Neighborhood Watch: With a Coupon

I knock instead of using my key.

That should help. Give her the chance to open the door, see me standing here with dinner, decide we’ve both had enough of this.

When she opens it, I remember her fingers hooked in my collar. The small, impatient pull that means I’ve been talking long enough. I’ve missed her mouth. I’ve missed waking up with her pressed against me, before either of us has somewhere to be.

“Figured it’s been awhile,” I say. “Didn’t want you to forget how charming I am.”

She steps back. I take that as encouragement.

I pass close enough to catch the scent of her hair. For a second, I want to put down the food and kiss her. Feel her hands warm at the back of my neck. Wait for that little change in her breathing, the moment she stops worrying about everything outside this room.

I like being able to do that for her. I especially like the way she looks at me afterward.

I set the bag on the counter.

There’s the couch. The kitchen. I can look almost anywhere in this house and remember her reaching for me. I remember the police coming to the door. A noise complaint. She’d looked frightened. I’d been half-dressed and privately a little pleased with myself, which I’d had the sense not to mention.

Tonight, we can eat first. I picture her knee against mine, her plate pushed aside, the first smile she tries to hide. When she kisses me, I won’t make her say she’s sorry.

I’m willing to be generous about that.

I unpack her favorite and mine, explain the food-based peace treaty. I know which container is hers without checking the lids. Surely that ought to mean something.

She watches my hands.

I tell her I thought a surprise would be fun. When she says my name, I admit I should’ve called. Make a joke about saving her the trouble of screening me.

She doesn’t laugh.

“What?”

“I can’t do this anymore.”

“Do what? Eat Thai food? You love Thai food.”

She gestures between us.

I try another joke. Something about a life coach. She tells me she’s serious.

“So am I.” I gesture at the containers. “This cost forty bucks. And that’s with a coupon.”

Usually, she’d laugh. Even if she tried to hold it in, I’d see it starting.

She sits down.

I stay where I am. Sitting would make this a conversation I’ve agreed to have.

I ask if she’s actually mad I left. She says she isn’t.

Well, that makes two of us. I was willing to forget the things she said about my job. She knew I traveled when we started dating. I’ve never hidden that.

“I can’t sleep with someone I don’t respect,” she says quietly. “And somewhere along the way, I realized I don’t.”

My hand stops above a container.

Respect.

I came home ten days early for this woman. Moved work around. Bought flowers. Cooked in this kitchen while she told me about people whose names I made an effort to remember.

I can remember every generous thing I’ve ever done for her, suddenly. In considerable detail.

I laugh because I can’t think what else to do. Ask what I missed.

“No,” she says. “That’s the point.”

I tell her she’s hurt me. She says she isn’t trying to, which seems like something she could try a little harder at.

Then she explains about my leaving. No call. No text. How little she thinks we have to build on.

I answered about Leroy. I could point that out.

No. Sorry. Busy with work. Talk later.

It sounded reasonable when I sent it. Standing here, I decide to leave it out.

She’s being dramatic. I tell her so. Explain about the stress, the dog, her neighbors, the salon. There’s plenty to choose from without dragging me into it.

“It’s about me realizing I don’t want a placeholder in my bed.”

My jaw tightens.

I look toward the hallway before I can stop myself. I’d been thinking about that bed on the drive over. Now I’m embarrassed she can tell.

She keeps going. Says neither of us did anything wrong. Says we’re filling space.

I’d like her to go back to the part about my doing nothing wrong. We could finish there. Eat while it’s still warm. I’ve already brought everything we need for a perfectly good evening, and she’s sitting here explaining why she doesn’t want it.

“So you’re what now, enlightened?”

She tells me she’s tired of pretending.

I make the remark about saving me a TED Talk, then put the containers back. I make a point of including hers. She can ask for it if she wants it.

She doesn’t.

The handles tighten around my fingers.

I tell her she’ll feel different tomorrow. She disagrees. I tell her she’s overthinking, that we’re good together.

“No,” she says. “We’re convenient. There’s a difference.”

I look around the kitchen. I know where she keeps the glasses. I can put away her dishes without opening cabinets to see where things belong. Now I’m wondering whether I’m allowed to sit down.

I sit anyway.

Normally I can count on her to explain. Give me enough words that I can find the one she didn’t quite mean.

Tonight, she’s finished.

I could say I believe her about the posts. I could have said it the other night. Instead, I explained how much they sounded like her, carefully, as though she’d appreciate the distinction once I got through it.

She sits across from me, waiting.

I want to ask whether she ever thinks about the things I do right. I’m afraid she’ll answer.

“You want me to go?”

“Yes.”

I swallow. Look at the bag.

“So…I guess I’ll take this.”

“Of course.”

I pick it up and walk to the door. I keep my eyes ahead.

The door closes behind me. Then the lock turns.

I carry both dinners to the car, holding the bag level so nothing spills.

She’ll call. Once she’s had a few evenings to appreciate all that space she wanted.

A man who knows her order, brings dinner, comes back after a fight. She can call that convenient. Let her spend a little time finding out how inconvenient the alternatives are.

I put the food on the passenger seat.

Next time, I’ll make her cook.