One thing Kate wouldn't miss about the old apartment was the way they tested the fire alarms at unreasonable times, like eight in the morning on a Saturday. She threw on a bra and leashed the dog, just in case.

Outside in the parking lot, she ran into the neighbors, Lucy and Brad. They'd had dinner together a few times, but had drifted away like most adult friendships forged from superficial things like: you chose the same affordable high-rise.

"Sorry we haven't seen you in so long! How are you?" Lucy said.

"I'm good except I'd rather be sleeping."

"Luckily we're heading to brunch with some friends, so we were already awake."

Lucy was one of those charmed people Kate tended not to like. Friends, brunch, perfectly applied red lipstick, parents who loved her and probably told her she could be anything she wanted.

And then there was Brad, tall and quiet with curly hair and dark eyes and big hands that once cupped her thigh beneath the table of the busy tapas bar where they'd gone for dinner. Lucy had been telling another study-abroad story about Spain, peppered with thickly spoken Spanish words. Kate's now ex-husband was on his third beer, pretending to look interested. She had put her hand over Brad's and moved it up, underneath her skirt, up to where her legs were slightly parted. Si, she thought as one of his long fingers slid beneath the elastic of her panties.

"Where's Mike? Weekend shift?" Lucy still had Brad's hand. He was looking at his phone.

"Oh, no. We, um…we're separated. I'm just around this weekend while he's out of town."

Brad's eyes met hers for a second, then dropped back down.

"God, I'm so embarrassed! I can't believe it. You guys seemed so happy?"

What she wanted to say: Lots of people seem happy.

What she said: "We're happier as friends."

What had she seen in Mike? Freshman orientation. In an ice-breaker, they learned they had the same birthday. And he was cute. Back then she was naïve enough to think that equation carried some significance. Like having the same favorite band or book or movie.

If she met him now, her eyes would never follow him around a room.

She guessed the same was true for him.


***


After the divorce was finalized, they decided they would meet for dinner every week.

Mike made his usual sushi order, tuna and whitefish and those little orange eggs on top that reminded her of bait her dad used, to catch trout. Were they animal, vegetable, mineral?

"Delicious is what they are," he said, expertly pinching a roll between his chopsticks and soaking it in the tiny vat of soy sauce. 

Between bites, they started playing the Confession Game, where they told the truths they could have never told each other when they were together. Except it wasn't very fun when she was the only one who kept secrets. He told her about his porn folder, which was old news, and a work flirtation that never went beyond flirtation with a woman who didn't even work with him anymore.

"Did you ever hook up with that married guy in your class?"

"Evan?"

"And his wife was a supermodel?"

"A fitness model. It's different."

"Ah, jealousy. So you did." He wiped his hands on his napkin.

"We almost kissed once. But he turned out to be a huge dick."

"Seems you have a type."

She softened a little. "You were never a dick."

"I was too nice."

"Nicer than I deserved."


***


Two years earlier, at a grad-school Halloween party, Kate had dressed in furry ears, a tail, painted whiskers, teased, messy hair, and ripped clothes she'd smeared in dirt and red paint. A Cat-tastrophe. She thought it was clever enough to win a best costume prize. Literature PhD's loved puns.

Mike wasn't there because he didn't like parties and didn't like most of these friends. To be honest, she didn't like them very much either, but they were all she had in their new city, and she was bad at being alone.

Maybe that was why she let a semi-stranger dressed like the turd emoji lead her out to the fire escape to make out and clumsily rub her over her ripped black leggings. She came fast only because it was cold and because she hadn't in so long. She thought he was funny and had a nice face. In hindsight and sobriety, neither of these things were true, but she knew who was the real piece of shit. In the end, her costume won her a blinking plastic tiara, but she wasn't there to claim it.

She'd taken a cab back, cracked the window to keep herself from getting sick. The ride was almost half an hour, the fare close to $50. She had never wanted to be home more than she had right at that moment. She felt nervous. Or maybe that was the nausea.

Mike was asleep when she got back, curled toward the edge of the bed that lined the wall. She stumbled into the bathroom and finally threw up. Next to the sink, he'd left the aspirin. She brushed the taste of bile out of her mouth, the taste of someone else. She tapped two pills into her palm and slurped water from the faucet, then splashed her face over and over, the cat makeup pooling murky in the drain. She needed a shower, but she was too tired. She climbed into bed in just her underwear, smelling like the ocean even though they were landlocked for miles.


***


When the waitress came with the bill, Mike tried to pay.

"You can get the next one."

What she said: "Let's split it. I don't want to owe you."

What she didn't say: she expected the dinners to end as soon as one of them fell in love.

Of course, she was right, but she had hoped it would finally be her.

.

Amanda Miska is Publisher of Split Lip Press. She lives in the Philadelphia area.

"Confession Game" is a finalist for the Mythic Picnic Prize in Fiction.

Read AM's postcard.

Detail of art on main page courtesy of Wasfi Akab.

W i g l e a f               05-03-18                                [home]