Jessica Klimesh 7 Meredith Craig

BREADED FROG LEGS by Meredith Craig

The day Emma Hutchison realized she had ESP, she had dinner plans with the Druckers.

She went in for a simple sinus surgery that afternoon, and when she was released from the

operating room, breathing freely, she had the bewildering side effect of precognition.

In the stark white room, the resident nurse in pastel scrubs touched her arm and asked how

she was feeling. Emma was taken aback by a vision of the nurse hanging posters for a missing

dog, who, unbeknownst to her, was safe in her apartment building’s basement.

“I’m okay,” Emma said, catching her breath. “And so is Trumpet. He’s napping in your

laundry room!”

The nurse laughed and explained ESP was a common side effect. Yes, it was sure to wear

off, nothing to be scared of, only happens when you touch someone, usually lasts about five

hours, but call tomorrow if it persists.

“Is your husband picking you up today?” the nurse asked.

Emma shook her head. She walked home in a daze, wrapping her camel coat tight around

her neck while smelling, for what felt like the first time, the stale air of the city. She wondered if

another husband would have offered to pick up their wife after an operation. Probably. Her

imagination conjured up a faceless man waiting patiently for her procedure to be over, (with

flowers!), and insisting on ordering chicken soup and a car service to bring her straight home.

Bumping into a crowd at the crosswalk, she was distracted by visions of strangers rolling through

her mind like beach balls; people with lives and problems, who made a variety of choices

resulting in desires, death, or disagreements.

At 5 pm, the buzzer rang. Emma pulled open the prewar apartment door to find the

babysitter, a cheerful college student who the kids adored. The girl smiled and entered, hugging

Emma. Emma froze, staring at the girl, with her mouth hanging slack, as a scene appeared of a

wedding party with the girl as the blushing bride.

“Congratulations,” Emma said, gripping the younger girl’s shoulders, as a jolt traveled

through her body. “You’re getting married.”

“Mrs. Hutchison, are you alright?” the babysitter asked. Her pretty hazel eyes grew big

with concern. “Are you having a stroke?”

Emma breathed through her recently extricated nostrils, taking long inhales as she had

learned in her yoga studio. The babysitter walked her inside the apartment, sat her down in a

settee in the living room, and ran down the hall for a glass of water. Emma focused on the

Persian rug, trying to find stability in the swirling pattern.

At that moment Jonathan Hutchison, whose close friends called “Than,” stuck his head into

the room. “Was that the sitter?” he asked. “Are you ready to go?”

Emma took in her husband’s frumpy blazer and collared shirt and momentarily forgot her

immediate predicament, seizing the opportunity to rage at his inadequate choice of dinner wear.

“You won’t be wearing that wrinkled mess?” Emma asked.

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” Than asked his wife.

The Hutchisons had been married for eight years, and in that time produced two children.

They lived on a better than average income, mostly due to an inheritance that Than’s uncle

willed them, giving just enough of a security blanket to handicap their joint ambitions. Emma

couldn’t help but remember the pre-children days as happier ones, when she used to lie in her

husband’s lap and listen to jazz on Sunday mornings, instead of waking at dawn to soothe

panicked cries with servings of mashed bananas or by powering on high-pitched puppets on the

iPad. She missed how her husband used to plan exotic trips for the two of them to take before he

had a job that required long hours on the road, making him too tired for travel.

“I’ll change,” Than ducked back into the bedroom.

Emma thought of her husband as a blister; thick-skinned and rubbing her the wrong way.

“He has absolutely no verve,” she said to herself. A seed of contempt had been planted and over

the years the feeling bloomed until it felt she had married the wrong man.

The babysitter returned with the water, and Emma waved it away. She was fine now; it was

just a side effect of her earlier sinus operation, she explained.

By 6 pm, the Hutchisons hugged their two children goodbye, left money for the pizza, and

copied the number of the superintendent onto a pad of paper in case of an emergency. Emma was

in a hurry to leave her jewel-box of an apartment, which after so much time inside felt

suffocating. They found their Uber outside, and looking as pressed and polished as marble

statuettes, set out to meet the Druckers. The driver [about to find out he would be having a long-

awaited first son] brushed past Emma while opening the door and then drove confidently, but not

recklessly, over the Brooklyn Bridge and into Manhattan.

“How long has it been since we’ve seen the Druckers?” Than asked. “It seems like just

yesterday we were at their wedding in Mexico, dancing to mariachi…”

“That was years ago, Than,” Emma said, rolling her eyes in the dark.

