Page 3 of So Thirsty

It’s a mouse. And it’s dead.

If the mouse were alive, I’d be screaming, flailing. I’d wish it were dead. But because it is dead, I wish it were alive.

I don’t want to just leave it there, let its corpse freeze to the driveway, so I get a garbage bag and a pair of plastic gloves from the garage and pick it up, wrap it in the bag, toss it in the trash.

Someday me, too, I think, carefully removing the gloves and throwing them on top. Someday I’ll be dead in a bin and none of this will matter.

This sudden grimness provides a nebulous sense of relief, like tonguing a sore in the mouth.

I let the lid slam down and wheel the trash and recycling to the curb, go inside, wash my hands vigorously. Then I get my suitcase out of the closet.

I consider that maybe I do need this weekend away. More important, maybe I want it.

2

“Y our luxury experience awaits at the Waterfront Collective retreat, resort, and spa. An oasis nestled in the heart of—”

“Are we really doing this?”

“Nestled in the heart of the Finger Lakes. The—”

“Naomi.”

“The picturesque American village that we call home has been at once restored and transformed, the perfect location for the ultimate escape.”

“You done?”

I hear a big, deep inhale through the receiver, and I understand that, no, she is not done. “From our modern yet cozy cottages, to our lavish spa, to our fine-dining restaurants, discover a vacation experience like no other. Welcome…to the Waterfront.”

“Should I applaud?”

“Well, yeah. That would be nice,” Naomi says, breathless from her dramatic reading of the hotel website. Not hotel. Collective. Vacation experience. Ultimate escape. “This place is posh as fuck. Are they even going to let us in? We don’t play tennis. I’ve never eaten a scallop. What even is a scallop?”

She knows what a scallop is, but she likes to pretend her parents don’t have money. I play along with the charade. “Maybe we’ll find out.”

“Never taken a picture with an American flag draped over my shoulders at the beach at sunset. I don’t wear white. I’ve been arrested, you know.”

“I know. I was there.”

“The first time. Not the second.”

“A shame to have missed it.”

She shrugs. I know her so well, I can sense it. We’re on different continents, but we might as well be in the same room. I can picture her in front of me. How she’s sitting. Her legs tucked to one side, her feet pointed. Wearing a pair of men’s boxer shorts and a crazy lace bra. Some combination of Hanes and La Perla she can somehow make work. If I didn’t love her so much, she’d be insufferable.

“Ooh, you can get married here. This venue is insane. A sprawling estate with exceptional lake views, originally built as the summer residence for some crusty old chin beard…” She trails off.

“Do you want to get married?”

“Fuck no,” she says. “Damn. I’ll need to pack extra sweaters to tie around my neck. WASP cape.”

“Do you not want to come?”

“Of course I want to come. I’m coming. Flight is booked out of Munich.”

“You’re talking like the Finger Lakes are fancy, Miss Flight-out-of-Munich. You’ve been traveling around Europe for the last, what? Three, four months?”

“And I’m coming back to the States with a vague accent to prove it.”