My husband complains about the fumes on our self-cleaning oven. I encourage him to take our son fishing with the neighbor. I kiss them both goodbye and set the oven cycle. The timer begins to count down from eight hours.
Hour 1
I drink a cup of coffee and grab the bourbon I keep in the back of the closet. I put on my sweat pants and hoodie. I tie up my hair and put the hood over my head and cinch up the drawstring so only my face is exposed. It isn’t exactly cold outside, but I put on one glove and light my cigarette and hurry and put on the other glove. My smoking gloves. I drink my spiked coffee and inhale, exhale. I put in my airpods so my neighbors can’t hear the music my husband hates, pop music made by women. When I was in elementary school the girls were either N’SYNC or Backstreet Boys girls, but I was neither. I was into Spice Girls. Girl Power. And my love of pop music didn’t fade, now I blast Sabrina Carpenter and Chappell Roan. I take a drag and the oven inside the house increasingly gets hotter. Because smoking and drinking is a rare act, I catch a buzz. If I smoke too often I won’t get a cigarette high. I love to hold on to that last drag as long as possible and almost want to light another one, but think better of it. Anyone could see me smoking if I stayed out too long. My neighbors could peek through the broken fence. I looked up at their window. The lights are off. Tracy is probably still asleep. Tracy and Mark have been married one year. Once I saw Tracy fully naked in her window before Mark pulled her away. It’s almost like she wanted to tell me something. The way our eyes locked. I know she’s seen me out here smoking before. When we are all over for dinner, she’ll say she wants to step out for a cig and waits for me to take the bait, but Tony doesn’t know I smoke. And I wouldn’t say I smoke, but rather I sneak out when I get the chance.
Hour 2
I want to watch reality TV but my time is limited and I can’t waste my buzz on fuck ass tv shows. I decide to take a bath in case the smoke is still on me somehow. I undress in front of my window that faces Tracy’s. I know she’s not there, but I imagine she is. I think about being between her and Mark. My body sandwiched between the two as they call out my name simultaneously. I imagine them both pulling me into their bedroom after dinner at their house. I’ve never told Tony my fantasies with the neighbors because I know he would never allow me what I desire. The water fills the tub and I don’t last long before I have to get out and take myself to bed. Tony hates that I have a vibrator, almost like he’s jealous of it. He’s jealous of a lot of shit. Almost like I didn’t have a life before him. I have to pretend like his dick is capable of getting me off as it jabs me over and over. He doesn’t like to think of the version of me when I was twenty taking shots of tequila and dancing my tits off. Like I hadn’t flashed my tots to all my girlfriends. He saw a photo of me on my friend’s 19th birthday. She had a cigarette in one hand, and he said how gross it was for her to be smoking. My cigarette was behind her back, out of frame on purpose. I was always a sneak away type of smoker. He found another photo of me and that same friend kissing, and he called me a dirty whore who deserved to be punished. I thought about that as I came. I was a dirty whore, and I did deserve to be punished. I wish Tracy and Mark would punish me like I deserved.
Hour Three
The oven heat is increasing yet I still chop an onion, carrots, celery, cabbage, potatoes and stick it in the crockpot with roast. I’m on my third cup of bourbon coffee.
Hour Four
I find my single Xanex wrapped in foil. I consider it. I want to feel high and float around, but I’ve never taken one before and I’m afraid I’ll still be high when Tony comes home. Instead, I make my anxiety work for me. I clean out my closet and set aside some clothes I think Tracy’s sister might like. Tracy’s sister is going through a divorce and her husband claimed stake on the house. She left for work after she caught him cheating and he had the locks changed. Tracy’s sister is living with their mom and can’t afford a new wardrobe and a lawyer. I text Tracy to come over for the clothes and I put on a tight tank top and tinted red lip gloss. Tracy said my red lipstick I normally wear makes me look exotic. I wanted to tell her it was impolite to call people exotic but I didn’t want to make her feel bad or weird. I kinda felt bad for Tracy, for how naive to the world she was. The way her prettiness got her what she wanted.
Hour Five
Tracy comes for the clothes. I can feel her staring at my tits. She catches me noticing where her eyes are. I sit up taller. She asks, “Did you take a bath today?” Ah, she did see me in the window. I wonder how much of me she can see. I love that we both sneak little looks when we get the chance. I wonder how often she’s there at the window watching for me.
“I love baths when Tony is gone. A moment fully to myself. It’s just me you know. I don’t get that often.”
She looked me right in the eyes when she said, “I love to have moments to myself too.”
I can tell by the way she’s looking at me that she thinks of me when she comes.
I offer a drink, and she asks for bourbon. She knows I have a secret stash of it in the back of the closet. Only she does something fully unexpected. She heads to the laundry room and pulls out a bottle of Woodford Reserve. My bottle was Jim Beam. I look at her and she realizes she fucked up. She reached for the wrong stash. She has been in my home when I have not been. She knows where Tony keeps his bourbon, a place even I didn’t know about. The flicker of panic leaves her eyes quickly and she tries to change the subject to the pile of clothes I have gathered for her sister. She picks up a dress and asks, “Are you sure you want to get rid of this? Your ass looks so good in it.”
