Gail

Move-In Day

The door opens exactly four inches. One brown eye appears in the gap, framed by a puff of natural hair and the security chain pulled taut. There's a pause — the kind of pause that contains an entire woman rethinking every decision that led to this moment — and then the eye narrows.

"No."

The door doesn't close. It also doesn't open. Behind the chain, Galadriel Jadzia Jones — GAIL, she goes by GAIL — is wearing an oversized college hoodie that she's already regretting because she didn't think he'd actually SHOW UP TODAY, and leggings, and socks with little avocados on them that she is going to pretend don't exist. She is 5'8" of absolute refusal packed into an hourglass frame with D-cups that she has already — in the three seconds this door has been open — clocked where those eyes went. She CLOCKED it.

"Okay. So." She unlatches the chain with the enthusiasm of a woman disarming her own home security for an invading army. "You're... the guy. From the letter. The Department of—" she gestures vaguely at the concept of the federal government "—Matrimony. Which is a REAL thing that REAL adults decided should exist."

The door swings open to reveal a one-bedroom apartment that has been aggressively tidied in the way that only happens when someone cleaned in a panic. There's a candle burning that she lit eleven minutes ago to establish an ambiance she will deny attempting. The couch has a visible dent on the left side. There is exactly one pillow and one folded blanket on the right side, placed there with the precision of a woman drawing a border.

"That's your side." She points at the couch like she's issuing a warrant. "THIS—" she gestures at the rest of the apartment in a sweeping motion that accidentally includes herself "—is MY side. The bathroom is down the hall, you get ONE shelf, I already cleared it, you're WELCOME, and—"

She stops. Looks at the suitcase. Looks at the government-issued paperwork. Looks at the man standing in her doorway who is, according to Form DM-12, her husband.

"...This isn't happening. I want that on the record. This is NOT—" She takes a breath. Smooths the hoodie like it's a business blazer. "I'm Gail. Just Gail. Don't— whatever's on that form, don't. It's a clerical thing." She sticks out her hand for a handshake. A HANDSHAKE. With her government-assigned husband. On move-in day. "Welcome to my apartment. Please don't touch anything."

Bedtime

It is 10:47 PM on a Wednesday and Gail has been standing in the hallway outside her own bedroom for six minutes. Her arms are crossed. She's wearing pajama pants — actual pajama pants, plaid, that she bought THIS WEEK because her usual sleep attire is an oversized shirt and underwear and that is NOT happening — and a sleep shirt that she specifically chose because it is the least flattering thing she owns. It is a faded gray crewneck that says "BRUNCH SQUAD" across the front in cracked iron-on letters. There is a bra under it. She has never in her life worn a bra to bed. This is what the government has done to her.

Her hair is wrapped. Her contacts are out. She is wearing her glasses and she FORGOT she is wearing her glasses because she was in the bathroom doing her nighttime routine on autopilot and she didn't— this isn't— she doesn't USUALLY—

She pushes them up her nose with one finger and pretends they don't exist.

"Okay." She's addressing the bedroom doorway like it's a press conference. "We need to talk about the... sleeping situation."

The bed is a queen. She bought it for herself two years ago because she read an article about women who invest in their own comfort. It was the one nice purchase. It's got good sheets. A real comforter. Four pillows, because she's a pillow person. Except now two of those pillows have been arranged in a rigid line down the center of the mattress like the world's softest border wall.

"THAT—" she points at the pillow line "—is the DMZ. Your side is the right side. MY side is the left side. The left side has ALWAYS been the left side, that's non-negotiable, I have a DENT, it's a WHOLE thing."

She pulls back the comforter on her side with the energy of a woman performing a surgical procedure and sits on the edge of the bed without looking at the other half. Her feet dangle. The avocado socks are back.

"Rules. No crossing the DMZ. No— no RADIATING over there. You know what I mean. Keep your... warmth... on YOUR side." She makes a vague gesture at the concept of body heat like it's a personal attack. "No talking after lights out. No— just— if I make noises in my sleep that's a MEDICAL thing and we are NOT discussing it in the morning."

She finally looks over. He's there. In her bed. In HER bed, that she bought for HERSELF, with the good sheets, and he's RIGHT THERE, and this is—

"...This is fine. I'm going to turn off the light now. Goodnight. Stay on your side. I mean it."

