Surviving Valencia

When we arrived at Alexa’s there was a long note for us. I began reading it while Adrian brought in our luggage. First on her list: She had taken her cat with her; two weeks was too long to be away from him. I felt a small pang of sadness after reading this.

Second thing: Could we please not eat the organic pasta. The non-organic was fine, but if we ate the organic it would be really nice if we replaced it. I looked blankly at the stainless steel canisters on the countertop, unsure how to tell one kind of pasta from another.

Number three: New neighbors Benton and Sylvie next door are très cool! Please try to behave around them.

I crumpled up the list and threw it against the wall. I didn’t want to be here.

Adrian came in with the last bag and shut the door. “It’s nice to be back here, isn’t it?” he said. “I don’t know about you, but I like seasons.”

“I want a divorce.”

“Oh no. Not this again. Can’t you get some pregnancy drugs to cheer you up?”

“Adrian, you are way too rude.”

“So Alexa annoys you,” he said, picking up the crumpled list and disposing of it in the garbage. “She’s not here. Let’s just have a good time.”

“This is not about Alexa. Although I would love to never see her again. This is about you. About us. You married me out of guilt. Go find Belinda. In fact, I did you a favor: I already looked her up for you. She lives on East Wilson Street. She’s not remarried. Well, if she is, she didn’t take his name. Go find her. She’s the one you really wanted.”

It was true that I had looked up his ex-wife, but she was more of a curiosity to me than to Adrian. I had never feared that he cared for her anymore. Valencia was the one he really wanted, but that was too true for me to utter aloud. It was easier to focus on Belinda.

“I want you.”

“Right.”

“Is this how things are going to be for the rest of our lives?”

“Just the rest of our marriage,” I told him.

“You didn’t just say that.”

“Yes I did.”

“I’m going to do us both a favor before this gets even more out of control. I’m going for a walk.”

“Okay. Bye.”

I turned on the television, flipping through home renovation shows and sitcom reruns. Outside, through the slats of Alexa’s new wooden blinds, a gray sky hung over the city. It was a steely day, poised for snow to begin falling at any moment, and I did not envy Adrian being out in it. Snapped came on the television, and despite my aversion to it, I found myself mesmerized. I rubbed my belly and popped an M&M from a bowl on Alexa’s coffee table into my mouth. Since when did young, hip people start leaving bowls of candy around their homes? I reached for some more but stopped when I noticed a sprinkling of cat hair in the bowl.

I stood up and looked in the mirror, not examining my pores or searching for gray hairs, but just looking at myself. My face was puffy and bloated. Pregnancy did not make me glow like the books had promised it would. In the corner of my reflection, the commercial break ended and Snapped came back on. I sat back down, finding myself nodding along to the story of Barbara, a woman pushed to the brink, who had felt she was without options.

“I can relate,” I told the television, while I picked past the hairy M&Ms, down to the clean ones beneath.

Barbara had been a good girl. A cheerleader, a bank teller, a young mother. No one saw it coming.

The remote control was beside the candy bowl, and I fluctuated between the two, thinking that any moment I would change the channel and stop picking at the dusty candy, but I stayed on the low road, continuing to munch and watch Barbara’s unfolding demise.

“Stay pure,” I said aloud, munching. I was not sure if I was talking to Barbara or myself. I rubbed my belly again and popped another M&M into my mouth. “No matter how the world pushes at you, stay pure.”

“This must be the hormones talking,” said Adrian. I jumped and screamed, spilling the candy all over the floor.

“Adrian! God. You scared me.” I began picking up the M&M’s but he waved his hand at me.

“Sit down. I’ve got it.” He went to the closet by the door and came back with a vacuum cleaner. I sat perched on the couch while he noisily cleaned up the candy. When he was done he put the vacuum cleaner away and came back into the room, raising an eyebrow at the television and handing me the remote.

I changed the channel, settling on Fresh Start, a reality makeover show. It was one of those extreme

package deals: new face, new boobs, new butt, new wardrobe, plus they would teach the contestant a skill she hadn’t had before.