the silence
Speaker 1: settle over the wreckage, aware that what's left is mine
Speaker 1: to carry and to rebuild. The room cools as dusk
Speaker 1: concedes fully to night, the muted blue of the street
Speaker 1: lamps slicking strange lines across the table. I sip, really sip,
Speaker 1: what's left of the shape neof dow pape, mouth working
Speaker 1: over the dense, spiced finish. I used to love. The
Speaker 1: tastes changed. Everything tastes different now. My hand wraps the
Speaker 1: heavy base of the glass, grounding myself in the ordinary,
Speaker 1: bodily act of drinking, swallowing, breathing, being physically present in
Speaker 1: a room that's not as empty as it feels. In
Speaker 1: the hours after Michael leaves, the walls hum with echoes
Speaker 1: of laughter and music and overlays of the way things
Speaker 1: used to be. It's both a comfort and an assault.
Speaker 1: I want to call Olivia again to explain to demand.
Speaker 1: She confirmed that I'm not the only one who feels
Speaker 1: like a ghost in her own life, but I can't.
Speaker 1: There are too many words, too much confusion, and a
Speaker 1: part of me knows deeply that even if I could
Speaker 1: beg for her friendship back, the group is split down
Speaker 1: the middle by something. No apology will fix whatever equilibrium
Speaker 1: we had. However, wobbily it's gone. My phone buzzes at
Speaker 1: eleven thirty one p m. Nearly making me knock over
Speaker 1: the wine. It's Maya, this time, a cautious, open ended message,
Speaker 1: just you okay and a heart. I nearly tell her everything.
Speaker 1: Then I erase what I wrote and reply only not really,
Speaker 1: but I'm alive. She waits a few minutes and sends
Speaker 1: back here, if you need no parties for a while, deal,
Speaker 1: I send a thumbs up. We both know how performative
Speaker 1: those have become The next morning, I waken a kind
Speaker 1: of suspended animation, aware, functional, but not really inhabiting. The
Speaker 1: body that walks through the Brownstone. Nothing feels like it
Speaker 1: belongs to me, least of all the routines coffee, shower, keys,
Speaker 1: shoes that played at Domestic Grace for five years. I
Speaker 1: find myself half organizing Michael's things into ambiguous piles. Donate return.
Speaker 1: It's complicated. I open closets and close them, pull sheets,
Speaker 1: and then remake the bed. Everything's a place holder for
Speaker 1: some action that will finally mean it's over. A knock
Speaker 1: at the door in the late afternoon jars me. I freeze,
Speaker 1: expecting maybe Amazon may be a neighbor. But it's Olivia,
Speaker 1: hugging herself against the wind, eyes, dark hair sticking flat
Speaker 1: to her jaw. There's a moment where neither of us moves,
Speaker 1: the chasm between us a wall, neither is sure how
Speaker 1: to cross. I let her in. We go to the kitchen,
Speaker 1: the old terrain of hundreds of shared secrets. She stands,
Speaker 1: arms folded, weight thrown into one hip, mouth working the
Speaker 1: inside of her cheek. She doesn't ask to sit. I know,
Speaker 1: she says, voice clipped and brittle. Adam told me last
Speaker 1: night he was in pieces. I made him say it.
Speaker 1: He wouldn't until I made him. My hands flutter uselessly
Speaker 1: at my sides. Did you already know I'm mean? Feel it?
Speaker 1: She nods, a tear streaking one cheek. Not. At first,
Speaker 1: I thought he was just adjusting to the group. But
Speaker 1: then he stopped coming around, stopped touching me. Her lips
Speaker 1: twist more bitter than wounded, and for a second I
Speaker 1: see the old Olivia, the one who would take no
Speaker 1: nonsense from anyone. It's like everyone else spotted it, and
Speaker 1: no one told us. My voice is fragile, a whisper.
Speaker 1: I didn't want to believe it. I wanted to be wrong.
