Come Away with Me

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“I want to talk to you about that night,” Gabe says, pulling me back from thoughts of my churning stomach. “We need to talk about it.”

“No, we don’t,” I reply.

“It’s okay to be angry with me,” Gabe says. “You can’t possibly hate me as much as I...hate myself.” My strong husband, as broken as I am.

“I don’t hate you, Gabe.”

Oh, but I’m lying to you, my love. I do hate you. You ruined everything.

“Well, you should.”

I say nothing.

“I have an idea,” he says at last. “And I don’t think you’re going to like it, but I need you to trust me. Do you trust me, Teg?”

This is an interesting question. Six months ago I wouldn’t have hesitated.

“We need the jar of spontaneity.” His voice has regained its familiar positivity.

“I don’t know where it is, Gabe,” I say, although that’s not at all true. It’s on the top shelf of our closet, tucked out of sight behind stacks of unread magazines I’ll never get to. “I think Mom may have tossed it when she was cleaning up last week.”

“It’s in the closet behind your magazines,” he says.

“Okay, I’ll get it later.”

“I think you should get it now.”

With an angry sigh, I throw back the covers and step onto the plastic footstool in our closet. The jar can’t help. The jar is the last thing I need. But I grab the stack of magazines and drop them to the floor, the sound of their weight hitting the hardwood echoing harshly inside our small bedroom.

“You okay in there?” Anna calls out from the kitchen.

“Fine,” I say as loudly and confidently as I can, hoping she doesn’t come in to check on us. “Just dropped some magazines.”

“Okay. Soup is almost ready,” she says.

“Thanks. I’ll be out in a minute,” I call back. Then, stretching my arms, I reach for the jar, a large glass vase, really, and tuck it into the crook of my arm.

I let the vase drop onto the duvet and some of its contents spill out. “Here’s the fucking jar, Gabe. What would you like me to do with it?”

“Now,” he says, pausing for a moment. “Now we choose.”