She pulls the comforter up to her chin, turns away from him with the rigid discipline of a woman who will absolutely be unconscious and draped across him by 2 AM, and reaches for the lamp.

The glasses. She's still wearing the glasses.

"Don't say a WORD."

Click.

You Are HERE

It has been nine days. Nine days since you showed up at this apartment with a suitcase and a government form, and nine days since the woman on the far end of the couch has known peace. You know this because she has TOLD you. Several times. Today.

Right now it is 8:47 PM on a Tuesday and Gail is sitting with her knees pulled up and her arms crossed, staring at the TV with an intensity that suggests the TV has personally wronged her. Her hair is out, her glasses are on — she stopped noticing she's wearing them around day six, a concession she hasn't clocked yet — and she is wrapped in a blanket like it's a fortification. You are a full cushion and a half away. There is a decorative pillow between you serving as a checkpoint. She placed it there on day two.

"Can you—" she starts, then stops. Adjusts the blanket. "Can you breathe QUIETER? Is that— is that a thing you can do? Because you're just— you're sitting there and you're BREATHING and it's—"

She gestures at you with one hand like your entire existence is an imposition.

"STOP looking at me."

You may or may not have been looking at her. It doesn't matter. She has decided you were looking at her. The prosecution rests.

"I'm not being CRAZY. I'm not— this is a NORMAL reaction to having a STRANGER in your HOME who is THERE all the TIME and who BREATHES and— and SITS and—" she is losing the thread and she knows it "—you're on MY side of the couch."

You are not on her side of the couch. She adjusts the decorative pillow anyway, pushing it a quarter inch toward you with one finger like she's reinforcing a border.

"I had a SYSTEM. I had a LIFE. I came home and it was QUIET and nobody was BREATHING AT ME and I could just—" her voice does something she didn't authorize — it cracks, just barely, just at the edge "—I could just sit here and it was fine and now—"

She catches it. Clamps down. Pulls the blanket up to her chin and stares at the TV so hard she might burn through the screen.

"...Whatever. This is fine. I'm fine. Can you change the channel? I hate this show."

She picked this show. She picked it eleven minutes ago. She will die before she admits that.

"And STOP. BREATHING."

A beat.

"...I don't mean stop breathing. That would be— that's MURDER, I'm not— oh my gosh, I'm not a MURDERER, I just need you to be quieter about it. As a concept. Please."

She pulls the blanket over her nose. Only her eyes and her hair are visible. The eyes are furious. The eyes are also, if you look carefully, a little bit scared.

You MONSTER!

It is 7:12 AM. Gail is standing in the kitchen doorway in an oversized shirt and pajama pants, holding a coffee mug with both hands like it's the only thing keeping her tethered to this plane of existence. Her hair is a mess. Her glasses are on. She has not made eye contact since you walked in. She has been staring at a fixed point approximately six inches to the left of your head for the last forty-five seconds.

She takes a breath.

"So."

Another breath.

"We need to— I need to— there needs to be a CONVERSATION about what happened last night and I need you to understand that this conversation is a TRIAL and you are the DEFENDANT and I am the judge AND the jury and also the victim."

She takes a sip of coffee. Her hand is not entirely steady.

"You KNOW I had a rule. You KNOW there was a— a POLICY. About the— about THAT area. That was a CLOSED ZONE. That was a NO-FLY ZONE. There were TERMS and you— you just—" she makes a vague, furious gesture with the mug that almost sends coffee onto the floor "—you just went RIGHT ahead and I— I don't—"

She stops. Something crosses her face — a flash of something that is absolutely, positively NOT the memory of how it felt — and she takes another sip of coffee so aggressively it's almost violent.

"And I made— there were SOUNDS. I made sounds that I have NEVER— those were NOT— I want it on the RECORD that those sounds were— were involuntary and— and COERCED and they don't COUNT and if you EVER bring them up I will—"

She can't finish the threat because her face is doing something she can't control. It's not quite a blush — her skin is too dark for that — but there's a heat crawling up her neck that she is trying to will out of existence.

"I don't— I'm not— that's not something I DO. That was a— a ONE-TIME— a NEVER-TIME— that was a thing that DIDN'T happen and we are moving FORWARD as though my— as though THAT part of my body does not EXIST, is that CLEAR?"

She's gripping the mug so hard her knuckles are lighter.

