They lie there, his snore soft, like a baby’s, then she sleeps, then wakes, notices he’s not there. He’s in the kitchen, because they’ve made a plan. He’s promised her a meal, promised to use one of her books, by a celebrity Italian chef, small as a bird, whose signature touch is putting lemon zest into everything.
“Veal,” he says, triumphantly. He sweeps an arm over the counter, proudly, as she comes in from the bedroom. He’s bought the good stuff, wrapped in white paper and tied with twine, from the old-school butcher. Those used to be everywhere in this neighborhood—as well as plumbers, coffee roasters, funeral directors. You still see statuary (the somber virgin, the lamb of God) in front of the homes of the more devout, though most of the old Italians have moved off to Long Island, sold their brownstones to enthusiastic millionaires of no particular faith. One of the churches has been turned into condos.
“How cruel,” she says. She yawns and crawls onto one of the kitchen stools.
“Cruelly delicious,” he says, flicking through the twine with the end of his sharpest knife and unrolling the paper, like a child at Christmas.
The kitchen counter divides the kitchen from the living room, nominally; in truth, the kitchen is a wall of the living room. Rob likes to cook or is learning that he likes to cook, anyway. The cookbook is splayed open on the cheap stone countertop. An NPR quiz show is playing softly in the background. He probably didn’t want to wake her. He rents this apartment. It’s nice enough.
“I have a secret,” she says.
“Do tell.” He’s not wearing an apron, but there is a striped dish towel draped jauntily over his shoulder.
“Maybe you should sit down,” she says. “Sarah is pregnant.”
“Sarah, friend Sarah, the Sarah who’s getting married? Premarital sex?”
“I was shocked, too,” she says.
“Congratulations to Sarah, friend Sarah whom I have never met but whose wedding I will dance at. We should have a toast. Pour some wine, would you?” He gestures at her with his meat-contaminated hands.
She pours the wine, which has been breathing, though she can’t see how that would make any difference in the thing. The wineglasses are very tall. She clinks her glass against his, which is still sitting on the counter. “To Sarah and baby,” she says.
“Seriously, though, is this a surprise? It must be a surprise.”
“It’s a surprise,” she says. “Which is unlike her. She’s usually got everything under control. I guess she thought she had this under control, too, but you know, sperm, they’re dogged little suckers.”
“There but for the grace of God,” he says. He washes his hands, sips the wine. “Is she excited?”
“I think so,” she says. “It’s the way it was meant to be. Just early. I told her not to sweat it. I don’t think anyone will know it to look at her. She’s got a body for childbearing. She can disguise it.”
“A body for childbearing,” he says. “Ouch.” He sips the wine. “Cheers.”
“Well, I’m just saying.”
“I’ve never even met her,” he says. “Am I going to meet her before this big fancy wedding?”
“Probably,” she says, though she has no real idea.
“Sarah with the important father, whose parties are attended by members of the Supreme Court, that’s all I know about her.”
She shrugs. “I’ve known her for a million years,” she says. “She’s my best friend.”
“So you don’t want her to meet me,” he says. “What am I, your sexual plaything?”
“And personal chef, don’t forget personal chef.”
“Seriously, though, we should all get together, do something, don’t you think? I think. Invite them over. I’ll cook.” He looks at her.
She tries, fails to imagine Sarah and Dan here, in this kitchen. There are four wooden folding chairs pulled up to a shabby table Rob also uses as a desk. A jar that once held organic strained tomatoes has been repurposed as a vase. The flowers are a nice touch though. “Dan,” she says.
“The fiancé?”
“He’s unbearable,” she says. “I don’t know. Maybe we can all get a drink or something.”
“He’s unbearable, but your best friend is marrying him,” he says. He’s slicing mushrooms, pushes his slipping glasses back up his face with his shoulder.
“He’s not so bad, I guess. He’s not my favorite person in the universe, but they’re very well suited to each other. It makes, like, one hundred percent sense that they’re getting married.”
“Because he’s a loser?”
“He’s not a loser.” She pauses. “I don’t know.”
“You described him to me, like two weeks ago, and I quote, as a ‘loser.’”
“I didn’t realize you were taking notes. He’s fine. He’s just such a . . . I don’t know what the word would be. A nerd?” She knows that’s not right.
“I’m a nerd.”
“You like baseball,” Lauren says. “Dan likes medical ethics.”
“I like medical ethics.”
“You do not.”
“I could.” Rob reaches into the fridge, removes the butter.
“You couldn’t, trust me, it’s horribly boring.” The wine is good.
“Can I just ask though, seriously, it’s not me, right? You’re not ashamed of slumming it with the lowly editor type? Fucking the temp.”