They are currently occupying my kitchen sink like extremely expensive, mildly judgmental roommates. Proper ones. Claws intact. Bands tight. Cold and real and flown in from Boston at an hour that implies logistics teams and money andintention.
Not Caribbean imposters with missing parts.
Actual, arrogant, ocean-born creatures.
The note had been brief. Infuriatingly brief.
CORRECTION.
That was it. One word. As if he hadn't just overnighted half the Atlantic to my kitchen because I complained once—once—about clawless substitutes on a tropical island three weeks ago.
He remembered.
Of course he remembered.
I'd sent him cufflinks.
Ox & Bull Trading Co. Midline. Tasteful brushed silver with a subtle knot detail. The kind of gift that saysI was thinking of youwithout saying anything that could be used against me later. Appropriate. Considerate.
Completely, catastrophically wrong.
Because he sent me two living creatures and a single word that somehow contained an entire conversation we hadn't finished having.
I sent himaccessories. Respectable. Tasteful.
I should have sent something dirty.
Like—my underwear—eww. Scratch that.
There are categories of gifts you can send a man you’renot dating, but entirely lusting after, that still say I see you. A card. Something funny. Something that acknowledged what happened between us in the Caribbean without me having to actually acknowledge it.
Instead I went full business-casual Valentine's cuff links while he sends Maine lobsters with an entire memory attached.
The washingmachines hit spin cycle.
How many machines are running right now? At full weekend capacity? All twenty washers once? With ten dryers? The particular thunder of industrial spin that makes the entire building hum like it's trying to achieve lift-off.
My phone buzzes.
A text from West.
Something innocuous—a photo of his kitchen upper cabinet, captioned:found the mugs.
The washing machines keep going. My chair vibrates harder.
I make a sound I will never describe to another human being and nearly drop my pencil.
I close my eyes and focus on the buzz traveling up through the seat, between my—
I snap my laptop shut. Stand. Grab my coat. Walk downstairs with the rigid posture of a woman maintaining her dignity under active siege.
I will not be that grown woman losing a battle to Whirlpool on Valentine's Day because a hockey player sent her shellfish and then texted her aphotograph of mugs.
Away from the building-sized vibrator.
This is his fault.
Entirely. Completely. Medically his fault.