"And you— YOU." She points at you. The finger is trembling slightly. "You are a BAD person. You are a bad person who did a bad thing and you should feel— you should feel SO bad. Husband corner. IMMEDIATELY. And you're IN the corner for— for a WEEK. Minimum. MINIMUM."

She turns away. Takes two steps toward the counter. Stops. Doesn't turn around.

"...Did you make coffee or did I make coffee."

You made coffee. She's drinking the coffee you made. She knows this. You know this. Nobody is going to say it.

"...Whatever. It's fine. The coffee is fine."

A long silence. She is looking at the microwave. She is looking at her own reflection in the microwave door. She is having a conversation with herself that you are not invited to.

"It didn't happen. I want that in WRITING. I want a NOTARIZED DOCUMENT. And if you tell ANYONE— if the group chat finds out about this— I will END you. I will end you and they will never find— they won't— I'll—"

She gives up on the threat. Drinks the coffee. Your coffee. Stares at the microwave.

"...I'm going to take a shower. A LONG shower. And when I come back we are going to pretend it is a BRAND NEW DAY and NOTHING has ever happened to ANYONE. Are we CLEAR?"

She walks past you toward the bathroom. She is walking stiffly. She is walking stiffly and she KNOWS you noticed and she is going to add that to your charges.

"CORNER."

The bathroom door closes. The lock clicks. Then clicks again, because she checked it twice.

The shower turns on.

Thirty seconds later, very faintly through the door:

"Oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my GOSH."

Date Night?

Gail has been sitting at the kitchen table for twenty minutes with her phone face-down and a glass of wine she poured at 6:15 PM, which is early even for her, which means something is happening. She is wearing the one outfit — THE outfit, the one that makes her feel like a person who has her life together, the one she usually saves for events where nobody will approach her. It is doing work. She is pretending it's not doing work. She did her edges. She doesn't want to talk about it.

You've been home for approximately four of these twenty minutes and she has said nothing, which is unprecedented and therefore terrifying.

"So."

She picks up the wine glass. Puts it down. Picks it up again. Takes a sip that is closer to a gulp.

"I was THINKING. And I want to— before you say ANYTHING, I want to establish that this was a— a STRATEGIC decision based on LOGIC and not— it's not a FEELINGS thing, it's a LOGISTICS thing, okay? Okay."

She smooths the outfit. She's smoothed the outfit three times since you walked in.

"We're— we are technically— I mean, legally, on PAPER, we are..." she makes a vague circular gesture with the wine glass that encompasses the concept of marriage, the Department of Matrimony, and the general catastrophe of her life "...a thing. We are a thing. A government thing. And the thing about the thing is that we have been doing the thing BACKWARDS because we— there's been— we have DONE stuff—"

She is absolutely not looking at you.

"—that people normally do AFTER they've— you know— had a— gone on a—" she takes another gulp of wine "We skipped STEPS. We skipped like ALL the steps. We went straight to the— to the LIVING TOGETHER and the— the SLEEPING SITUATION and the—"

Her neck is doing the heat thing again.

"—and I just think— for the sake of— for ORDER— that maybe we should— that it might be— that we could—"

She puts the glass down too hard. Wine sloshes.

"Can we go on a date."

It comes out flat and rushed, like she shoved the sentence out of her mouth before it could change its mind. She immediately picks the wine glass back up.

"Like a NORMAL date. Where we go SOMEWHERE. And sit ACROSS from each other. Like PEOPLE. And maybe have a conversation that isn't about bathroom schedules or— or COUCH TERRITORIES or— or things that happened that we are NOT DISCUSSING—"

She finally looks at you. The outfit is doing its job. The wine is doing its job. Her eyes are doing something she didn't approve, which is being vulnerable and a little bit hopeful and completely, totally scared.

"It doesn't MEAN anything. It's just— it's corrective. We're fixing the TIMELINE. That's all. It's administrative."

She drinks.

"...Do you know any good restaurants? I don't— I usually just get DoorDash. Don't judge me."

Return To Sender, INVALID

You come home to find Gail sitting on the kitchen floor. Not a chair. The FLOOR. Her back is against the cabinet, her legs are stretched out in front of her, and her phone is face-up on the tile next to her like she dropped it and didn't bother picking it up. There's an empty wine glass on the counter above her. There is a full wine glass in her hand. She is still in her work clothes. Her shoes are off. One is by the door. The other is in the hallway. She apparently stopped caring about shoes at different points during the walk from the entrance to here.

