$$$$$$$$$$$$$$.ĭoes that mean you’re working this weekend? I know it’s him when I hear the sound of ice clinking against glass, then bourbon pouring, glugging as it leaves the bottle.
He comes in quietly, through our noiseless garage door.
At the security booth, a black iron gate lifts for us, heavy with its own weight.Īfter we’ve disembarked, the Husband returns home from the investment firm. It is almost evening by the time we return to our gated community, the sky a layer cake of pinks and oranges. It’s almost time for us to go home, Chang says.Īnd Aaron, he doesn’t say anything. We go to Urth Caffé to do some light reading.Ĭan I get an extra wheatgrass shot? Benoît says.ĭoes this hoodie make me look fat? Fred says. On the Husband’s credit card: 101 burgers at Umami Burger, 101 admission tickets to LACMA, 101 golden milks at Moon Juice. The sun hits our faces, our eyes squint in the light, our hair billows in the wind. Sometimes, a free clinic devoted to the removal of burst capillaries. Bougainvillea the color of bruises grows across people’s fences. We get into the Porsche 911 Turbo S, bunching into it as if it were a clown car, and drive down roads and boulevards, hills and canyons, palm-frond-strewn avenues, and parking garages of shopping malls. My 100 ex-boyfriends and I hang out every day. She is there, I am here, and all my ex-boyfriends who dated me there are also here. It is three in the morning, it is three in the afternoon. In T-shirt and slip, she drinks a glass of juice, stands hunched over the sink in the kitchen that I painted seafoam green. From our Spanish-tiled kitchen, I can see my old apartment complex down the hill, a coral stucco converted motel. Our house has the nicest view in the Hills. And lastly, the largest but ugliest wing, extending behind the house like a gnarled, broken arm, is where my 100 ex-boyfriends live. The east wing is where the children and their attending au pairs live. The west wing is where the Husband and I live. The house in which we live has three wings.
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