Melanie Gideon - Wife 22

From: alicea ‹alicea@peaveypatterson.com›

Subject: Re: Tom KHA Gai

Date: August 4, 10:05 AM

To: williamb ‹williamb@peaveypatterson.com›

Bangkok Princess has the best Tom KHA Gai on Beacon Hill. King and Me a far second. I can forward your craving for soup to Helen, who surely said request was meant for.

From: williamb ‹williamb@peaveypatterson.com›

Subject: Re: Tom KHA Gai

Date: August 4, 10:06 AM

To: alicea ‹alicea@peaveypatterson.com›

The request was meant for you.

From: alicea ‹alicea@peaveypatterson.com›

Subject: Re: Tom KHA Gai

Date: August 4, 10:10 AM

To: williamb ‹williamb@peaveypatterson.com›

So let me get this straight. Because you have a craving for Tom Kha Gai, I’m to leave work in the middle of the day, traipse across the bridge, and hand-deliver your soup?

From: williamb ‹williamb@peaveypatterson.com›

Subject: Re: Tom KHA Gai

Date: August 4, 10:11 AM

To: alicea ‹alicea@peaveypatterson.com›

Yes.

From: alicea ‹alicea@peaveypatterson.com›

Subject: Re: Tom KHA Gai

Date: August 4, 11:23 AM

To: williamb ‹williamb@peaveypatterson.com›

Why would I do that?

He didn’t answer and he didn’t have to. Why was very clear to both of us.

Forty-five minutes later, I knocked on his door.

“Come on in,” he called out.

I nudged the door open with my foot, clutching a paper bag filled with two plastic containers of Tom Yung Goong. He was sitting on his couch, hair wet, barefoot, wearing a white T-shirt and jeans. I’d never seen him in anything but a suit or running shorts, and in casual attire he looked younger and somehow cockier. Had he showered for me?

“I have a fever,” he said.

“Yes, and I have Tom.”

“Tom?”

“Tom Yung Goong.”

“Tom Kha Gai couldn’t make it?”

“Stop complaining. It’s a Thai soup that begins with Tom that I walked over half a mile to bring you. Where are your utensils?” I asked.

I brushed past him on the way to the kitchen and suddenly he grabbed my arm and pulled me down on the couch next to him. Startled (he seemed just as startled), we both looked intently forward as if we were attending a lecture.

“I don’t want to get sick,” I said.

“I’ve broken it off with Helen,” he said.

He moved his leg slightly and our knees bumped together. Was that intentional? Then he moved his thigh so it was pressing up against mine. Yes, it was.

“It doesn’t look like you’ve broken it off,” I said. “She’s practically been living in your office.”

“We’ve been negotiating the terms of our breakup.”

“What terms?”

“She didn’t want to break up. I did.”

“We can’t do this,” I said, by which I meant press your thigh harder against mine.

“Why?”

“You’re my boss.”

“And-”

“And there’s a power differential.”

He laughed. “Right. A power differential-between us. You’re such a weak, submissive little creature. Tiptoeing around the office.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.”

“Stop.”

He put his hand on my thigh and a shiver went through me.

“Alice.”

“Don’t screw with me. Don’t say my name unless you mean it. What happened to Brown?”

“That was to keep me safe.”

“Safe?”

“Safely away from you. You, Alice. Goddammit. You.”

Then he turned and leaned in to kiss me and I could feel his fever and I thought no no no no no until I thought yes, you son-of-a-bitch, yes.

It was at that precise moment that the door opened and Helen walked in carrying a plastic bag of takeout from the King of Siam; apparently she hadn’t gotten the message about the restaurant’s rodent problem. I was so surprised, I gave a little shriek and jumped to the other side of the couch.

Helen looked just as surprised.

“You son-of-a-bitch,” she said.

I was confused. Had I called William a son-of-a-bitch out loud? Had she heard me?

“Is she talking about me?” I asked.

“No, she’s talking about me,” said William, rising to his feet.

“Your assistant said you were sick. I brought you Pad Thai,” said Helen, her face contorted with anger.

“You told me you had broken up,” I said to William.

“He told me you had broken up,” I said to Helen.

“Yesterday!” yelled Helen. “Not even twenty-four hours ago.”

“Look-Helen,” said William.

“You slut,” said Helen.

“Is she talking about me?” I asked.

“Yes, now she’s talking about you,” sighed William.

I’d never been called a slut before.

“That’s not very nice, Helen,” he said.

“I’m so sorry, Helen,” I said.

“Shut up. You went after him like a dog in heat.”

“I told you it was an accident. Neither one of us was looking for this,” said William.

“That’s supposed to make me feel better? We were practically engaged,” shouted Helen. “There’s a code between women. You don’t steal another woman’s man, you whore,” she hissed at me.

“I think I’d better go,” I said.

“You’re making a big mistake, William,” said Helen. “You think she’s so strong, so sure of herself. But that won’t last. It’s all an act. She’ll hit one bad patch and she’ll run away. She’ll disappear.”

I had no idea what Helen was talking about. Running away and disappearing was something drug addicts or people going through midlife crises did-not twenty-three-year-old women. But later I would look back on this moment and realize Helen’s words were eerily prescient.

“Please come sit down,” said William. “Let’s talk.”

Helen’s eyes filled with tears. William walked to Helen, put his arm around her shoulder, and led her to the couch. Come back tonight, he mouthed to me.

I quietly slipped out the door.

44.Plucking eyebrows. Flossing teeth. Picking things out of teeth. Paying bills. Talking about money. Talking about sex. Talking about your kid having sex.

45.Grief.

46.Of course I do. Doesn’t everybody? You want particulars, I know. Okay, that I changed the sheets (when really I’ve just changed the pillowcases). That I wasn’t the one who put the nice knives in the dishwasher instead of hand-washing them and by the way, I don’t need anybody to tell me the nice knives are the knives with black handles-I’m not a dolt, just somebody who’s in a hurry. That I’m not hungry for dinner (if I’m not hungry it’s because I ate an entire package of Keebler Fudge Stripes an hour before everybody came home). That it took me five nights to finish that bottle of wine (then why are there two bottles in the recycling bin?). That somebody must have sideswiped my side mirror when I parked at Lucky’s-those inconsiderate jerks-it did not happen when I was backing out of the garage. But no, not the obvious one. We’ve never had a problem there.

John Yossarian added his profile picture

You bear a striking resemblance to a yeti, Researcher 101.

Why thank you, Wife 22. I was hoping you’d say that.

However, it looks like you have a very un-yeti-like ear hanging from your head.

That’s not an ear.

Actually, it’s more like a bunny ear.

Actually, it’s a hat.

I’m revising my opinion. You bear a striking resemblance to Donnie Darko. Has anybody ever told you that?