Two

My cell lit the time, 4:27am.  I was sitting on my bed with Editor Girl, biting her earlobe, holding my phone behind her head and hoping that she wouldn’t notice it.  Matt had just texted me, reminding me to wear a condom, as if I would have come home with this chick if I didn’t have one.  I replied, reminding that he too should be safe, and then I worked my way down Editor Girl’s neck.  I turned the girl horizontal, positioning her so that she was below me.  I sent one more text, to my friend Jenn, just to say hello, and then I hid my cell under my pillow and began to unbutton Editor Girl’s shirt.

A few hours earlier, I was at a house party with Matt.  We were both drunk.  He was chatting with some girl from the south side while I was talking to her cute friend.  She and I were discussing  the music that was playing in the background, mostly hipster stuff that I wasn’t really into, and she asked me if I liked the group The Editors.  I didn’t.  I thought the first album was okay, but I thought their subsequent releases were shit.  I lied to her and I told her that I was a fan of the band.  She seemed to like this and the two of us were making-out ten minutes later.  I liked The Editors a little bit more after that.

The other me sat in a different place.  I was next to Emily’s crib, cradling the infant in my forearm.  Her room was lit by a pink wall clock, also at 4:27am, clicking like a metronome.  I glanced at the clock and then back at my daughter.  Her eyes were big and her eyes were blue.  I kissed her forehead and I placed the baby in her crib.

Earlier that night, Emily stood up for the first time.  It was amazing to watch.  The little six-month-old was sitting in her playpen.  She grabbed a firm hold of the soft netting and, struggling, she pulled herself straight.  Then she tugged even harder and, for a moment, took an upright position on her feet.  I watched Emily and then I glanced to Coleen.  As she stared at Emily, Coleen wore an open-mouth smile and stretched wide eyes.  The mother’s eyes mirrored the daughter’s.

The hostess said that the wait would be twenty minutes.  Forty-two minutes later, a large red pager went off.  A table was ready.  Coleen and I weaved through the crowded restaurant, found the hostess, took our seats, and opened our menus.   A waiter came by, placed a basket of bread on our table, and began to recite the restaurant’s daily specials.  I was too hungry to listen to him and tore at the bread while he spoke.  Coleen ordered two glasses of wine and the waiter left.

“This is good bread,” I said, offering a piece.

“Thank you,” Coleen said.

“What did he say the specials were?  I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Swordfish.  Nothing that you’d eat.”

“How do you know?”

“C’mon, we both know that you’re getting the pesto chicken.”

“Fair enough.  It’s so good though.”

“So you say.  Too much garlic for me.”

“What are you, a vampire?  No such thing as too much garlic.”  As I spoke, I glanced to a nearby table.  A toddler was yelling about something and her parents were trying to quiet her.

“That’s fine if you want to eat garlic and smell like a rotting corpse,” Coleen said.  “I’ll still love you.”

“It doesn’t smell that bad.”

“Last time you had garlic, I thought the paint was going to peel off the walls every time you opened your mouth.”

I smiled, amused.  “So no sex tonight?” I joked.

I grabbed another piece of bread and Coleen continued speaking, almost laughing as she spoke, ““Not with your dragon breath.”

“That kid over there is annoying,” I said.

Coleen glanced to the child and then back to her menu.  “You think our kids will be less obnoxious?”

“That’s why we’re not having kids,” I said, rolling my eyes.

Her mouth flattened.

“Really?” she asked.

“Really what?”

“You don’t want kids?”

“Yeah.  We talked about that.”

“No we didn’t.”

“We talked about that, years ago, when we first started dating.”

“I don’t remember that,” she said solemnly.  She shook her head “I don’t remember that at all.”

The waiter came to our table, poured two glasses of wine, and asked us if we were ready to order.  I looked to the other table.  The little girl was quieted.  She was looking down at a coloring book, scribbling across the lines with a red crayon.  I looked up at the waiter and I told him that I wanted the pesto chicken.  Coleen decided on the swordfish, the nightly special.

The only glow in the room came from a blue, plug-in nightlight.  I was on my back, watching my ceiling fan play with the blue and watching my ceiling fan play with the night.  Editor Girl was next to me on the bed, passed out.  I noticed her rhythmic breathing.  It was a nasally sound and it reminded me of pain. The last woman that slept in this bed only slept here once.  The woman prior to her only slept here once.  The woman before her spent two nights.  She was an anomaly.  I rolled to my side and faced away from Editor Girl.  I listened to her breathe and I knew that I’d not hear that sound again. I was aware the routine.  I knew that Editor girl and I would share some small talk when she awoke in the morning.  I knew that we’d make vague plans to meet again, as a formality.  Neither of us would ever follow up.  I slid my legs off the side of the bed and I sat.  I glanced behind me to insure that I didn’t wake Editor Girl.  I realized that I didn’t know her real name and I felt a tinge of guilt.  I looked forward and then I looked down and then I closed my eyes and then I looked at nothing. In my head I saw my life.  I saw beautiful young faces, hard-shadowed nights, whiskey pubs, tight dresses and fast fashion, potential magazine covers, women on barstools, dance floor photo booths.  I saw drunken smirks centered before a background of arms and elbows. And all I wanted to do was flip those images over. All I wanted to know was on the other side.

I sat next to the crib in the pink-lit room with Emily on my shoulder.  She was crying.  I tried to make her drink from the baby bottle, pushing the silicone nipple through the infant’s toothless gums, but she was not interested in drinking.  I pulled her to my lap and I checked her diaper and found that it was empty. “Sometimes it’s good to cry,” I whispered, placing her back in the crib.  I pulled tiny blankets over the baby and tucked the soft cotton below her feet, hoping the warmth would relax her.  It didn’t.  She still cried.  She cried like this every day.  I stared at the child and I dropped my head, defeated. “Coleen,” I said to the baby monitor and, minutes later, my wife stumbled into the room, yawning.  “I’m sorry,” I said, “I couldn’t get her to stop.”  Coleen walked past me without saying a word, as if I wasn’t there.  She picked Emily up and brought the infant to her chest.  Emily stopped crying.  “I’m sorry that you had to get up,” I said.  Coleen said nothing.  I went into the kitchen and I sat down in the dark.  My elbows rested on the kitchen table and my chin rested on my palms.  I closed my eyes. In my head I saw my life.  I saw elegant aged faces, day-lit smiles, backyard lawns, comfortable clothing and Yo Gabba Gabba tees, post card vacation spots, babies on blankets, Sears family portraits.  I saw husbands, wives and children huddled together as happily-ever-afters. And all I wanted to do was flip those images over. All I wanted to know was on the other side.