And No One Could Blame Her

As Sara rummaged through the fridge, looking for leftover wine from the weekend, she rehearsed the sentence in her head. I’m trying to drink less. Her delivery would be sophisticated but offhand. As if she were experimenting with a new eating regimen. Nothing to cause alarm, to suggest a problem.

She found the bottle and poured herself a glass.

Brian had texted to let her know that he would be out with his Frisbee friends tonight. There had been no invitation to join, which was fine by her. None of the Frisbee friends had ever seemed especially interested in having her around, much less getting to know her. In fact, whenever she did try to talk with them, she sensed in their monosyllabic answers a shared amusement at her expense, like she was a toy that had broken in some especially unlikely way.

Sara brought her glass to the couch. She hadn’t had a drink for three days, unless you count the small hours of Sunday, which surely you wouldn’t. She had earned this.

A familiar calm settled over her as she took the first sip. The act removed her from herself, allowed her to see things more clearly. Which was good. Necessary, even. She had been anxious of late.

There was, of course, nothing to be anxious about. Not really. She had a healthy social network. Professionally, she was mildly successful. Unlike some of her friends, there had been no need to move home after college (Not that there’s anything wrong with that!). But even so, the momentum of her life seemed to be slowing.

She had tried to explain this to Brian, but it didn’t come out right and she had ended up hurting his feelings. It has nothing to do with you, she had told him, again and again and with increasing desperation, as he sulked at the kitchen table. He had forgiven her, but the ghost of that argument had lingered between them for weeks.

She finished her first glass and poured a second before she had time to think about it. On television, an attractive couple toured a prospective first home. Sara had recently become obsessed with real-estate themed reality shows. She liked to guess which couples were going to make it.

“I was kind of hoping the backyard would be bigger,” said the woman, and the real estate agent nodded.

Sara had no idea if Brian and her were going to make it. Marriage was, at this stage of her life, an abstraction, like death or serious illness. Something that happened to other people. If she were being absolutely truthful with herself — which was essential, at least according to her positive habit podcast — she was not even sure if she wanted to marry Brian. He was decent and straightforward, yes, but he was also maddeningly content. She, on the other hand, was restless by temperament. Why else had she been so anxious, if not the desperate need for something to happen?

(Onscreen, the woman recounted meeting her partner at a bar. Of course you did, Sara thought)

Perhaps desperate was the wrong word. Too melodramatic. Things were not at, or really anywhere near, that point.

She took another sip. No doubt something would happen soon. An idea for a book. A screenplay. Perhaps she would even start a company. After all, hadn’t she basically had the idea for Zillow years before it had become big? All she had to do was trust her instincts for once.

Another text from Brian. He was going to crash at a friend’s house, if that was okay with her? Of course! Have fun! she replied. A current of excitement surged through her. She would have one more glass. There would be no one to witness, to gently suggest that she take it easy.

Perhaps she’d start a movie? Maybe something old, something that everyone was supposed to see at least once.

Her mind wandered ahead to the aftermath of her big idea. She imagined former classmates reading her profile in the alumni magazine. We always knew there something special about her, they would think. She planned her on-campus panel discussion, how she would be witty and insouciant and maybe a little transgressive, and how later on the students who attended would tell their roommates that she was amazing, that even if you didn’t agree with everything she said you basically had to like her.

Thanks, babe. She looked down at Brian’s message and was surprised to see that it was already eleven. Probably too late to start a movie. Time had become slippery, mercurial, speeding up and slowing down without warning.

She thought more about Brian. They were happy together, she decided. He wasn’t always the best with social cues, and their sex life could certainly use some work, especially over these past few months, but even so… he was, overall, a good person.

She finished her glass. The room thrummed — she was pleasantly drunk. Brian, of course, had never been much of drinker. He didn’t get the appeal. It’s like turning life’s volume down, she had told him once. He had just shaken his head. That doesn’t make any sense.

Sometimes — and she would never admit this to anyone — but sometimes, she liked to imagine what it would be like if Brian were to die suddenly. How would she respond? When she received the call (and there was always a call in her mind, she was never there when the accident happened), would she remain calm? Or would she wail and crumple into herself, a semaphore of heartbreak? Either way, she thought, there would be a charisma to her mourning.

She envisioned the weeks following the funeral. The most likely scenario would involve her quitting her job and moving back in with her parents — a completely new start. For a few months, she probably wouldn’t talk much. She would need time to recover. No one could blame her for that, certainly…

The fantasy burned itself out. She sighed. She knew she was being foolish. Brian was fine and she was fine. There was no need to start over.

On television, the couple revealed their final decision. “I can’t believe we did it,” said the woman.

Sara poured herself a final glass and nodded to herself. Brian was fine and she was fine and her big change was coming. She was sure of it.