Our Groceries

They slowly unpacked what little they had into their new home; she added items to the grocery list in between boxes. Nate made the occasional edit or amendment, as he saw fit.        

On Sunday, with stacks of boxes still left to unpack, they went to mass. Mass was followed by the farmer’s market. They lugged the groceries over their shoulders, Nate carrying twice as much as Emily. And she thought she could never be more in love.

Getting back to their flat, they spread their spoils across the narrow counter and started dicing vegetables, grating cheese, cracking eggs. My God, they made the best omelets.

They didn’t have their furniture yet, so they pulled the comforter off their floor-mattress and spread it below the full-length windows in the main living space.

“Maybe we don’t need furniture,” Nate said.

Emily gave a soft snort in between bites.

“No, I’m serious!” he persisted.

She entertained him, “Yeah? Where would people sit?”

“Well (1) Way cooler to sit on the floor, we’d be the swanky new floor-sitting hangout. (2) People? What people? Who the fuck is coming over? (3) If you say ‘my parents,’ even more reason to not get furniture.”

She laughed throughout his monologue, which of course, only motivated him. Leaning toward him, she whispered: “we’re getting furniture.”

She then pecked him a kiss—one of those kisses that you see from couples who’ve been together forever. Short. Soft. With smiles turning up at the corners. Muscle-memory kisses that never stop meaning the world. Those were Sunday mornings: mass, market, omelets.

By next Sunday, they had furniture. Their apartment was very green—they wanted tones that expressed how vibrant this life together felt. It was a colorful chapter, they knew that much.

… … … … … …

Once they settled further, life got busier. Work got harder. Right out of law school, you’re somebody’s bitch. Doesn’t matter how high up you think you are, there’s somebody higher. And you’re their bitch. That’s what Nate and Emily were: two bitches, working late hours, catching kisses in between. Sundays, they woke up surrounded by legal paperwork, lamps in the room still lit. They pulled themselves out of bed, brushed the stale breath off their teeth and tongues, threw on something decent, and headed to mass. After mass, they hit the farmers market to gather supplies for omelets.

The exception to the routine was that now they were eating at a white square table, quite rustic, easily from Pottery Barn (but snagged for $50 off Facebook Marketplace because they are bargain-hunting cheap asses). The table was first placed in between where it made sense for their kitchen to stop and their living room to start, but they quickly decided to push it up against the sweeping windows. They spent all their meals commenting on the people walking the street below—wondering where they were going, who they were with, what they were saying.

“Oh that guy has cats for sure.”

“What! How can you tell?”

“C’mon, look at him: the glasses, the layered wool sweaters, the posture!”

“Maybe he’s just British.”

“In this city? He’d be eaten alive.”

“Not sure about that—women like British men.”

“Well. Not all women.”

“No, I’m pretty sure all women.”

“Surely not this woman, here—my woman.”

“Your woman? Your woman loves a British man.”

“Well shit, I’m losing you to a sweater vest man who walks like he has a stick literally up his ass?” Nate directed his attention to the window. “Oye! You lad! You must be barking mad if you fink I got nofin to say bout it!”

Each charade ended with fits of laughter and the beginning of a new play-scenario. They could sit there all day. Some Sundays, they did. And they thought they could never be more in love.

… … … … … …

 Sundays turned to Mondays, and they were back in the spin cycle of hardly ever sleeping, often too exhausted to hold much conversation in between hours of work. When they got home, the script was always the same:

“How was your day?”

“Shit. Yours?”

“Mad shit.”

And a kiss. The same as before, with crinkles in the corners—the fleeting flinch of a smile.

A year had passed of them sinking into this seamless rhythm. Work was hell, but each day was made worth it by coming back to the flat. Surviving until the weekend. They slept through Saturdays, but always resurrected for Sundays.

Monday morning, Nate woke up to his wife throwing up. He got her back into bed before leaving late for work. She tried to rest but kept being awoken by her cramping insides. Dragging herself out of bed and into the bathroom, she found a test in the cabinet below the sink.

⎸⎹

Oh God. Panic. How terrifying. But amazing. No, truly wonderful. She didn’t plan for this. They didn’t plan for this. But she knew it was terrifying and amazing and wonderful. He would think so too, surely. Surely, he would think so too.

She made her way over to the fridge.

She was so excited. She sat at their white table, waiting for him to come home. Waiting for him to see the news. Waiting. Waiting for hours. Hours that dripped by like slow molasses. Waiting.

