A Quiet Saturday

Buzz! My phone skitters across the countertop. Who's texting me now?

The ding is extra loud because I'm listening to a podcast through my earbuds as I do the dishes.

I glance over at my phone. Heather? Why the hell is she texting me from the couch? Like ten feet behind me. WTF?

I'm about to yell over to her when I realize her headphones are on, too. Augh.

Our couch is on the opposite wall as the kitchen sink. The dining table rests between. Our living room, dining room, and kitchen all in one.

We loved the concept when we were looking at apartments. Small but open. We could be together while doing different things and not feel like you had to yell through a wall to have a conversation.

But now that we've lived here for two years, there are nights it feels a little cramped. Nights where it might be nice to have a room to go into to not be in the same place she is.

Tonight is one of those days. She's over there on the couch with her feet on one of the dining room table chairs, laptop on her lap like in an ad you might see for the couch on some furniture company's website.

She looks good, but not in the same way she used to look.

She looks content but bored at the same time if that's even possible.

I have to dry my hands to unlock my phone and see what she's texting me about.

So annoying.

I yank a sheet of paper towel off the roll after putting another crusty fork back in the sink. I swear if she doesn't learn to at least soak the silverware in water before she abandons it in the sink, we might have to break up.

Bring me my purse, demands the text.

Seriously?

I turn around and look at her, but she's not looking at me. She's nodding at the laptop. Oh, is she in a meeting?

I walk over to her and wave my hand in front of her. She points at the laptop. Angrily.

I turn my palms up. Where the hell is your purse?

She nods. I shrug.

She puts up one finger to me. I need to wait. As if I'm the one interrupting her. She says something into the mic on her headset but I don't hear it.

I'm still listening to a fascinating discussion about how to start a vending machine business. You'd be surprised how easy it is.

Heather finally looks at me. I don't know what this Zoom call is about, but she's not happy.

She points to the rack that hangs next to the door where we keep our keys and stuff. She moves her hand in the hurry-up motion.

C'mon, I need my purse, she says without saying anything. She almost looks like she's about to puke.

I saunter over there, grab the purse, and skip back with it. I bend down to one knee and present her purse like it's Cinderella's glass slipper or something.

She snatches it out of my hands and tears the zipper open. Her eyes would be telling me "It's about time, you dolt," but she barely looks at me as she rifles through her purse to get out her glasses case.

As she puts her glasses on, she glances up at me. What are you still doing here?

I sigh. Loudly and emphatically. She hears me but she doesn't acknowledge me.

I back away to head back to the dishwasher. I open my phone and send her a text. The clacks are loud in my ears.

You're welcome. I text. Ha, that'll show her.

She doesn't even look at her phone when it buzzes. I throw my arms up like I'm John McEnroe or something. But she takes something else out of her purse and scampers off to the bathroom.

Are you serious? I'm stopping what I'm doing, drying my hands, walking around for you and you were getting up anyway? And you can't even smile at me?

When she comes back she seems nervous. She walks quickly back to the couch. She sneaks a peek in my direction, flicking her hair back as she does.

It reminds me of the first time I saw her. Sitting at a table in the library. She flicked her hair and turned her head like that when I smiled at her from across the room.

Once she sits down, she doesn't take her eyes off the laptop. I wish I was still that engrossing to her. It's weird how your priorities shift over time.

Back in the day it'd be the other way around. Barely aware of what was going on on her laptop while I was on the couch with her.

Of course, back in the day, we didn't know what zoom meetings were. But that's another story.

I don't even know who she's in the meeting with, but whoever it is seems to be doing most of the talking.

Heather's not saying anything but she's nodding a lot. She picks up her phone. Her head darts up at me. Her eyes shoot me a look, but I can't tell what she's trying to tell me.

Is she mad at me? What did I do this time?

So much for my "you're welcome." Or a smile. Why doesn't she appreciate anything I do?

I "John McEnroe" again. She shakes her head and opens her phone. I get the vibe she thinks I'm acting like an idiot, but what do I know?

It might just be me, but she seems less angry since she came back from the bathroom. Like there's less stress, but still no happiness.

She's opened something on her phone. She looks at it and takes a deep breath. She looks up at me.

Her eyes are telling me something, but I'm not sure what. It's like she wants me to know what she's about to do, to stop her or something.

But I have no idea what to say or do. Or even what she's about to do.

She holds her phone up to her laptop's camera. Then she looks at the phone and presses something.

What is she doing? Did she just email someone something after showing it to them? Why did she look at me like that?

I look closer at her face.

Is she getting angrier or sad?

What is happening on the other end of that meeting?

I stop listening to my podcast and go back to the dishes. I make more of an effort to keep an eye in her direction as I rinse the crusty plates and put them in the dishwasher. Her lasagna was great but last night's dinner was a long time ago.

I glance over at her after scraping one of the plates. I want to show her the plate. Yell at her for leaving it a mess. But she's not looking at me. I gesture and cough but nothing.

She's engrossed. Her glasses are back off and she's let her sweatshirt sleeve flow past her arm now, like she's some cool teenager or something.