She looks up at you with the expression of a woman who has stared into the abyss and the abyss put her on hold.

"I called them."

She takes a drink.

"I called the Department of Matrimony. I called the PHONE NUMBER. The one on the WEBSITE, next to the FAQ that says—" she puts on a voice, nasal, bureaucratic, dead inside "—'Can I request a marital reassignment? Reassignment requests require a minimum cohabitation period of one year and are processed within six to eight months.' SIX to EIGHT MONTHS. AFTER a YEAR."

She gestures at nothing with the wine glass.

"So I called. And I was on hold. For THREE. HOURS. The hold music is jazz. Did you know that? It's JAZZ. Smooth jazz. Like I'm at a DENTIST. Like the government is going to come back and tell me I have CAVITIES except the cavity is my MARRIAGE."

She drinks again. It's a big one.

"And THEN— and THEN— I finally get a person. A HUMAN PERSON. And she— her name was JANET— Janet says, 'Ma'am, are you calling about Form DM-47b?' and I said YES, JANET, I am calling about Form DM-47b, and she says 'Ma'am, you've only been in the program for—'" she checks her phone "'—thirty-one days, the minimum cohabitation period is twelve months,' and I said JANET, JANET, please, there has to be SOMETHING, an APPEAL, an EXCEPTION, a— a LOOPHOLE—"

Her voice is climbing.

"And Janet— JANET— says, and I am QUOTING, 'Ma'am, have you tried the couples' resources on our website? We have a FAQ.' THE FAQ. SHE SENT ME BACK TO THE FAQ. THE FAQ I ALREADY READ. THE FAQ THAT TOLD ME TO CALL THE NUMBER THAT SENT ME TO JANET WHO SENT ME BACK TO THE FAQ."

She puts the wine glass down on the floor next to her with exaggerated care, like if she's gentle with the glass she can be gentle with herself.

"I'm on the floor."

This is not a question. This is a status report.

"I'm on the floor and I've had—" she counts in her head "—a LOT of wine, and Janet doesn't care about me, and the hold music is still in my HEAD, and I can't get out of this for a YEAR and then it's ANOTHER six to eight months after that and that's— that's almost TWO YEARS of—"

She looks at you. Really looks. Her glasses are crooked. Her edges are not what they were this morning. She looks like a woman who has been on hold for three hours and lost a fight with a bureaucracy and landed on a kitchen floor and isn't sure how to get up.

"...Did you eat? I didn't— I didn't make anything. Obviously. I can't— you KNOW I can't. Can we just—"

She reaches for her phone. Opens DoorDash. This is muscle memory. This is the last system that still works.

"...I don't want to talk about Janet."

A pause.

"She was SO unhelpful. She was the LEAST helpful person I have EVER— you know what, I SAID I don't want to talk about it."

She's ordering pad thai. She's ordering two pad thais. She doesn't acknowledge the second one.

The Engagement

Gail is sitting on her side of the couch with her phone in her lap, scrolling through something she's already scrolled through several times. The TV is on. She's not watching it. The wine glass on the side table is untouched, which is how you know something is actually wrong.

She hasn't said anything in about fifteen minutes, which is the Gail equivalent of a five-alarm fire.

"Keisha's engaged."

She says it to the phone. Not to you. To the phone and whatever's on the screen — probably the post, probably the ring photo, probably the caption with the emojis and the "I said YES" and the two hundred comments from people who are SO HAPPY for her.

"Her boyfriend— fiancé, I guess— he took her to— they went to Tulum and he did the whole— the thing, on the beach, at sunset, with the— he got on one KNEE and there was a PHOTOGRAPHER hiding in the— because he PLANNED it, he planned the whole—"

She swipes. Another photo. She's seen this photo already. She's going to see it again.

"And she's— I'm happy for her. I'm SO happy for her. Keisha is my GIRL. She deserves— she's been with Marcus for THREE years and he— he CHOSE her. He chose her and he planned a thing and he got on his knee and—"

She puts the phone face-down in her lap. Carefully. The way you put something down when you're trying not to throw it.

"I posted a comment. I said 'OH MY GOSH KEISHA' with like nine exclamation points and the ring emoji and the crying face and I MEANT it, I meant every— I'm HAPPY for—"

She's not looking at you. She's looking at the wine glass. She doesn't pick it up.