She was asleep when he came home.

“Em. Honey, let’s get you to bed.”

“Mmm no. Groceries.”

He laughed softly. “Sweetheart, it’s Monday.”

“No. Groceries. A baby. We’re having a baby.” She was exhausted but lazily pointed to the fridge.

“what?” it came out as a faint whisper. Seeing that he wouldn’t get any further elaboration from his wife, Nate made his way over to the fridge. He ripped off the front sheet of the notepad hanging there, pulling it taut between his hands.

“we’re having a baby,” he whispered. A warm tear hit the page. He went back to where Emily was slumped over and, scooping up his wife, carried her to bed. He held her gently. And he thought he could never be more in love.        

They knew their flat wasn’t big enough for three, but they couldn’t say goodbye. Not yet. It could work. For a little while, it could work. They made themselves busy. Omelets on Sundays were followed by trips to Home Depot, snatching up paint swatches by the handful even though they knew they would paint the crib Pastoral Jade Eggshell #HDGG58.

“What if we painted it black? Simple. Classy.”

“Woman, are you mad? No child of mine will be ‘simple’ or ‘classy.’”

“I guess black could also say: demon child lies here.”

“Ohhh. Now that’s something to think about.”

But of course, the crib was not painted black, but Pastoral Jade Eggshell #HDGG58, as expected. They ordered a crib from IKEA, and an entire weekend was wasted trying to assemble it from the nonsensical Swedish instructions. Now, in the small bedroom of their already small flat, a crib sat in the corner. A crib with a baby mobile above it. A baby mobile with small hot air balloons bouncing from it and clouds dangling in between. The rug placed in front of the crib was of one giant dandelion puff, felt like one too. 

“This rug will swallow our child’s feet whole,” Nate remarked.

“I know! Isn’t it cute?”

“Hazardous.”

“Well, they’ll gain survival skills.” Emily looked up into his soft smile.

And she thought she could never be more in love.

They waited for that crib in the corner to fill. For a child to play in the rug meadow below. They waited. But the crib would remain empty, at least, that’s what the doctor said.

She went on. He went quiet.

She went on into work. He went quietly.

For a year, she went on. For a year, he went quiet.

She still woke up for mass on Sundays. She still pulled herself out of bed, brushed the stale breath off her teeth and tongue, and threw on something decent. After mass, she still stopped at the farmer’s market. She still lugged the groceries back over her shoulder. She still took her omelets to the table by the windows. Sometimes, he’d sit with her.

She was watching the street below. He was watching his plate.

“Oh look at that lady with the feather boa! Where do you think she’s coming from?”

“Dunno.”

“You think it’s a walk of shame?”

“Could be.”

Emily changed subjects. “What do you suppose that young couple is talking about?”

He kept eating.

“I bet he’s saying something really pretentious, like, ‘Well, when Daddy took me yachting in the summers, I learned a lot about seamanship.’” Emily smiled at her own musings, looking to see if Nate was doing the same.

He was watching his plate.

Her smile faltered, but she kept going. Not for him. For her. “And she’s probably saying how impressive that is, how hard it must be to master the art of yachting. Especially at that age! Wow, I wish these two the best, I really do, they—” Her thought froze as a little girl caught up with the couple, her stubby legs swinging wildly, excited to show them the weeds she just uprooted. Dandelions.

He was watching the window.

On the street below, the little girl walked hand-in-hand with the couple. The woman pecked the man a kiss—one of those kisses that you see from couples who’ve been together forever. Short. Soft. With smiles turning up at the corners. Muscle-memory kisses that never stop meaning the world.

He left the table, coffee cold.

Another year passed of them sinking into this seamless rhythm.

It was a still morning. Dew was clinging to the windows, spotting them with sun-seared water droplets. No lights were on in the flat, the morning sun being enough to illuminate the space. She started a pot of coffee and fucked around in the fridge a bit, seeing if she got any ideas. She gave up and grabbed cereal from the pantry, some off-brand shit.

The coffee was done, and she pulled out two cups for it. One cup got filled with the black tar, the other got about an inch before being filled to the brim with milk, creamers, and foam. Lifting a pinky off one of the mugs, she managed to turn the handle on the bedroom door. There was no longer a crib in the corner. She set his cup of tar on the bedside table. He was already working.

“We’re out of eggs.”

He didn’t look up.