Speaker 1: I want to cross the distance between us, to hug her,
Speaker 1: to fold us back into the seamless friendship we clung
Speaker 1: to like a life vest. But I don't move. I
Speaker 1: think we both feel too exposed. She wipes her hand
Speaker 1: over her face. Adam's gone, staying with his brother. I
Speaker 1: told him it's over, but I also told him I
Speaker 1: loved him. Isn't that fucked up? No more than me?
Speaker 1: I say. I wish I could hate Michael, or you,
Speaker 1: or even Adam, but it's just I can't finish. I
Speaker 1: want to say it's just loss, or just numbness, or
Speaker 1: just that the thing I miss isn't a person, but
Speaker 1: the very idea of what we were. She looks at
Speaker 1: me for a long time, pain mixing with apology and
Speaker 1: some stubborn dignity. We'll get through it separately, probably, but
Speaker 1: I want to believe we'll find a way to forgive,
Speaker 1: even if never forget. We don't hug. She leaves with
Speaker 1: a pat on my arm, her nails digging in for
Speaker 1: just a second longer than necessary, as if in printing
Speaker 1: the idea of solidarity before we must mercifully retreat from
Speaker 1: each other. News burns secuitously through the group, though by
Speaker 1: then there isn't really a group. John texts once something
Speaker 1: tentative about hoping you're okay. Maya sends a photo of
Speaker 1: a park bench I once called my throne of mediocre poetry,
Speaker 1: with the caption still here if you want it. I
Speaker 1: almost reply, but the words slide away. Mostly people go quiet,
Speaker 1: Invitations dry up. The next two Sunday dinners vanish from
Speaker 1: our calendar without comment. I get an email from Michael
Speaker 1: the following afternoon, terse and logistical. Please send anything I
Speaker 1: left important to the office. You don't have to answer,
Speaker 1: Thank you. I close it, mark has unread and file
Speaker 1: it in the irreconcilables folder of my soul. I don't
Speaker 1: see Adam again, not in the flesh, not with Olivia
Speaker 1: hovering behind him, not at all. What contact there is
Speaker 1: happens through the low static of mutual friends, one sided
Speaker 1: updates from Meyer, fragments from Laurie, each report confirming Adam's absence,
Speaker 1: his vanishing act perfectly inverted from his one seeger friendliness.
Speaker 1: He's become a ghost, but one that still creaks the
Speaker 1: floorboards of the stories we told, never quite gone. I
Speaker 1: settle into the Brownstone like you might settle into an
Speaker 1: unfamiliar hotel room, using only half the space, flinching at
Speaker 1: shadows that belong to lives I can't name any more.
Speaker 1: The rituals decay. No more wine racks curated for someone
Speaker 1: else's palate, no more printed menus, no more communal laughter,
Speaker 1: rickoshing between exposed brick and battered floors. I clean, obsessively,
Speaker 1: hoping cleanliness can make the absence purposeful and not just void.
Speaker 1: A Thursday dawn's gray and anxious, I press into new routines,
Speaker 1: a writing seminar, a solo brunch, a hot yoga class
Speaker 1: Olivia once dragged me to when we were both too
Speaker 1: hungover to give a damn. I make a list, change locks,
Speaker 1: update Wi Fi passwords, move Michael's books into a box
Speaker 1: labeled miscellaneous. These tasks are only half practical. Mostly they
Speaker 1: are proof to myself that I am not stuck, that
Speaker 1: stasis isn't forever. That week, Michael calls his name on
Speaker 1: the screen, makes my heart hesitate, then drop against my
Speaker 1: better judgment. I answer, my voice barely reaching the surface. Hello.
Speaker 1: His voice is sheepish. Em I'm not asking for anything.
Speaker 1: I just I'm sorry for all of it. I say nothing.