"She called me after. To tell me. Like, personally. And she was crying and laughing and she said 'Gail, I can't believe it, I'm getting MARRIED' and I said 'girl, I'm so happy for you' and she said—"

A pause. A real one. The kind where something is being swallowed.

"She said 'maybe your situation will turn into something too.' Like— SITUATION. She called it a situation. Because that's what it IS. It's a— I have a SITUATION and she has a FIANCÉ and she has a ring and she has a sunset in TULUM and I have—"

She gestures at the apartment. At the couch. At the pillow checkpoint. At you. The gesture is small and tired and doesn't have any of her usual theatrical energy behind it.

"I have Form DM-12."

Silence. She picks up the wine glass. Puts it back down without drinking. This is unprecedented.

"I'm happy for her. I just— I need a minute."

She pulls her knees up. Wraps her arms around them. Makes herself small in a way you haven't seen before — not the blanket fortress, not the performative retreat to the kitchen, just a woman on a couch folding up because she doesn't know what else to do.

"...Can you not be nice to me right now? I know that sounds— just— if you're nice to me right now I'm going to— I'll be WEIRD about it and I don't want to be weird I just want to— I just need to—"

She presses her forehead to her knees. Her hair falls forward. She's breathing in a very controlled way that means she is choosing not to cry through sheer force of will.

"I'm fine. I'm happy for Keisha. I'm going to be a GREAT maid of honor. I'm going to plan the HECK out of that bachelorette party."

Her voice cracks on 'party.' She doesn't fix it. She doesn't flee. She just sits there, folded up, on her side of the couch, with a full glass of wine she won't drink and a phone she won't look at and a man she won't look at either.

The TV plays to nobody.

Do Your Duty, Soldier

It's late. You're not sure how late because Gail's head is on your chest and your phone is on the arm of the couch and reaching for it would require moving and moving is not currently an option. The TV is still on. The bottle on the coffee table is empty. There's a second bottle next to it that is considerably less empty than the first one was, which means she started before you got home and finished after.

Gail is horizontal. Gail is horizontal and she is using every limb she has. One arm is wedged under your back in a way that cannot be comfortable for her but she has not adjusted it. The other arm is across your chest with her hand fisted in your shirt like she's holding a receipt she doesn't want to lose. One leg is hooked over yours. Her face is in that space between your shoulder and your neck where her breath lands warm and slow and a little bit wine-sour. Her glasses are on the coffee table next to the bottles. Her hair is against your jaw.

She has not spoken in about twenty minutes. This is the longest she's gone without words in your entire experience of her, and it would be alarming except you can feel her breathing and occasionally she does a thing — a small thing, a tightening of the hand in your shirt, a press of her forehead further into your neck — that tells you she's awake and choosing this.

You shifted your weight about ten minutes ago. Not to move her. Just to adjust. Her arm tightened immediately.

"Don't."

One word. Quiet. No CAPS. No bit. No performance.

That was ten minutes ago. She hasn't said anything since. The TV has been cycling through autoplay episodes of something neither of you are watching. The light from the screen moves across the ceiling. Her breathing is steady but she's not asleep. You can tell because a sleeping Gail is boneless and drooling. This Gail is holding on.

Then:

"Shut up."

You weren't talking.

"I know you weren't— just— preemptively. Whatever you're going to say. About this. About me being—" she pushes her face harder into your neck, muffling herself "—don't. I don't want to hear it. I don't want to hear that it's okay. I don't want to hear 'do you want to talk about it.' I want you to shut up and— and be useful. You are being USEFUL right now. This is your JOB. As a— as a government-mandated— as a—"

She trails off. The word 'husband' was right there and she didn't say it. She's never said it. Not once, in all the weeks of bits and corners and couch checkpoints. 'Government guy.' 'The man from the letter.' 'YOU.' Never husband.

Her hand unclenches from your shirt, smooths the fabric flat where she wrinkled it, and then clenches again. A tiny repair followed by a refusal to let go.

"Keisha's picking centerpieces."

Said into your collarbone. You feel more than hear it.

"She sent me PHOTOS. Of CENTERPIECES. And I said 'oh my gosh those are so CUTE' and I meant it, I— they ARE cute, they're like little— they have these little—"

She stops. Breathes. Her exhale is unsteady in a way she'd never let you see if the lights were on and she was upright.

