Wife 22

It was Friday afternoon and I was standing at the counter at Au Bon Pain ordering a chicken salad sandwich and a Diet Coke. I had been in line for fifteen minutes. There were twenty or so people queued up behind me.

“?’Scuse me, ’scuse me. I’m with her.”

Eddie pushed his way to the front of the line. “Hi, doll.”

I had never been with a man who called me “doll” before, and I have to admit I liked it—until now. In the bedroom it made me feel petite and Bonnie and Clyde-ish, but here in Au Bon Pain it sounded cheap.

He kissed me on the cheek. “Man, it’s crowded in here.”

He wore a blue bandana tied around his head, Rambo-style. I had seen this bandana in the weight room, which was, as far as I was concerned, where a bandana worn like this belonged. We really hadn’t been out in public yet. Normally I went to his apartment or he came to mine; as I said, our relationship was really about sex. But here we were in Au Bon Pain and here he was looking like Sylvester Stallone, and I was mortified.

“Aren’t you hot?” I said, staring blatantly at his forehead, trying to silently telegraph you’re in Cambridge, not the North End, take that ridiculous thing off.

“It is kind of hot in here,” he said, slipping out of his jeans jacket, stripping down to a wife-beater. He leaned forward, his deltoids flexing, and put a twenty on the counter. “Make it two chicken salads,” he said, then turned to me. “I thought I’d surprise you.”

“Well, you did! Surprise me, I mean. Um—I think they have a no-tank-top rule in here.”

“I was hoping after lunch you might give me a tour of your office. Introduce me. Show me around.”

I knew what Eddie was thinking. That I would waltz him through the door and my colleagues at Peavey Patterson would see him and be flabbergasted and ask who is that gorgeous guy with the incredible body (which is exactly what I did when I first saw him at the gym) and whisk him away to be in some major ad campaign. He wasn’t completely off about his potential—he was charismatic and could probably have sold anything—paper towels, wet wipes, or dog food. But not in a wife-beater and bandana.

“Wow, that’s a great idea. I just wish you had given me some notice. Today’s probably not a good day. We have a big client in town. In fact I shouldn’t even be out getting my lunch. I should have eaten in. Everybody else in my office is eating in.”

“Alice! Alice, I’m so sorry we’re late,” a woman shouted.

Now Helen pushed her way to the front of the line, dragging an uncomfortable-looking William behind her. He and I were running just thirty minutes before. I’m pretty sure Helen was unaware of the fact that we’d been working out together. Or that I used his sunscreen. Or that even after showering I still smelled of it.

“There’s no saving places!” somebody yelled.

“Those people cut to the front of the line!” somebody else yelled.

“We’re with her,” said Helen. “Sorry about that,” she whispered to me. “It was such a huge line. You don’t mind, do you? Well, hello!” She broke into a huge smile at the sight of Eddie. Her eyes lingered on his bandana. “Who’s your friend, Alice?”

“This is Eddie,” I said, suddenly feeling protective, hearing the cat-and-mouse tone in her voice. “Eddie, this is Helen and William.”

“Boyfriend,” Eddie corrected Helen, leaning in to shake her hand. “I’m her boyfriend.”

“Really,” said Helen.

“Really?” said William.

“Really,” I said, getting irritated now. Did he just assume I was single? Why shouldn’t I have a boyfriend, and why shouldn’t he look like Mr. Olympia?

“Hey, doll?” said Eddie. He kissed me on the neck.

William raised his eyebrows. His mouth dropped open the tiniest little bit. Was he jealous?

“Your sunscreen smells like coconut. Yum,” said Eddie.

Helen turned to William. “I thought that was you.”

25

From: Wife 22 <Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org>

Subject: Maritalscope?

Date: May 25, 7:21 AM

To: researcher101 <researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org>

Researcher 101,

I’m curious. How do you go about interpreting my answers? Is there some sort of a computer program that you feed data into that compiles a profile? A type? Kind of like a horoscope? A maritalscope?

And why don’t you just send me all the questions at once? Wouldn’t that be easier?

Wife 22

From: researcher101 <researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org>

Subject: Re: Maritalscope?

Date: May 25, 7:45 AM

To: Wife 22 <Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org>

Wife 22,

It’s much more complicated than a horoscope, actually. Are you familiar with music streaming services? Where you enter in a song that you like and then a radio station is created just for you based on the song’s attributes? Well, how we interpret, code, and assign value to your answers is very similar to that. We strip your answers down to emotional data points. For some of your longer answers there might be fifty data points that will need to be considered and tracked. For shorter answers, perhaps five.

I like to think what we have developed is an algorithm of the heart.

As far as your second query, we’ve found there’s a trust that develops between subject and researcher that slowly builds over time. That’s why we parcel out the questions. There’s something about the building of anticipation that works to both of our advantages.

Waiting is a dying art. The world moves at a split-second speed now and I happen to think that’s a great shame, as we seem to have lost the deeper pleasures of leaving and returning.

Warmly,

Researcher 101

From: Wife 22 <Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org>

Subject: Re: Maritalscope?

Date: May 25, 9:22 AM

To: researcher101 <researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org>