Speaker 1: He forges on. I've talked to Adam. I won't bother
Speaker 1: you again, but I want you to know none of
Speaker 1: this was about not loving you. It's about how lost
Speaker 1: I got and how much I wish I'd said something
Speaker 1: before it was too late. I close my eyes, battling
Speaker 1: the compulsion to comfort him. Michael, this is as much
Speaker 1: closure as I can handle. Please don't call again for
Speaker 1: a while. He agrees, and there's a ragged ex hale
Speaker 1: his or mine, who knows. Before the line goes dead,
Speaker 1: I place the phone face down. The sound of my
Speaker 1: own breath is louder than anything in the room. Hours pass,
Speaker 1: everything raw and unscripted. I catch myself talking to the walls,
Speaker 1: muttering recipes, naming each cabinet as I clean it, as
Speaker 1: if some language will restore meaning to the spaces. I
Speaker 1: make lists and then lose them in the couch cushions.
Speaker 1: I re read old stories I wrote about us, rose
Speaker 1: tinted fictions. I no longer recognize and burn the roughest
Speaker 1: drafts in a dull, practical trash can fire on the patio.
Speaker 1: The next time I see Olivia, it's on Smith Street,
Speaker 1: both of us reaching for the same bitter coffee at
Speaker 1: the window bar. We don't flinch. We just nod, small smiles,
Speaker 1: tilting our faces a tacit treaty. She's thinner, paler, but
Speaker 1: her eyes are bright with something I recognize, survival. We
Speaker 1: chat a moment about meaningless things, whether renovations, the ridiculous
Speaker 1: price of ramps at the market. Then we part again,
Speaker 1: but the fracture has softened, from an open wound to
Speaker 1: a manageable scar. Alone in the Brownstone. That night, I
Speaker 1: do something small but real. I gather every trace of Michael,
Speaker 1: his slippers beneath the bed, the charger by the sofa,
Speaker 1: the half read architecture magazine on the back of the toilet,
Speaker 1: and arrange them neatly in the box he requested. I
Speaker 1: tape the box and write his name in big letters,
Speaker 1: setting it just inside the front door for the next
Speaker 1: time a courier comes by. It's late. I scroll through
Speaker 1: our old Spotify playlists, finger poised over delete, I pause,
Speaker 1: then just retitle it history. Let it fade into the
Speaker 1: digital background. Some things I am not quite ready to raise.
Speaker 1: I take the last bottle of special wine, the one
Speaker 1: I'd promise to save for an anniversary that will never come,
Speaker 1: and set it on the kitchen counter. There is no
Speaker 1: one left to share it with. I open it the
Speaker 1: corkstrew catching, breaking the cork in two. The wine is
Speaker 1: still good, sharp and dense. I pour one glass, then
Speaker 1: a second, just to fill both settings on the table.
Speaker 1: Everything is ready except me. When midnight comes, the Brownstone
Speaker 1: is utterly silent, the city outside roaring, oblivious to anything
Speaker 1: small as heartbreak. There's only me and two glasses at
Speaker 1: a table that once seated a family of friends, a
Speaker 1: congregation of laughter. I helped build, but couldn't hold together.
Speaker 1: I clean up one last time, dishes carefully stacked, the table,
Speaker 1: wiped twice for luck. I take out the trash, the
Speaker 1: tie bundled at the very bottom, a token, nothing more,
Speaker 1: its meaning already diluted by time and disuse. I stand
Speaker 1: in the open living room, stare at the now bare
Speaker 1: calendar pinned above the wine rack, and count the blank
Speaker 1: days ahead. And finally, when there is nothing left to clear,
Speaker 1: I lower myself into Michael's old seat at the table,
Speaker 1: pulling the last glass close. I let the street light
Speaker 1: halo my face, let the silence settle, and the breath
Speaker 1: move heavy and slow in my chest. I let myself
Speaker 1: feel everything, the sharp, the hollow, the memory, the tiniest
Speaker 1: flicker of relief for the first time since it all broke.
Speaker 1: I do not reach for the past. I drink to
Speaker 1: what was lost, to what persists despite all the ruin,
Speaker 1: and to whatever life might dare to take root dimly, quietly,
Speaker 1: stubbornly amid the wreckage. And that is the end. Thank
Speaker 1: you for listening, and I will see you in the
Speaker 1: next one.