“Time flies,” Than said, laughing. “And to think we haven’t changed a bit.”

They arrived at the restaurant at 6:45 pm, with fifteen minutes to spare before the

reservation. Emma stepped out of the car onto the pavement. Laughter and warm light reflected

off the windows of the Spanish tapas restaurant next door, while their usual Italian bistro felt

dark and meek in comparison. She wondered aloud if they might have chosen the wrong

restaurant.

“It’s too late to change plans now,” Than said. He steered Emma inside the restaurant

towards the bar. The walls of the restaurant were stone and sconces held blinking electric

torches. Years ago Emma found this charming, but now it seemed cold. The familiar bar stools

were the comfortable kinds with backs, and Emma hung her beaded purse on a little hook under

the bar.

They both ordered Kentucky Mules and commented on the good fortune to have a drink

before their friends arrived.

“I’m still feeling off from the operation. Will it be alright to have a drink, do you think?”

Emma asked Than.

“Off?” he asked.

Emma explained about the nurse and the side effects, getting more worked up the more she

spoke. Than said he thought she’d be fine, otherwise, the nurse wouldn’t let her leave.

“How would you know anything about it? Other husbands would have gone with their

wives,” she said, raising her voice.

“Should I have left the kids home alone?” Than said, offended.

“It was irresponsible of the nurse to let me leave on my own,” Emma said. “With the side

effects.”

“Then don’t drink. Want some water instead?”

“No, I don’t,” Emma said. She took a large sip from the brown drink.

By 7 pm, the Hutchisons finished their first cocktails and the Druckers arrived (“Lydia!

Paul, over here!”). Lydia was tall and thin, with cropped blonde hair, while Paul looked like a

linebacker. Both of them wore expensive wool coats layered over cashmere sweaters, so similar

it was clear Lydia did the shopping. They were hard to miss, although tonight they looked

simultaneously pinched and flustered by an acerbic cab ride from Harlem.

“But we survived,” Paul Drucker remarked as he signaled for two more Kentucky Mules.

To catch the bartender’s attention, he leaned his beefy torso across the bar like a stallion at the

starting gate.

“And you both look fantastic,” Emma said, as she gave an air kiss to Paul and then hugged

Lydia. An electrical shock stunned her. “Oh-- you’re planning to move to Westchester!”

Lydia and Paul smiled and looked at Emma with surprise. “Why yes, we went house-

hunting in Hastings this morning,” Lydia said. “We’ve just returned.”

“It’s only fifteen minutes from our current place, and we can get so much more space,”

Paul said.

“It’s almost a rite of passage: to dream of and simultaneously regret moving to the

suburbs,” Than said, ready to philosophize.

“I can’t imagine that I’ll like the community much, but is an identity solely attached to a

neighborhood?” Lydia looked at them for an answer, her blonde hair silver in the light.

Emma was happy for her friends but felt a stab of jealousy. They were headed for a new

experience, and so soon after purchasing and redecorating their Harlem apartment. “You’re so

lucky,” she said.

“We just need a change,” Lydia said. “We’ve been here for seven years.”

“Seven-year itch!” Paul said, pushing his drink in for a toast.

“We’ve been in our place for eight,” Emma said.

The hostess [who will find a fourth roommate for her Bushwick sublet, a soft-spoken boy

she’ll seduce a week into the occupancy] tapped Emma on the shoulder. Their table was ready,

and the foursome descended the stairs into the cavernous wine cellar for dinner. The lighting was

soft and generous, giving them all a youthful glow. The restaurant was overbooked with

reservations so they were forced to sandwich around the end of a wide plank communal table,

with the two women on the end and each man flanking the sides. They had about three inches of

personal space and shifting a leg cross needed to be coordinated with all attendees. Emma

berated Than in her head for not agreeing to try a new restaurant.

“It’s cozy,” Lydia said doubtfully.

They were finished with their first course and their second bottle of wine by 8 pm.

“We all want to be the type of person to order the breaded frog legs, but which of you will

actually eat them?” Emma asked, throwing down the menu. Her face was flushed.

Than said, “I don’t even know what they taste like.”

Emma threw her husband a mean smile. “You never try anything new!”

The restaurant was loud, and Emma didn’t hear Than’s response.

Paul belched. “I’m game,” he said winking at Emma.

The waitress [whose mother would pass away from cancer before the end of the year]

hovered over Emma writing down their main course orders and retreated back into the kitchen.