I laugh at the compliment. “Do you want it? You might need a new wardrobe yourself some day.
She looks at me as she downs her drink and says, “Careful with those cigarettes you smoke, might kill you.”
Hour Six
The house is a mixture of roast and 800 degree oven heat. I open my laptop to reply to send to an old college friend,
Liv,
Okay, TF is going on over there, sounds crazy! Yes, let’s do a girls trip just you and I, unless you want to invite some of our other friends but we know they won’t commit. In response to me taking on your shit emotionally, I find it an even trade. Where do men put their baggage? On to us, women. Where do women put our baggage? On to our friends. Women hold up the men, the children, and other women. I cleaned out my bookshelf today and came across two books. One titled “Women and Children Last” from my sociology professor. I never read it but already the title says it all. The second book was about the theories of Philosophy. Remember when we took that class and then referred to ourselves as Philosopher Queens the rest of the semester. I told someone about the Allegory of the Cave the other day and they rolled their eyes at me. I realized it’s probably like when someone tells me their favorite author is Edgar Allan Poe. All that signifies to me is that they haven’t read a book since high school. When I talk about Plato people probably think, wow this bitch took philosophy 101 like the rest of us. I do think about that though, leaving the cave and not being able to see but then being able to see so fucking clearly and never being able to go back into the cave? Do you think about that?
I’m reminiscing here. Remember our girly beer pong table we made, well you mostly made. I’ve always known this about myself but it’s something I can’t shake. I hardly do anything, I’m just existing while other people do stuff. Like you made that beer pong table with the pretty colors and how you knew how to get the blues and greens to complement each other. I told people we made it, but it was you. Tony told me that the other day, he said you know you’re not really helping paint the living room, you’re just here as if you’re helping, but you’re not.
People say that millennials dressed in business casual outfits to go to the club and that’s so accurate but now that I’m 36 I don’t know how to dress. I want to wear black pants and cute tops but I think well that’s too dressy. Remember puffy vests?
Remember that night we got fucked up in the hot tub and poured shots of Hpnotiq into our mouths and walked to IHOP and our waitress told us to be safe. I barely remember the night, only that it happened.
Anyway we’ve always been holding each other up and being best friends since childhood is magical in that you can unload some shit real quick and I have a full understanding. When you say your dad is being a dick I know fully what that entails. I’ve known your dad as long as I’ve known you. I know the bull shit he’s pulled. When you say you went shopping and cried in the dressing room I already know about your long long arms and short torso. I remember it all, the way you used to crimp your hair, and the time you dyed it red and a bunch of other shit. I go shopping and I pick up items that are crunchy and I say out loud as if you’re right there, “Feel this, it’s crunchy.” I still say “flash your tots” like you’re here too. Maybe I take too much from you. I miss you. Something interesting is happening with Tony. I’ll tell you about it when we see each other again. I need you. I’m losing touch with the person I used to be, or the person that I am. Do you feel that? The change in who you are? So predictable and boring. Nothing has made me feel alive in so long. We used to go to the pool and float in the lazy river and tan. Then we would go home crimp our hair and party. I haven’t felt alive since then. Sure having a baby is great(?), but that’s totally different. I know when I see you it will feel like home, and I’ll be alive just by telling each other some dumb ass stories. I went to the grocery store the other day and asked if the young kid would use the cart to take my groceries to the car because when he carried the bags all at once it squished my bread. I knew he thought I was the dumbest bitch in the world.
Love ya always.
Hour Seven
I debated sobering up or having another drink. Maybe I could sneak in one more cigarette.
Hour Eight
Tony and our son come home. I pretend I’m not drunk and haven’t been drinking all day. The self-cleaning oven timer is buzzing. All that is left to do is to wipe up the ashes. I serve plates of roast to each of my boys. I look at photos of fish they caught and pull out the bottle of bourbon my husband has been hiding from me, the same one he drinks with Tracy when I’m not around. I casually ask if he wants a drink. He looks at me, cocks his head. He realizes I’m drunk. He takes the bottle out of my hand. “Tracy stopped by today for clothes. What a shame about her sister getting a divorce.” He chews slowly. “I’m going to visit Oliva. I’ve decided it’s been too long. I’ll cook extra meals and freeze them, so you won’t have to worry. Maybe little Tony can stay with my mom. I’m sure you can manage a few nights without me. I am sure you will find someone to do. I’m going to book my flight right now. I found one cheap, $348.”
He doesn’t answer but he doesn’t have a choice. I clear the table, wash the dishes. Sweep the floor. Tony is watching TV when I go upstairs. I stand in front of the window like I do every night, and I take off my clothes slow like a striptease. I look for Tracy, for our eyes to meet but she isn’t there, she won’t look at me again.