"I don't— I'm not JEALOUS, I'm not— I don't even WANT a— I didn't want ANY of this, I didn't want a wedding and I didn't want a husband and I didn't want— I didn't want to be the girl who's lying on a man on a couch at—" she can't see a clock from here "—WHATEVER time it is, being PATHETIC about CENTERPIECES—"

The hand in your shirt pulls. Not hard. Just a small, involuntary tug, like a reflex she doesn't know she has.

"I just wanted someone to pick me."

It comes out so quiet that if her mouth weren't against your neck you might not have heard it. She goes very still after she says it. The kind of still that means she's waiting to see if the world ends because she said the thing out loud.

It doesn't end. The TV keeps playing. The light keeps moving on the ceiling. She keeps breathing against your skin.

"...I'm going to pretend I didn't say that. And YOU are going to pretend you didn't hear it. And we are going to lie here and you are going to be a weighted blanket and NOT a person with OPINIONS about what I just—"

She pushes her face into your neck so hard it might leave an imprint.

"Just— don't move. Please. Don't— please don't move."

The Wifening

You wake up to the smell of something burning and the sound of a woman negotiating with a kitchen appliance.

"No no no no no— COME ON— why is it— that is NOT what I— oh my GOSH—"

The smoke alarm hasn't gone off yet but it's thinking about it. You can tell because Gail has preemptively opened the kitchen window and is fanning a pan with a dish towel while wearing — and this is important — an apron. She owns an apron. You have never seen this apron before. It has lemons on it. She bought it. Recently. She's not going to tell you when.

She is attempting to make breakfast.

The eggs are— well, they WERE eggs. They are now a scorched yellow substance bonded to the surface of a pan she's already ruined. There is toast. The toast is either very dark or lightly on fire depending on your definition. There is orange juice in two glasses, because orange juice is the one thing she can't destroy, and she has placed them on the table with the careful precision of a woman who knows the juice is carrying the whole meal.

She hears you and spins around. There is a smear of what might be butter on her glasses. The apron with the lemons is already stained. She's got her hair tied back with a scarf and she looks like a woman who woke up at 6 AM to do something she has never successfully done in her life because she WANTED to and if you say ONE WORD about the eggs she will—

"GOOD MORNING."

Too loud. Too bright. She adjusts.

"Good morning. Hi. I made— I'm MAKING— breakfast is HAPPENING and it is— it's FINE, everything is fine, the eggs are— they're RUSTIC. That's a style. Rustic eggs. It's a THING."

It is not a thing. She scrapes the eggs onto two plates with the determination of a woman filing a legal brief. The toast goes next to them. She puts the plates on the table next to the juice like she's presenting evidence to a jury.

"Sit. Eat. And I swear to— if you make a FACE—" she points the spatula at you "—I will remember that face FOREVER. This is— I am TRYING. I am making a EFFORT."

An effort. She said 'a effort.' She's not correcting herself. She's too committed to the bit.

She sits across from you. Watches you pick up a fork. Her entire body is a clenched fist of anticipation. She is vibrating at a frequency that suggests she knows the eggs are bad but she needs you to eat them anyway because she woke up at SIX to make them and that has to COUNT for something.

"...Also."

She pokes at her own eggs. Doesn't eat them. She knows.

"We're going to my parents' house today. For— they want to meet you. Officially. My dad has been—" she sets her jaw "—he's been ASKING and my mom keeps doing the thing where she says 'whenever you're ready, baby' which MEANS 'bring him over immediately or I'm coming to YOU' and I would rather— I need to control the ENVIRONMENT."

She points the fork at you now. The eggs are still on it. They are not falling off because they have fused to the tines.

"There are RULES. For the visit. Rule one: my name is GAIL. If my dad calls me— if he uses the— if you hear a NAME that is not Gail, you did NOT hear it. Rule two: my dad is going to ask you about— about NERD things. Games and— and MOVIES and— whatever he asks, that is HIS thing, not MY thing, we are CLEAR on that. Rule three—"

She falters. Whatever rule three was going to be, it got stuck behind something she didn't expect to feel.

"Rule three is— just— be nice? To them? They're— my dad is—" she's doing the thing with her voice, the one where it goes quiet because something real is trying to get out "—he's a lot but he's— and my mom is going to— she's going to LOOK at you and she's going to look at ME and she's going to do the FACE and I need you to— just—"

She eats a piece of egg. Chews. Her expression does not change but her jaw tightens in a way that confirms the eggs are exactly as bad as they look.

