Page 18

Fri-Yay

Pam unloaded the groceries on the kitchen counter as Elmer watched, his body stretched along the floor, only his eyes moving.

Pam used to love Fri-yay late afternoons.

That lull between a busy week of work and the burst of weekend social activity. That was always a special time for her and Hank.

She missed it.

She would usually arrive home first, and on a hot day like this, she might uncork an icy, thirty-dollar bottle of pinot grigio and pad across her flagstone patio to make sure there were a couple of imported beers in the outside beverage fridge, for him.

She’d dip into the pool, and when she heard the garage door close, and the familiar cadence of his footsteps through the house, she might slip out of her bathing suit, thankful for the privacy their tall hedges provided.

When the screen door slid open and he stepped outside, she’d hold on to the side of the pool, waiting until he approached and saw what she was offering.

She loved it when his lips gave that little pop of surprise; his eyebrows would shoot up, and a smile would spread across his handsome face.

Hank would hold open a towel and dry her off and they’d either head to their covered patio or inside and make love, his warm touch so sweet against her water-cooled skin.

Afterward Hank would whip up margaritas, and they’d sip them until it was time to meet up with their friends for a Friday evening boat ride.

But that was before.

Before they had to sell that house, and its pool.

Now, on a hot Friday afternoon, Pam locked the oscillating fan so it could blow directly on her as she put away the shopping. Sure, you don’t need a pool or air-conditioning to have a sex life, but you do need some sort of attraction.

Before they lost the money, when Pam looked at Hank, a shot of electricity ran between them. She’d touch his arm lightly, and he’d grab her fingers with his other hand.

After. She tried not to look at him anymore.

Well, she wouldn’t have that problem for much longer. They were really doing this. What would it feel like to know he’s never coming home again?

She poured herself a glass of water from the tap and looked out the window at her hydrangeas while she drank. This time next week she’d be free.

And rich. She tapped her fingers on the laminate countertop. She’d get granite in Boca Raton. Maybe even marble.

It wasn’t the best for wear and tear, but she could indulge in that finicky surface now that Hank wouldn’t be around to spill his hot sauce on it. That marble would stay pristine forever.

She checked her watch. It was eleven a.m. Saturday in New Zealand. What would Claire be doing? She picked up her phone and texted:

Hey. Hope things r good. Would b great if ur dad and I could facetime with u. Are u free in an hour? Or let me know what time tmr would work.

It was the least she could do. Give Claire a last conversation with her father. She heard a car door slam and glanced at her watch again. Elmer’s ears twitched, and Pam said to him, “Hank’s home early. What do you think he’s up to?”

Hank burst through the door and stopped short when he saw her standing in front of the fan. Elmer’s tail thumped.

Pam sniffed. “Did you get your hair cut?”

Hank stooped to pet Elmer and ran his other hand over his scalp. He looked like he wasn’t sure. Was she imagining things? Last night, when she crawled in between the covers, she could have sworn the slightest hint of the barbershop aftershave had wafted over to her side. But Hank had his hair cut just the previous week. Maybe a few molecules had clung to the pillows, and they were stirred up and released into the air. But now, there was that smell, again, this time in her kitchen. Perhaps it had rubbed off on her own clothes when she had last seen Hector.

She talked to Hank’s back while he opened the bottom cupboard and set their large thermos on the counter. “Listen. Thank you for doing this. Making us margaritas.”

Hank straightened and looked directly at her, something he didn’t do much anymore, and said, in a quiet voice, “It’s no problem, Pam.”

He checked the fruit basket on the table and, finding it empty, went to the fridge where he pulled out a bag of limes. Pam followed his path with her eyes. She’d try to connect. For old times’ sake. “How are Larry and Andre doing?”

Hank opened the cupboard above the fridge and pulled down the tequila.

“Hank?”

He turned, the bottle suspended midair, and raised his eyebrows.

“I asked you a question.”

“Oh.”

He reached for the salt. “Sorry. I thought you were talking to Elmer. You talk to that dog like he’s a human being.”

“Why would I ask the dog about your friends?”

“I don’t know, Pam.”

He blew out a breath and rubbed a lime between his palms. “I don’t know why you do anything, anymore.” He rolled the green sphere along the cutting board and cleaved it in two with a practiced stroke.

What was that supposed to mean? Pam watched as he reached for another lime, thought a moment, and then responded, “Why I do anything these days, Hank, is because I feel like I don’t have a choice. In anything. Anymore.”

Hank’s knife hung above the second lime. And then he halved it and reached for a third.

“And I wish with all my heart that I did.”

Pam turned and left the room.