The ride home from Dodger Stadium is cold and lonely despite it being eighty degrees out and that there are two of us in the car. We use the radio to gracefully ignore each other for a little while, but it eventually becomes clear that there is nothing graceful about it.
When we pulled into the driveway, I am relieved to be able to get away from her. By the time we get to the front door of our house, we can hear Thunder whimpering at the door. He is fine being alone, but the minute he can hear us, and I swear he can hear us from blocks away, he suddenly becomes overtaken with dependence. He forgets how to live without us the minute he knows we are there.
Lauren puts her key in the lock. She turns toward me and pauses. "I'm sorry," she says. "No, me too," I say. But I don't really know what I am even sorry for. I feel as if I've been sorry for months now without a reason. What am I really doing wrong here? What is happening to us? I've read books on it. I've read the articles that show up in all the women's magazines about martial ruts and turning the heat up in your marriage. They don't tell you anything real. They don't have any answers.
Lauren opens the door, and Thunder runs toward us. HIs excitement only highlights our own misery. Why can't we be more like him? Why can't I be easy to please? Why can't Lauren be that happy to see me?
"I'm going to take a shower," Lauren says. I don't say anything back. She heads to the bathroom, and I sit down on the floor and pet Thunder. His fur soothes me. He licks my face. He nuzzles my ear. For a minute, I feel okay. "Goddammit!" Lauren calls from the bathroom. I close my eyes for a moment. Bracing myself.
"What?" I call to her. "There's no fucking hot water. Did you call the landlord?"
"I thought you were calling the landlord!"
"Why do I always have to do that stuff? Why is it always up to me?" she asks. She has opened the bathroom door and is standing there in a towel. "I don't know," I say. "You just normally do. So I assumed you were going to be the one to handle it. Sorry." It is clear by the way I say it that I am not sorry. "Why don't you ever do what you say you're going to do? How hard is it to pick up the goddamn phone and call the landlord?"
"I never said I was going to do it. If you wanted me to do it, you should have said something. I'm not a mind reader." "Oh, okay. Got it. My apologies. I thought it was clear that if we have no hot water, someone needs to call the landlord."
"Yeah," I say. "That is obvious. And it's normal for me to assume that you will do it. Since you're the person who normally does that. Just like I am the one who does all the fucking laundry in this house."
"Oh, so you do the laundry, and that makes you some sort of saint?" "Fine. You can do your laundry, then, if it doesn't matter who does it. Do you know how to use the washing machine?"
Lauren laughs at me. No, she scoffs at me. "Do you?" I say. "I'm not being funny. I'll bet you a hundred bucks you don't know how it works."
"I'm sure I could figure it out," she says. "I'm not as much of a complete moron as you make me out to be."
"I don't make you out to be anything."
"Oh, yes, Camila. Yes, you do. You act like you're the most perfect person in the whole world and you're stuck with your stupid wife who can't do a damn thing but call the landlord. You know what? I'll be the one who gets the hot water fixed. Since you do all the complicated stuff for smart people, like the laundry." She starts angrily putting her clothes back on.
"Where are you even going?" I say to her. "To see if I can fix the fucking thing!" she says, putting on her shoes with equal parts of anger and haste. "Now? It's almost midnight. You need to stay here and talk to me."