You're not 16 anymore Heather. You're 35. Stop acting like a teenager. You're not fooling anyone.

What the hell anyway? I finish loading the dishwasher. As I take the little pod out of the container under the sink, I can't stop thinking about what she might have shown/sent them. Whoever they even are.

I close my eyes and imagine what would happen if I went over there and plopped myself on the couch.

I'm sitting next to her trying to look at her screen. It only leads to a million more questions. She grabs my arm.

She's nodding at whatever they're telling her. She reaches between the couch cushions and pulls out a syringe. What the hell?

I feel the sharp pain in my leg before I see her stab me with it.

What? Why? I try to say, but nothing comes out. I fall to the floor.

I can't move my leg. Either leg. I feel nothing from the waist down. My arms feel like giant wet noodles.

I open my eyes. I'm still squatting in front of the cabinet under the sink. The dishwasher pod is sticky between my fingers. My random daydreams have always been weird, but that was pretty damn wild.

I could go ask her. Or sit down next to her and force her to show me what she showed them? She wouldn't stab me with some crazy hidden syringe. I don't think.

Either of those options makes sense. But I'm not in a sense-making mood right now. I don't even know why. Something about that text telling me to bring her her purse. The way she just commands me to do stuff for her and doesn't even acknowledge my existence.

Yet she did look at me before she did whatever she did. What the hell was that about?

I've got to get out of here though. Otherwise I might snap. Just go over to her, idiot, I tell myself. Whatever it is, we'll figure it out together.

Will we? My eyes ask hers. I don't think she has any clue what I'm trying to ask her, which is part of the problem. We've been on different wavelengths lately. Coming close together but never connecting.

I grab my phone and fire her a text. "We need milk. Want anything else from the store?"

I walk to the rack and get my keys. I don't think she's looked at her phone. She's still staring at the screen in a daze.

I turn the knob to the front door and pull it open. My phone dings as I'm walking through the doorway.

"Important meeting but we need to talk," texts Heather.

I go over and sit down next to her, careful not to let the camera see me because everything about her silent face is telling me I need to be invisible. But I so want to get a good look at her screen,

I see an old Asian woman in the center of the screen. She's standing with a clipboard in a big empty room. At least ten small heads surround the old woman in the Zoom meeting. I don't pay much attention to them.

I try to ask Heather what the hell is happening but she puts her hand on my mouth. Having her hand so close to my nose reminds me how good she smells. How much I’ve missed her touch.

She makes sure I'm not in the frame of the camera so these weird people can't see me.

On screen, the Asian woman is taking notes while one of the heads in a box is talking. I have no idea what she's saying though.

A million thoughts are dancing and wrestling in my head. Jockeying for position. The mystery only deepens.

Heather keeps her hand over my mouth. I kind of like it. She must know I want answers.

What the hell did you show them? Who is that old Asian woman?

She lifts her chin slightly and quickly looks back at me. I think she’s asking if I’ll be quiet if she moves her hand. I notice she’s not on mute. None of them are. This must be a loud zoom.

I nod. Sure, I’ll be quiet. Just tell me what’s happening.

She slowly takes her hand away and looks back at the laptop. She motions to the screen with her hand. A different person is talking. A man with a mustache and round glasses. Heather smiles at him.

Who's this guy, now?

The Asian lady says something, and the man holds his phone up to his camera. It looks to be a PDF of some kind of HR form.

‘The man nods and starts pressing on his phone.

Meanwhile, Heather has scrawled on a piece of paper.

“Lady is new boss,” it says. I nod.

She pulls the paper back. Asian lady appears to be reading from her clipboard.

Heather pulls the paper back and writes down something else.

“Move to Chicago,” says her scribbled writing.

What?

How would that work? I don’t want to move to Chicago. Right? I’ve never wanted to live there before, but suddenly the thought flashes across my mind. I might like Chicago.

"$$$$," she writes.

But do I want to move with Heather? Halfway across the country. I thought we were drifting apart?

I look at her. Her eyes are smiling at me for the first time in a while. Or is she smiling because she’s going to leave me here in Springfield, Mass while she goes off to Chi-town?

I cock my head a little to the right. What are you thinking?

She shrugs. She tilts her head back and forth a couple of times.

Do I want to drop everything for this woman who won't even soak the dishes?

I just might.

Heather puts my hand in her lap, palm up, and reaches into the fold of her sweatshirt with her other hand. She pulls out a white plastic thing and puts it in my hand. There are two pink lines on it.

My eyes enlarge to the size of golf balls. She's crying.

Say what?

I feel a jolt. I lose all feeling below the waist. My arms are giant wet noodles. Everything is blurry.

The Zoom meeting is still going on, but Heather is no longer paying much attention to it. They seem to be taking turns showing the weird old lady the PDF on their phones.

First off, why did you put something in my hand that you peed on?

She looks at me, really looks at me. For the first time in a while. A watermelon smile plastered on her pale face.

Suddenly everything comes into focus.