Russell:Good morning. Want coffee?
Jules:Always.
Jules:Ugh, disposal is broken again.
I’ve gotten in the habit of picking her up a coffee in the mornings and leaving it at the front desk of her building. Tonight, we’re supposed to take Gus to a new dinosaur-themed kids-centered restaurant out in Rosemont.
While walking to the coffee shop, I stop at a crosswalk and text her back.
Russell:You and Gus could always move in with me.
It’s a joke—of course it is. But there’s a part of me that really likes the idea. I have more than enough space, and if we lived together, Jules wouldn’t have to deal with aging appliances and lazy landlords. None of my appliances have broken, but if they do, I’ll replace them same day.
As I cross the street, I let myself imagine it. The two of them in my huge living room, Gus’s toys strewn about. Jules sitting at the breakfast bar with him while I cook for them.
Jules in my shower, pressed up against the shower wall, her palms creating a little halo of fog on the glass from the heat while I stand behind her, wrapping her wet hair around my fist.
“Sir? What can I get you?”
I blink and look up, realizing that, while waiting for her response, I’ve moved to the front of the line. I make our order—mine black, hers loaded with cream and sugar, the way she likes. A holiday drink with green and red sugar sprinkles on top.
When I’ve taken my place at the end of the counter, waiting for our drinks to appear, I pull my phone out and see that she’s texted back.
Jules:Yeah, right. You could be a serial killer.
Jules:Or worse, you could leave little beard hairs in the sink after you shave.
Following that is a gif from a TV show of a woman shuddering, her face a mask of disgust.
Russell:I’m a grown man and capable of cleaning up my messes. My sinks are immaculate.
Russell:You should come to my place and see for yourself.
Jules must think about the fact that the last time I was at her apartment, I was cleaning uphermesses, because she responds a second later, relenting.
Jules:Touche.
Jules:But you could still be a serial killer.
The drinks are set on the counter, my name called. I collect the carrier, holding it with one hand while texting with the other.
Out on the sidewalk, Chicago is alive with tourists and pedestrians, students rushing to class and people chatting outside the cafe. I weave around them and text her back.
Russell:I’m your fiancé, Jules.
Her response comes five minutes later, a sandwich of good and bad.
Jules:Thanks for the coffee.
What follows is a picture of her kissing the coffee, a shaky red heart drawn around her and the cup. I stare at it for far, far too long.
Then, her next text comes in.
Jules:Yeah, *fake* fiancé.
And I have to stash my phone in my desk drawer and head to the locker room to get ready for surgery, which is fine, because I have no idea how to respond to that, anyway.
The surgery is supposed to be a standard mitral valve repair, maybe three- or four-hours skin to skin, but it takes much longer than that. They have to cancel my other surgeries when the patient starts to crash halfway through.
