Page 82 of Lucky Night

By the boys, yes. Two wonderful, amazing, also exhausting and clingy little boys. They were alwaysonme. I was this mother ship. Hugged and pawed and hung off of. Loved, too, of course, but it was like…I belonged to them. My body did. To be clear, it was wonderful sometimes, and above all it was the deal, you know? But I didn’t expect it. And I couldn’t help but think back—no, reallyfeelback—to being alone. A single person, living in the city, my time, my body, everything my own. I could walk down the street and I wasn’t weighed down by strollers and bags and small articles of clothing. I wasn’t this docking station.

You’d lost your autonomy, he says.

I’d given it away! And I was happy to. Mostly. But I did start feeling this occasional, intense irritation. At the end of a long day, after I was mauled and used up. I’m not the only mother who feels this way. It’s a big thing online, women who feel overtouched. But for a long time I wasn’t even aware it was bothering me. Until one day. Night, actually. I’d put the boys to bed, and I was on the sofa, just zapped, you know, wiped out. After a while, Tom came home—

Cue ominous music, he says.

She laughs. Right. He’d been out somewhere, or working late, I don’t remember, but he came home, plopped down beside me, and…

She gives her thigh a good, hard slap.

It was a greeting, a friendly thing. But it made this resounding…I don’t know if the jeans I was wearing were too tight or what, but it made this loudwhack!And I saw his hand spread there on my leg, pressing down on it a little, and it was like he’d smacked a mare’s flank. The sound, the ease with which he did it, so familiar, like, ah, here’s my trusty nag! Jenny the Pony.

And I wasstunned.Remember, I was exhausted, my brain was goo at that point, and so this was probably a complete overreaction, but I felt like I didn’t matter. I didn’t exist, aside from the parts that could be patted and handled.

So you needed to reclaim your body, he says. Infidelity became an act of feminist rebellion.

Yeah, she says. That’s…yeah. Basically.

She picks up a half-empty glass of champagne on the nightstand and takes a sip. He’s not getting it. She wasn’t making some grand statement. She was…God, it’s impossible to explain. Maybe she doesn’t get it either.

She reaches for his phone and calls her number.

It rings and rings.

I don’t like that Edvin’s not answering, she says.

Try again, he suggests.

She does. Still no answer. They turn to the television, where indefatigable Juliana is doing her damnedest to make compelling news out of the fact that nothing is happening.

He goes into the bathroom and returns with two tumblers. He finds a small ceramic jug of tequila on the liquor shelf and comes to sit beside her on the bed.

You think we should get drunk right now?

Not at all, he says. But I do think we should each have a shot. To relax us. It can’t hurt. We probably have hours togo.

Her heart sinks. Hours?

Better they take their time than rush, right?

He cracks the cap and pours. They drink.

Oh, that’s nice. It spreads right through her, warming her.

I can’t believe that fucker stole my phone, she says. Just took it. Like he was entitled toit.

Men, he says. Am I right?

She holds out her glass. Give me just a splash more.

He does. Tell me, Norm. How is my number saved in your phone?

Under the name Farthead Buttinski, she says.

He laughs. You really are the mother of boys, aren’t you?

I really am. But saving you under a name like that would be a terrible idea. They’d find it and start calling you constantly.

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