wouldn’t. Not just about the house.
She bends down, gives him a closed-mouth kiss. Will reaches for her arm.
“Really, I’m running late,” she says, but with little conviction—almost none—and a blush, a suppressed smile. “I gotta go.” But there’s no resistance in her arm, she’s not trying to pull away, and she allows herself to fall forward, into bed, onto her husband.
—
Will sprawls amid the sheets while Chloe rearranges her hair, and replaces earrings, reties her scarf, all these tasks executed distractedly but deftly, the small competencies of being a woman, skills unknowable to him. The only thing men learn is how to shave.
“I love watching you,” he says, making an effort.
“
Mmm
,” she mutters, not wondering what the hell he’s talking about.
Everybody says that the second year of marriage is the hardest. But their second year was fine, they were young and they were fun, both being paid to travel the world, not worrying about much. That year was terrific.
It’s their fourth year that has been a drag. The year began when they moved into this decrepit house, a so-called investment property that Chloe’s father had left in his will, three apartments occupied by below-market and often deadbeat tenants, encumbered by serious code violations, impeded by unfindable electrical and plumbing plans—every conceivable problem, plus a few inconceivable ones.
The work on the house sputtered after demolition, then stalled completely due to the unsurprising problem of running out of money: everything has been wildly more expensive than expected. That is, more than Will expected; Chloe expected exactly what transpired.
So flooring is uninstalled, plumbing not entirely working, kitchen unfinished and windows unrepaired and blow-in insulation un-blown-in. Half of the second floor and all of the third are uninhabitable. The renovation is an unmitigated disaster, and they are broke, and Chloe is amassing a stockpile of resentment about Will’s refusals to make the compromises that would allow this project to be finished.
Plus, after a year of what is now called “trying” on a regular basis—a militaristically regimented schedule—Chloe is still not pregnant. Will now understands that ovulation tests and calendars are the opposite of erotic aids.
When Chloe isn’t busy penciling in slots for results-oriented, missionary-position intercourse, she has become increasingly moody. And most of her moods are some variation of bad: there’s hostile bad and surly bad and resentful bad and today’s, distracted bad.
“What do you think this is about?” she asks. “The extended trip?”
Will shrugs, but she can’t see it, because she’s not looking his way. “Malcolm hasn’t fully explained yet.” He doesn’t want to tell Chloe anything specific until he has concrete details—what exactly the new assignment will be, any additional money, more frequent travel.
“How is Malcolm, anyway?”
As part of the big shake-up at
Travelers
a year ago, Will was hired despite Chloe’s objections—both of them shouldn’t work at the same struggling company in the same dying industry. So she quit. She left the full-time staff and took the title of contributing editor, shared with a few dozen people, some with only tenuous connections to the magazine accompanied by token paychecks, but still conferring a legitimacy—names on masthead, business cards in wallets—that could be leveraged while hunting for other opportunities.
Hunting for Other Opportunities: good job title for magazine writers.
Chloe came to her decision rationally, plotting out a pros-and-cons list. She is the methodical pragmatist in the couple; Will is the irrational emotional idealistic one.
“I think the takeover is stressing Malcolm out,” Will says. “The negotiations are ending, both sides are doing due diligence. He seems to have a lot of presentations, reports, meetings.”
“Is he worried for his job?”
“Not that
She bends down, gives him a closed-mouth kiss. Will reaches for her arm.
“Really, I’m running late,” she says, but with little conviction—almost none—and a blush, a suppressed smile. “I gotta go.” But there’s no resistance in her arm, she’s not trying to pull away, and she allows herself to fall forward, into bed, onto her husband.
—
Will sprawls amid the sheets while Chloe rearranges her hair, and replaces earrings, reties her scarf, all these tasks executed distractedly but deftly, the small competencies of being a woman, skills unknowable to him. The only thing men learn is how to shave.
“I love watching you,” he says, making an effort.
“
Mmm
,” she mutters, not wondering what the hell he’s talking about.
Everybody says that the second year of marriage is the hardest. But their second year was fine, they were young and they were fun, both being paid to travel the world, not worrying about much. That year was terrific.
It’s their fourth year that has been a drag. The year began when they moved into this decrepit house, a so-called investment property that Chloe’s father had left in his will, three apartments occupied by below-market and often deadbeat tenants, encumbered by serious code violations, impeded by unfindable electrical and plumbing plans—every conceivable problem, plus a few inconceivable ones.
The work on the house sputtered after demolition, then stalled completely due to the unsurprising problem of running out of money: everything has been wildly more expensive than expected. That is, more than Will expected; Chloe expected exactly what transpired.
So flooring is uninstalled, plumbing not entirely working, kitchen unfinished and windows unrepaired and blow-in insulation un-blown-in. Half of the second floor and all of the third are uninhabitable. The renovation is an unmitigated disaster, and they are broke, and Chloe is amassing a stockpile of resentment about Will’s refusals to make the compromises that would allow this project to be finished.
Plus, after a year of what is now called “trying” on a regular basis—a militaristically regimented schedule—Chloe is still not pregnant. Will now understands that ovulation tests and calendars are the opposite of erotic aids.
When Chloe isn’t busy penciling in slots for results-oriented, missionary-position intercourse, she has become increasingly moody. And most of her moods are some variation of bad: there’s hostile bad and surly bad and resentful bad and today’s, distracted bad.
“What do you think this is about?” she asks. “The extended trip?”
Will shrugs, but she can’t see it, because she’s not looking his way. “Malcolm hasn’t fully explained yet.” He doesn’t want to tell Chloe anything specific until he has concrete details—what exactly the new assignment will be, any additional money, more frequent travel.
“How is Malcolm, anyway?”
As part of the big shake-up at
Travelers
a year ago, Will was hired despite Chloe’s objections—both of them shouldn’t work at the same struggling company in the same dying industry. So she quit. She left the full-time staff and took the title of contributing editor, shared with a few dozen people, some with only tenuous connections to the magazine accompanied by token paychecks, but still conferring a legitimacy—names on masthead, business cards in wallets—that could be leveraged while hunting for other opportunities.
Hunting for Other Opportunities: good job title for magazine writers.
Chloe came to her decision rationally, plotting out a pros-and-cons list. She is the methodical pragmatist in the couple; Will is the irrational emotional idealistic one.
“I think the takeover is stressing Malcolm out,” Will says. “The negotiations are ending, both sides are doing due diligence. He seems to have a lot of presentations, reports, meetings.”
“Is he worried for his job?”
“Not that