“Waitaminute, waitaminute, waitaminute,” Paul said. “You remember John Solder?”

Emma had a vague impression of an architect or engineer that Paul worked with.

Lydia leaned forward with a reckless smile.

“Oh yeah, sure I do,” Than said. “Drinks good scotch.”

Paul nodded. “That’s right. Well, I heard something exciting about our John Solder.”

“This is really good,” Lydia licked her teeth.

“He is in... what’s the term?” Paul reached through the alcohol fog. “A polymorphic

relationship.”

“Sister wives?” Emma asked.

“No. They have a duplex, and one side can be used for both of their extramarital

relationships,” Paul said.

“You’re kidding,” Than gawked.

“An open marriage,” Lydia said. “The French have been doing it for years.”

The waitress signaled for the server [who will move to Los Angeles next year to become a

songwriter and win a Latin grammy] to set down the cuttlefish spaghetti, lasagna with three

cheese, pork shoulder risotto, and pumpkin ravioli. No one had ordered the frog legs. While the

server layered the plates upon the small space, the waitress uncorked another bottle of Chianti.

Paul tasted the wine and nodded to the waitress to refill all of the glasses. He turned back to

Than.

Emma asked Lydia about the logistics of raising children in a polymorphic environment,

while Than asked Paul about the sexual stamina one would need to withstand this living

arrangement.

“We’re having the exact same conversation on two different sides of the table,” Lydia said.

“Why wouldn’t they just divorce?” Emma asked.

“That’s the thing! That’s just it! They don’t want a divorce,” Paul said, ripping some of the

bread from the basket and wiping it in the juices on his plate.

“Because they still love each other,” Than said. He pulled on his beard. “They lost each

other somewhere along the way.”

Emma dabbed some wine that spilled on the white tablecloth. A losing battle. She looked at

her husband, eyes narrowed at the particular way he was twirling his black spaghetti, neat and

unrushed, against the spoon. Why couldn’t he just take a normal bite? With her opened nasal

passages she could already smell the garlic on his breath.

“Maybe it’s the woman’s idea. She needs more than what her husband can give her,”

Emma said.

Lydia smiled. Her teeth were turning red from the wine. “Ding, ding, ding!” she said,

meaning Emma had the right answer.

“It’s not a dynamic I’d be able to handle,” Than said.

Emma seethed.

“You can’t even handle a mortgage,” Paul laughed, as he sawed a hunk of meat off the

pork bone.

Emma covered her laugh with a napkin. “There will be lots of this sort of thing in the

suburbs, I suspect,” she said.

“I’m not a joiner,” Lydia said, shaking her head. “I won’t even join their book clubs, never

mind their key parties.”

Paul reached across the table and grabbed Emma’s hand. “Don’t let that prevent you from

visiting. I’m sure we can convince her.”

A vision focused between Emma’s eyes: the Druckers’ new house, a three-bedroom

colonial built into the hill, overlooking the river. Paul stood in the bedroom, tanned and healthy-

looking in a Christmas sweater and slacks. He pulled a woman in with a kiss, laughing as they

tumbled onto the king-size bed. Emma recognized the woman’s blue wool dress and the

awkward way she yanked down the zipper. This woman wasn’t tall like Lydia; the physique was

petite. Paul pulled away to discard his wedding band on the nightstand.

The woman’s face was guilt-ridden in a familiar way.

It was Emma there in Westchester, disrobing in the Drucker’s bedroom. She watched

herself kiss Paul, his lips parted, his eyes closed, his hands groping under her dress. He was

panting, and his tongue was thick and aggressive. She listened for voices and heard only holiday

music, conversations, and laughter from another part of the house. The perspiration stinging her

body was no match for Paul’s roving tongue which threatened to vacuum up her skin. Paul felt

heavy lying on her, but her hips pressed urgently against his waist. The smell of whiskey on both

Paul’s and her own breath was suffocating, and she thought for sure someone would interrupt.

She couldn’t stop herself and no one else did either. But how--? And why--?

Emma blinked her eyes open and a blush spread like wildfire across her face. She squeezed

her sinuses to shut off the tear ducts, feeling regret for something that hadn’t happened yet. Or

had the events already started in forwarding motion? She was all mixed up.

“Are you okay?” Lydia asked.

“I had a-- sinus surgery today,” Emma said.

She turned to her husband, who went to refill her glass.

“No. Than-, Oh, Than-- I think, I-- we need to go home.” Emma put her hand out towards

her husband.

