Gypsum and Pine

by Johannes Shephard

A kettle clicked off in the kitchen. They both stood to get it. No shrill whistle on this electric variety. Gone were the days of gas stoves and the song of tea. The doorbell chimed. They made eye contact in front of their living room door; he motioned her forward. She proceeded right and down the hall to the door, and he went left to the kitchen. Soft clinks emanated from the pantry as he rummaged for three mugs: his, hers, and the guest’s. He mused on which of her friends it would be this time. Not that it might not be one of his or that he didn’t have any close friends, but his friends had the good sense to call before coming by. Perhaps it would be someone from her work, maybe an old classmate, an ex-boyfriend here to profess his love. Whoever it was, they would carry on with their stories, tragedies, and triumphs. A highlight reel of memories that would provide ammunition for their next fight. Maybe this friend has a husband who makes more than he does. Perhaps they have kids that they conceived after a try or two. Even if their life was going terribly, it would be a highlight reel: one of failures. The cheating spouse, the nagging in-laws, the awful boss. Not that they didn’t also have miseries interrupting the monotony of life. They just knew how to make sense of it as circumstantial for them. The desire that had made the spouse cheat was in them too, but it was because of the stagnancy of a long marriage. The frustration with how others lived their lives that begets nagging they knew all too well, but it was because they genuinely knew best when they nagged. The idiocy of one’s subordinates that could only be solved with anger was uniquely a fact of their lives; if only they didn’t have to supervise such stupid employees, they wouldn’t be forced to be so strict. Breaking from his reverie, he made himself coffee and her tea, knowing that he was in for a long night of one kind or another. If the news this intruder brought was good, then it would be a tearful one; if it was terrible, he would be in for a raucous night of critiquing. They would sit together hand in hand and tear apart the friend’s marriage, job, or the fall on hard times that were their fault. First chatter, then laughter, then sighs and moans of passion would fill their home. The aphrodisiacal force of suffering might bring them closer tonight, he hoped. From the doorway, a draft carried in muted conversation. “So good to see you! Of course, come in, have a seat. Tea? Coffee? Water?” The voice of this woman that he had spent years living with was clearest to him. He knew the way that her tone filtered through drywall and pine studs, the way it snaked

from her lips through framed pictures of vacations and promotions and filled the empty spaces between them. The guest was talking at the same volume as her, of course, he assumed, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. “Nothing? Really? Not even a glass of water? We have beer too if you want it. It doesn’t matter that it’s a Tuesday. We won’t judge you at all!” Should this guest take her up on the offer of one of the two lonely beers they kept for visitors, this too would enter their conspiratorial conversation later. They both drank most nights but would get their libations for the evening on the way home

from their respective offices. They would each drink to celebrate a professional victory or cope with a hard day. Such was the routine. Most days were one or the other; even a hard day was better than a boring one. She drank cider, he wine, neither beer. The frosty green bottles were for visitors. She walked into the kitchen and reached into a fridge filled with four days’ groceries. She moved aside a pack of chicken and retrieved the beer. She stood behind him, pecked him on the cheek, and wrapped her arms around him, the base of the bottle resting against his sternum, her free hand on the right side of his chest. Breathing against his neck and ear, she whispers to him, “I can’t believe how much one person can fuck things up. I think this time it was with a colleague. Scandalous!” She slid her right hand from chest to abdomen to hip, then into his front pants pocket and grabbed his keyring. In the kitchen doorway, one foot in the hall, she turned to him with a giddy malevolent smile, then took a deep breath and replaced it with a convivial facade and a cold neck between two fingers, keyring with bottle opener clenched in her other hand, head pulled into the hallway. She loudly announced, “You will never guess who dropped by!” Heels click- clacking down the hallway, she returned to the living room. He heard her step onto the carpet they had inherited from her sister, the heels silenced by the cloth they stabbed into. After checking his phone, he took the mugs and strode down the hall to meet their scandalous guest. His phone buzzed against his thigh, and he turned around to pick up the call in the kitchen. Setting down the mugs, he picked up. “Hey! How’re you holding up? Yep, tomorrow at six. No, you don’t have to bring anything, just yourself. Come on, man, it’ll be ok. She’s the one who cheated. I thought it was only with that guy from the gym. Jesus, her assistant too. When? Well, that’s not really cheating now is it? Was it after the separation? If you’re still married, then what about you and that girl in Montreal? I get it. I’m sorry man. I know it hurts. I’ve been there. I gotta go. Keep your head up,

bud. See you tomorrow.” His fingers found the handles once again, and he walked into the living room. She was sitting on her chair; the sole inhabitant of the couch was a men’s flannel. The guest’s flannel. Maybe a thrift find or stolen from a college boyfriend. On the coffee table in front of the bare patch of the couch the beer sat half-empty on a coaster. He looked at her knowing that to ask who had come by might come off as rude should their friend hear it from the hallway, so, instead, he handed her her tea. Footsteps alien to this home rang down the hall. He looked up, affixing the smile he saved for such occasions, and waited for this mysterious figure to enter the room. She crumpled to the couch. An origami crane set alight from its legs, she unfolded into a formless sheet. Mascara had formed inkblots on her cheeks, and in them, he saw a man and woman connected at the spine; facing away from one another, these inky figures cradled the faces of two other vague figures. He took a sip of his coffee and stared at the bubbles that had formed on the surface of his drink. Brownish frogspawn that clumped together by inertia after the sip and happily settled in the center of his mug. This guest, Sarah, cleared her throat and inhaled as if to begin speaking. His wife cut in, “Maybe we shouldn’t talk about this right now.” She tilted her head towards him. “He’s good friends with your estranged husband.” He looked at Sarah. Her nails were short and jagged from constant chewing. “It’s ok. I can be impartial.” Her clothes were crumpled, and her hair was greasy. “Life is complicated. Love even more so.” They had introduced Sarah to him years ago on New Year’s Eve. On that couch, the flannel sat next to her, absent its bearer. They talked, she cried, all burdened by their actions until it was nearly midnight. As she pulled on the flannel, they both embraced her, reassuring her it was going to all be fine. They stood in the doorway, leaning against one another, as she walked to her car. By the time her car was pulling out, they were already in bed for the night.