2: 2
I said nothing more, and turned to go out to the balcony for a clean change of clothes.
On the drying rack hung a pale pink knit sweater.
It was small. Not mine.
Russ came out after me.
"Her clothes got soaked yesterday, so I brought them back to wash. I'll take them over with the soup later. Her washing machine's broken, and she didn't want to ruin the sweater, so it had to be done by hand."
There was a little rabbit embroidered over the chest of the sweater.
Exactly like the limited edition I'd fallen for last month, the one I'd asked him to grab for me.
I told him three times.
Every time, he was busy, and forgot.
The words I never said backed up in my throat and turned bitter.
I didn't bring it up. I turned and went into the study.
I wanted to find the honeymoon itinerary I'd printed out, to go over the cancellations one more time.
I dug through the shelves for a while and couldn't find it.
What I found instead was a brand-new notebook with a rabbit on the cover.
I opened it, and inside, packed line after line, was everything Rosalind liked.
No cilantro, no scallions, bubble tea light sweet with pearls.
Nothing cold during her period, weak stomach so smaller meals more often...
Every stroke neat and careful.
More careful than his own work notes.
And my period, he never once remembered.
Last year my cramps got so bad I couldn't stand, curled up on the couch in a cold sweat.
He told me to drink more hot water, then picked up his laptop and went to fix Rosalind's router, not coming home until the middle of the night.
My phone suddenly rang.
It was Russ's mother.
I picked up, and her voice was bright and cheery.
"Sylvie, dear, Russ has had his hands full taking care of Rosalind lately, so you just be patient with things at home. That poor girl lost her mother young, and she's just had her heart broken. It's such a pity."
I gripped the phone, my fingertips cold.
I hung up, and Russ came in from the living room.
He saw the notebook in my hands, and his face went a little stiff.
"What are you going through that for?"
I set the notebook down on the desk.
"Where's our honeymoon itinerary? The one I printed three copies of."
He scratched his head.
"Oh, that. I saw the backs were blank, so I tore off some sheets for Rosalind to use as scratch paper. She's been practicing her handwriting at home lately, goes through a lot of paper. It's not urgent anyway. We can plan it again once she's feeling better. It's not like we're leaving right away."
I'd stayed up three nights, read dozens of travel guides, marked every place I wanted to go.
He tore it up and handed it to someone else as scrap paper for practicing handwriting.
It suddenly felt absurd.
"Russ, that was our honeymoon plan."
His brow furrowed.
"I know that. It's just a few sheets of paper. I'll sit down and do it with you again, all right?"
"Rosalind's emotions are all over the place right now. Practicing her handwriting calms her down. What's wrong with us being a little accommodating? Why are you getting more and more difficult?"
From when she moved in next door after her breakup, to now, it had been a month.
I'd accommodated her for thirty days.
Accommodated her right down to my mug being hers to use.
My balcony hers to dry her clothes on.
My notebook in my study hers to record her preferences in.
My honeymoon itinerary hers to use as scratch paper.
And now even my new husband spent most of his time over at her place.
