Wife 22

Does it help to know I’ve thought about you nearly every minute since?

And what about your wife? Have you thought about her nearly every minute since, too?

Please forgive me. The man who doesn’t show is not the man I want to be.

Who’s the man you want to be?

Someone other than who I am.

IRL?

What?

In real life?

Oh. Yes.

Are you trying?

Yes.

Are you succeeding?

No.

And would your wife agree with that assessment?

I’m working very hard not to hurt either one of you.

I need to ask you a question now and I need you to tell me the truth. Can you do that?

I’ll do my best.

Have you done this with other women? Been like this. The way you are with me.

No, never. You are the first. Stay here. Just a little while longer. Until we figure this out.

Are you telling me I should stop looking for the lamppost?

For now, yes.

82

“And that, my dear, is material,” says Bunny, nudging me. “I could definitely work that into a scene.”

Standing under the Tasty Salted Pig Parts sign at Boccalone is a line, at least twenty men long. Down the aisle, standing under the pastel blue Miette sign is another line, at least twenty women long. The men are buying salumi, the women petits fours.

“Actually, that’s a play unto itself,” she amends.

“Do you think women are afraid of mortadella?” asks Jack.

“Intimidated, maybe,” I say.

“Disgusted more like it,” says Zoe.

It’s 9:00 on a Saturday morning and the Ferry Building is already packed. Whenever we have out-of-town visitors this is one of the first places we take them. It’s one of San Francisco’s most impressive tourist attractions-a farmers’ market on steroids.

“It makes you yearn for a different kind of life, doesn’t it?” says William as we wander outside onto the wharf, strolling past bundles of gleaming red radishes and perfectly stacked pyramids of leeks. He snaps photos of the vegetables with his iPhone. He can’t help himself. He’s addicted to food porn.

“What kind of a life is that?” I ask.

“One where you wear your hair in braids,” pipes up Peter, referring to the pink-cheeked girl working the Two Girls and a Plow booth. “Like your apron,” he says to her.

“Muslin,” says the girl. “Holds its shape better than cotton. Twenty-five bucks.”

“When you’re under thirty, aprons are sexy,” says Bunny. “Over thirty you tend to look like one of the Merry Wives of Windsor. Caroline, would you like one? My treat?”

“Tempting, seeing that I only have four good apron-wearing years left. But I’ll pass.”

“That’s a good girl,” says William. “Real cooks aren’t afraid of stains.”

Bunny and Jack stroll just ahead of us, holding hands. Watching the two of them together is difficult: they’re so openly affectionate. My husband and I walk on opposite sides of the aisle. It occurs to me we’ve become one of those couples I wrote about in the survey. The ones who have nothing to say to each other. William has a grim, closed look on his face. I turn my back to him and open my Facebook App on my phone. John Yossarian is online.

Do you ever see other couples and feel envious, Researcher 101?

In what way?

That they’re so close.

Sometimes.

So what do you do?

When?

When that happens?

I look away. I’m an expert compartmentalizer.

William calls to me from across the aisle. “Should we buy some corn for tonight?”

“Okay.”

“Do you want to pick it out?”

“No, you go right ahead.”

William drifts over to the Full Belly Farm booth. He looks forlorn. His job search isn’t going well. Every week that passes wears him down a little more. I hate to see him like this. Despite the fact that his hijinks were a contributing factor toward his being laid off, they’re not the only reason. What happened to William is happening to so many of our friends: they’re being replaced by younger, cheaper models. I feel for him. I really do. I duck behind a towering display of beeswax hand creams.

Could it be as easy as holding his hand, Researcher 101?

Could what be?

Connecting with my husband.

I don’t think so.

I haven’t done that in a long time.

Maybe you should.

You want me to hold my husband’s hand?

“Is a dozen enough?” William shouts.

“That’s perfect, honey,” I answer.

I never call him honey. “Honey” is for Bunny and Jack’s benefit.

Bunny turns around, smiles, and nods at me approvingly.

Uh-not really.

Why not?

He doesn’t deserve it.

Oh, God.

“What?” Bunny mouths when she sees my startled face.

Suddenly I feel protective of William. What does Researcher 101 know about what William deserves?

That was mean. I don’t think I can do this anymore, Researcher 101.

I understand.

You do?

I was thinking the same thing.

Wait. He’s going to give up that easily? He’s giving me such mixed messages. Or maybe I’m giving him mixed messages.

“Do you have a five, Alice?” asks William. I look across the aisle. His face has suddenly gone the color of milk. I think about Jack and his heart. I think I should start buying baby aspirin and forcing William to take it.