June pauses.Then, without missing a beat, ‘Blind people still need manners.’
I hum noncommittally, forcing myself to nod.
She moves on.‘Honestly, this building is falling apart.I nearly tripped on that rug in the entryway.You’d think, with what they charge for rent, they could afford better taste.’
‘Mmm,’ I say, poking my noodles.‘Welcome to the housing crisis.’
She sips her wine.‘Still working at that marketing agency thing?’
‘Yep.’
‘Doing … what again?PR?Socials?One of those internet jobs where no one knows what anyone else does?’
I don’t look up.‘Copywriting.’
She waves her hand like I told her I knit sock puppets for a living.‘Well, as long as it pays the bills.’
I smile tightly, the kind I use at networking events.‘It does.’
She sighs, a dramatic exhale that implies she’s carrying the weight of my life on her shoulders.‘I woulddieif I had to live here, but I guess grunge is all the rage these days.’
I stay quiet.Anything I say will open the floodgates.And tonight, I’m not ready to drown.Not yet.
June’s wineglass is nearly empty.Which means the descent is coming.
It always starts in the same place.
With him.
‘You know your father had the audacity to post a photo from Santorini last week?’she says, casually stabbing at her noodles.‘Santorini.Withher.’
I don’t ask whoheris.I already know.
‘Matching t-shirts.Matching cocktails.I mean, who evendoesthat?They look pathetic.’
I hum into my wine.I don’t indulge her.But I don’t stop her, either.
‘I saw it on Facebook.I don’t even check his profile, not really, but it was in my suggested feed.Probably because the algorithm knows I’ve been looking at Greek villas again.’She sips.‘He always said Greece was too touristy.But now, with his wax-doll wife and that fake hairline, suddenly it’s romantic.’
Here we go.
The next step in the dance.
She leans back against the couch, dramatic and effortless.‘He gets to pretend he’s twenty-five again, and I’m what?A washed-up hag?The double standard with age is a joke.’
I don’t say anything.So, she fills the silence with the greatest hits.
‘I gave upeverythingfor that man.My twenties.My figure.My career.I could’ve been something, you know.I was the youngest consultant in my firm.I had aVoguesubscription and went to yoga twice a week.And instead, I got stretch marks, postnatal depression and a husband who couldn’t keep it in his pants past our tenth anniversary.’
She swirls her noodles slowly, building steam.‘I used to be envied.Girls wanted to be me.I hadpotential.Now I’m the bitter ex-wife who over-tips and talks too loud at brunch.’Her laugh is brittle.‘And he gets to play house with someone who still thinks he loves her for her personality.’
I don’t tune out this time.
I don’t dissociate, or blur the edges, or mentally escape to a fake vacation in Italy the way I usually do.
I stay in the moment.
I watch her.