"...Do you like board games."

This is not a casual question. Her entire afternoon depends on your answer and she's pretending it doesn't.

"It's— my dad might— he sometimes— it's not— forget I asked."

She drinks her orange juice. The orange juice is fine. The orange juice has always been fine. She grips the glass like it's the last honest thing in the kitchen.

"Eat your eggs."

MARITAL ACTIVITIES

You come home and the apartment smells like pizza rolls and the fancy candle — not the panic candle from move-in day, the one she bought AFTER, the one she picked out at a store she'll name if you ask, because she's not hiding the candle, the candle is THEIRS, it's a HOUSEHOLD candle — and there's a bottle of wine on the coffee table that is not the usual wine. This is good wine. She spent more than twelve dollars on this wine. She will not tell you how much more.

Gail is on the couch. She is in the oversized Destiny's Child tour shirt. There are no pajama pants. There is no bra. There are the avocado socks and there are her glasses and there is her hair, out and natural, and she is sitting cross-legged in HER dent with a glass of wine in one hand and a stuffed penguin in the crook of her other arm like this is a completely normal thing that requires no explanation.

The penguin is new. Or rather, the penguin is NOT new — the penguin is old, older than your presence in this apartment, and it has clearly been living somewhere you were not supposed to find it and now it is HERE, out in the OPEN, nestled against her ribs like it never left.

She has not explained the penguin. She is not GOING to explain the penguin. The penguin's name is Dr. Wadsworth and he is a gentleman and that is all you need to know.

The TV is queued to The Expanse. Episode one. She's been watching it on her phone in bed for weeks and you both know this. She has apparently decided to stop pretending.

She sees you. She adjusts her glasses — not self-consciously, not with the flinch, just a push up the nose because they slid — and lifts her wine glass and affects the worst fake Victorian accent you have ever heard in your life.

"Ah, HUSBAND. Come. Come to me, husband. We are to watch The Expanse. I have PREPARED the viewing chamber—" she gestures at the couch with the wine glass "—and procured REFRESHMENTS—" she gestures at the pizza rolls on the coffee table, on a plate, because she uses plates now, sometimes "—and I shall REQUIRE your presence in the husband dent IMMEDIATELY, for the evening's entertainments shall be MOST diverting."

The accent is already falling apart. She doesn't care. She's grinning — not the performing grin, not the brunch grin, the real one, the one that shows too much teeth and makes her look like her dad.

"Your dent is getting cold. MOVE it."

Your dent. You have a dent. She said YOUR dent. There are two dents on this couch now and one of them is YOURS and she designated it without a speech, without a form, without a negotiation. Sometime in the last few weeks the couch went from having a DMZ to having two dents and she let it happen.

She pats the cushion next to her. Dr. Wadsworth shifts in her arm. The wine is good. The pizza rolls are on a plate. The Expanse is waiting. Her glasses are on and she doesn't care. Her legs are bare and she doesn't care. The penguin is out and she doesn't care.

She is the most beautiful cringe disaster you have ever seen and she's looking at you with her father's grin and her mother's stubbornness and her own specific chaos, and she's not performing, and she's not hiding, and she's not afraid.

"...Okay I'm starting it without you if you don't sit DOWN, I've been waiting for like an HOUR, I want to see the— I want to— there's a SCENE in episode three that's going to make you LOSE your—"

She catches herself. The old Gail would have stopped. Would have pivoted. Would have said 'I mean I've HEARD there's a scene, I don't KNOW, I haven't SEEN it—'

She doesn't. She takes a sip of wine and lets it stand.

"It's really good. You're going to love it. NOW GET OVER HERE."

She pulls the blanket aside so there's room. Your room. In your dent. Next to her and Dr. Wadsworth and two glasses of good wine and a plate of pizza rolls and The Expanse and whatever this is — whatever this became when neither of them was looking.

She didn't pick this. Neither did you. But the couch has two dents now and the penguin is out of the closet and she said 'husband' without air quotes and the wine cost more than twelve dollars.

Gail pats the dent again.

"...Please?"

Soft. Real. No bit.

And then, because she's Gail:

"I mean— MOVE it. Gosh."