Rating: ★★★★☆ Tags: Mystery Detective, General, Fiction

AMY ELLIOTT DUNNE
JULY 5, 2010
– Diary entry –
I
won’t blame Nick. I don’t blame Nick. I refuse – refuse! –
to turn into some pert-mouthed, strident angry-girl. I made
two promises to myself when I married Nick. One: no
dancing-monkey demands. Two: I would never, ever say,
Sure, that’s fine by me (if you want to stay out later, if you
want to do a boys’ weekend, if you want to do something
you want to do)
and then punish him for doing what I said
wa s 
fine by me
. I worry I am coming perilously close to
violating both of those promises.
But still. It is our third wedding anniversary and I am
alone in our apartment, my face all mask-tight from tears
because, well, because: Just this afternoon, I get a voice
mail from Nick, and I already know it’s going to be bad, I
know the second the voice mail begins because I can tell
he’s calling from his cell and I can hear men’s voices in the
background and a big, roomy gap, like he’s trying to decide
what to say, and then I hear his taxi-blurred voice, a voice
that is already wet and lazy with booze, and I know I am
going to be angry – that quick inhale, the lips going tight,
the shoulders up, the 
I so don’t want to be mad but I’m
going to be
feeling. Do men not know that feeling? You

---

don’t want to be mad, but you’re obligated to be, almost.
Because a rule, a good rule, a nice rule is being broken. Or
maybe 
rule
is the wrong word. Protocol? Nicety? But the
rule/protocol/nicety – our anniversary – is being broken for
a good reason, I understand, I do. The rumors were true:
Sixteen writers have been laid off at Nick’s magazine. A
third of the staff. Nick has been spared, for now, but of
course he feels obliged to take the others out to get drunk.
They are men, piled in a cab, heading down Second
Avenue, pretending to be brave. A few have gone home to
their wives, but a surprising number have stayed out. Nick
will spend the night of our anniversary buying these men
drinks, going to strip clubs and cheesy bars, flirting with
twenty-two-year-olds (
My friend here just got laid off, he
could use a hug
). These jobless men will proclaim Nick a
great guy as he buys their drinks on a credit card linked to
my bank account. Nick will have a grand old time on our
anniversary, which he didn’t even mention in the message.
Instead, he said, 
I know we had plans but …
I am being a girl. I just thought it’d be a tradition: All
across town, I have strewn little love messages, reminders
of our past year together, my treasure hunt. I can picture the
third clue, fluttering from a piece of scotch tape in the crook
of the V of the Robert Indiana love sculpture up near Central
Park. Tomorrow, some bored twelve-year-old tourist
stumbling along behind his parents is going to pick it off,
read it, shrug, and let it float away like a gum wrapper.
My treasure-hunt finale was perfect, but isn’t now. It’s
an absolutely gorgeous vintage briefcase. Leather. Third
anniversary is leather. A work-related gift may be a bad
idea, given that work isn’t exactly happy right now. In our

---

kitchen, I have two live lobsters, like always. Or like what
was supposed to be like always. I need to phone my mom
and see if they can keep for a day, scrambling dazedly
around their crate, or if I need to stumble in, and with my
wine-lame eyes, battle them and boil them in my pot for no
good reason. I’m killing two lobsters I won’t even eat.
Dad phoned to wish us happy anniversary, and I
picked up the phone and I was going to play it cool, but then
I started crying when I started talking – I was doing the awful
chick talk-cry: