San Diego Noir

“Oh. Hi, David.”

She’d fallen asleep on the couch. The television blared on regardless. She’d done her weights like she was supposed to, had a banana, and then settled down to watch television, but it hadn’t been very interesting, she guessed. What was even on now? It looked like a show about pandas.

David stood in the center of the living room, dressed in a suit and tie. The energy rolled off him, she thought; he was almost as tense as the bum she’d given money to.

She sat up. Waited a moment for the dizziness to pass. “Did you have a good trip?”

He nodded. His eyes flicked around the living room. “Jesus, Kari. This place is a disaster.”

“It is?”

She hadn’t noticed. She tried to see the room the way he saw it. Her sneakers, jacket, and tote bag on the floor, dumbbells scattered around, an empty glass and a crumpled can on the coffee table.

“I’ll pick up,” she said. She’d meant to do it. She’d just forgotten.

David shook his head and grabbed the glass and plate, took them into the kitchen. She stood up and followed him. He started putting dishes in the dishwasher, picking them off the chipped tiled counter.

“I can have the cleaning lady come more,” she said.

His back was to her. “It’s not that. It’s this house. All of it.”

David didn’t like the house. He never had.

Kari’s dad had left her this house. She remembered staying overnight when she was a kid, sleeping on the couch, her brother curled up on the floor in a sleeping bag, the two of them going to the beach with their dad.

Before, she and David had lived in a rented condo in Escondido, and it was funny, because when she was a kid she’d loved coming here, but as an adult, Before, she’d felt more like David felt now: that it was run-down, not clean, not nice.

Finally David turned to her. “I’m sick of being panhandled every block. Did you see that kid who’s parked himself in front of the house? Two days running now! That’s the kind of neighborhood we’re living in, with fucking bums puking on the sidewalks. We can afford something better than this.”

“You mean, I can afford it,” she said.

Something dark crossed his face. He slammed the glass down on the counter and stalked out.

She hadn’t meant to make him mad. She was just stating a fact.

When she went out into the living room, he was sitting on the couch, flipping through channels with the remote.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I wasn’t trying to, to …” She thought about what she wanted to say. Sometimes it took her awhile to turn the feelings in her head into words. “Insult you.”

“I know.” He put down the control and leaned back against the couch, his body still rigid as a plank. “Things are turning around,” he said. “The market’s coming back up. Probably better to wait and sell this place then.”

“But I don’t want to sell it.” She sat down on the couch next to him. “I like it here.”

“Great. With the hippies and drunks and stoners.”

“Why don’t you like it?”

“Jesus. Because it’s a dump. Because nothing ever changes. Other parts of town, they build nice houses. Have new businesses. Improve things. Not here.”

She thought about it. She liked that Ocean Beach didn’t change. “Why do you like me?” she asked.

“What?”

“I mean … you liked me before, but I’m different now. You liked someone else. Who isn’t here anymore. So why do you like me?”

“I don’t like you,” he said. His voice was dark, like his face had been. “I love you.”

“Why?”

“How can you even ask that?” He let out a sigh. “It’s not your fault. I know it’s not your fault.”

“That doesn’t matter,” she said. “If it’s my fault or not. I don’t … I don’t expect you to …” She stopped there, puzzled. What was it that she didn’t expect?

“I promised to always take care of you. Remember?”

“You don’t have to,” she said. “I know I make mistakes, but … I’m doing all right. I can take care of myself.”

“I want to,” he replied, his jaw tight, then sighed again. “Take care of yourself? You probably don’t even remember what day it is tomorrow.”

She thought about it. “It’s Wednesday.”

He closed his eyes. “It’s our anniversary.”

Oh.

It was not on her list for the day, but it was on the San Diego Zoological Society calendar in the kitchen, noted there beneath the photo of the cheetah cubs in David’s blocky print: Our Third Anniversary.

David had changed into sweats and a T-shirt. He sat on the couch, watching some financial news show. She