“Is this Than’s trick to leave us with the check?” Paul asked, joking.

“Shut up, Paul,” Emma said, louder than she meant. “What are you compensating for with

all your bullying?”

Than stood up, confused. “I’ll get the check.”

“My sinuses--,” but she was helpless to explain to Paul and Lydia.

Upstairs, Than ordered an Uber and Emma buttoned up her camel coat with the pearl

adornments, and she remembered how surprised she was last Christmas when Than gave her the

box. Other memories stepped forward auditioning for a leading role in her mind: how Than took

her hand under the starlit sky on a camping trip to Maine, the way he laughed goodnaturedly

when the dishwasher exploded on their first night in their new apartment, or when her mother

was diagnosed with MS, how he told her, “We’ll weather this storm just like all the others.”

Emma took Than’s arm as they left the restaurant.

The streetscape disappeared with another vision. In this one, her husband pressed their

apartment buzzer, his breath misting the air. A minute later, Emma came outside with her

children. Than was much leaner and wore a thin arrow of disappointment directed towards her.

Regret turned to a coil of shame wrapping through her body and chilling her bones. A woman in

the driver’s seat of an SUV waved, and Than and her children drove off in the car, leaving Emma

on the curb, fumbling for her apartment keys.

Outside the restaurant, Emma shook her head to clear the vision. A sob escaped. The tears

came then, streaking the mascara down her face like skidmarks on wet pavement. Than pulled

her into him and she smelled the familiar earthiness in his beard as she nuzzled against him.

“Should we call the doctor?” Than asked.

“Oh, Than, do we need a change? Should we move?” she asked.

Than stroked his beard and said, “Possibly. But let’s leave the suburbs to the Druckers.”

“Do you think our future is set in stone?” Emma asked.

“I don’t think it works like that,” Than said. “It’s ours to mold.”

Emma dabbed at her eyes. She held hope this was true as tightly as she held onto her

husband’s hand.

An Uber pulled up, and to their surprise, it was the same driver they had before. They

laughed in astonishment. The driver got out of the car and shook Than’s hand like they were old

friends. “What a night! And to think, I just found out, I’m going to be a father!”

“Unbelievable,” Than said to Emma: “You see, you never know what will happen.”

“Going home already?” the driver asked.

It was 9 pm and as the side effects of the surgery medication were wearing off, Emma’s

thoughts were becoming more clear. “Yes,” she said. “Turns out, it’s where I wanted to be all

along.”

SO HOW COME YOU’RE A MORNING PERSON by Luisa Balaban

The curtains in room 136 cover the windows as the blanket on my back covers my night dreams. They seem to get more and more intricate as I have to wake up earlier than the day before. The deep phthalo blue makes the room feel heavy when the 7 am alarm rings, and the fact that I’m sharing it with 3 other people doesn’t help.

My mom went to the local haberdashery, ran her fingers over dozens of fabrics, and chose this one herself. She searched through the shop to find something that fulfills the 2 conditions I demanded: be cheap & keep the sun away. So she brought home these 4 square meters of Pepsican-blue textile web, ready to pass it on to the seamstress she’s loyal to. She’s familiar with our vampire tendencies, as she’s been the one transforming uneven fabric shapes into living-room rod-pocket curtains, bedroom eyelet curtains, general use wave curtains. She’s well aware of our sun intake, and how our house plan looks like in terms of natural light. How little we like to see the sun in our sleeping rooms, and how we tease it with a see-through drapery in the living room.

I need thick curtains because I sleep less. So every moment that can be spent with my eyes in the dark is a victorious one. But others take pride in sleeping less. Others wake up early in the morning and demand the curtains be opened wide, let the sun come in, the breeze refresh the room, and the day start. The others that live in my room have alarms earlier than mine, that fail in waking them up, but succeed in starting concerts in my dreams, forcing me in a half-awake state that seems more tiresome than being fully awake.

The first thing I see when I fight to open my heavy eyes are the curtains. The room is so small that there’s no way you’d miss them, no matter where you’d be looking. They seem to be wet, dripping in a thick liquid, spilling over the floor, waving in fluctuating forms towards my bed. The sun pierces through spots where the weaving machine failed to deliver to its standards, and I’m so pissed my face wrinkles into crying.

Someone yawns loudly as if this is a movie intro and I know I have to prepare for impact. I close my eyes tight, pull the duvet over my head, curl into a ball and wait for the sun to hit me with full force. It’s a very tiresome game I play with the curtains, and they win this round. It’s time to switch roles.