By 6:45, the houseguests had not returned to the cottage for dinner and the meal was in a visible state of atrophy. Esther had been crystal about the time. She remembered saying—Enjoy yourselves on the beach. Dinner is at 6:15—and Burch and Avery responding—Grand, grand, see you at 6:15—like they were actually British and not just a couple from Winston-Salem who had returned from an affordable London bus tour two weeks prior. We’ll be famished, no doubt.
“Who talks that way?” Esther asked Noel, after Burch and Avery flitted off to the boardwalk, unconcerned—or worse, unaware—that they required various forms of refinement: strength training, fashion advice, dermatological procedures. “No one like them says ‘famished.’”
Noel exhaled as if the world, once again, was collapsing before his narrow eyes. He’d been born disappointed. Of all incarnations, why human? He would have preferred to be an heirloom rose, specifically a Blanc Double de Coubert, a fragrant, disease-resistant, old-fashioned garden variety Rosa. “Frauds,” he said. “That’s who says ‘famished.’”
This revulsion was the first intimacy Esther and Noel had shared in six months. Most of the time they coexisted, like two unrelated yet utilitarian household items: an umbrella stand and fireplace tongs. A shower cap and rolling pin. A brief, erotic glance passed between them. The hollow of Esther’s neck thumped. An electric jolt invaded Noel’s ironed boxers. For a beat, it seemed possible that the unfounded pretentiousness of Burch and Avery could lead to Esther and Noel’s third ever sexual encounter.
Esther and Noel had been married a year. They were both forty-four. Much of their union was based on societal pressure, as well as common ground that had nothing to do with emotion. They were both introverted, neurotic, September-born perfectionists who suffered from cluster headaches and fructose malabsorption. It had been a relief for everyone when Esther walked down the aisle in her cream suit and joined Noel in his dove gray one. There was a collective exhalation when the non-denominational minister presented the couple. It was as if everyone in the congregation had finally unloaded a clump of old sweaters and electrical cords at Goodwill after having had them in their trunk for months.
Esther and Noel, who weren’t wired for anything stronger than civility, were pleasantly surprised by the warm sense of affection that pervaded their ceremony and reception. It lasted all the way through the baked chicken and unadorned cake and tossing of biodegradable confetti, but their wedding night was another story. The hotel room was cramped and outdated, and the chocolate-covered strawberries, left as a congratulations by room service, appeared to be perspiring. Furthermore, both Esther and Noel were virgins, though they had never confessed this to anyone, much less each other.
Sex lasted all of nine seconds. Esther bled a little, but they pretended she didn’t. Afterward, Esther took a long shower during which she tried to cry but could not. Noel, ashamed by his performance, sat on the bed, seething with self-hatred. Eventually, he tuned the television to an episode of Cops and made cruel assumptions about the criminals’ hygiene, employment histories, and academic records. It was a fictional salve that temporarily cheered Noel up; still, he ate all of the sweaty strawberries while Esther showered, leaving only the little green hats on the plate. He knew it was rude, even though Esther had expressed disinterest upon seeing them.
When Esther emerged from the bathroom, she wore mint-colored, silk pajamas and giant reading glasses that made her resemble a great horned owl, the scientific name for which flashed in Noel’s brain: Bubo virginianus. Looking at Esther, clean and warm, Noel found himself at the edge of an emotional jungle, engulfed by the humid scent of jasmine. Esther went over to the plate of strawberry leaves and pinched one up. “This is called a calyx,” she said softly. She put it back down. “The plural of calyx is calyxes or calyces.”
Noel went awash with a novel sensation. It was equally composed of profound grief and burning allegiance. It overwhelmed him to the point of tears, which he rapidly blinked back. Esther walked to her side of the bed. Noel recalled the nine seconds. He searched for something compensatory to say. On the television, a police officer produced a pair of handcuffs and restrained a man in a pink Disney World sweatshirt. “Idiots,” Noel declared. “The world is bursting with them.” His words were a series of gunshots that broke the unbearable spell of devotion and regret Noel found himself under.
“Yes,” Esther agreed. “I suppose it is.”
Since then, Noel and Esther had only had intercourse a second time. The second time had been worse than the first. Not because of the duration—the second time had improved to nine minutes—but because of behavior. Neither Esther nor Noel had ever discussed the second time, nor had they dared a third.
Esther observed the cold, homely dinner. The menu was simple, if not odd for the beach: roasted turkey, mashed potatoes with brown gravy and butter pats, steamed green peas, and a single bottle of Pinot Noir. Her intent with the selections had been multipurpose and metaphorical. First, to showcase a timeless classic. Everyone everywhere was grandstanding with sushi and empanadas and standing rib roasts, but underneath those culinary lace teddies were simply calories. Second, Esther hoped to illustrate her knowledge of pairing red wines with white meat to show that she was, indeed, able to make room for unconventional choices if those choices were scientifically based. Finally, and most importantly, the meal was intended to underscore the fact that Thanksgiving was less than a week away, and Burch and Avery had ruined its sacred lead-up with their short-notice visit. Once, when Esther was a little girl, she had expressed so much excitement for Christmas that her father had gone on and given her all her gifts on December 10. There they were, one morning before school on the kitchen table, alongside a plate of scrambled eggs. “I figured we might as well go on and get it over with,” her father had said, “as you appeared unable to contain yourself any longer.”
It was now close to 7:00. Esther and Noel stood and stared at the dying meal. Esther’s seminar in morals had grown gelatinous. She was discernibly devastated. Noel observed her pain from the corner of his eye and was overcome, as he had been on their wedding night, with an amalgamation of homage and sorrow.
“Terrible people,” Noel said. “Burch and Avery.” If Noel had been construed of a sentimental fiber, he would have translated the words before they’d come out of his mouth, I love you. Instead, he just said: “Terrible, terrible people.”
The hollow of Esther’s throat pounded. She tried not to think of the second time. Of how both she and Noel had completely fallen apart. Of how unrefined the whole thing had been. Of how emotionally messy and bottomless and unmanageable the act was. Of how the crowns they had proudly worn their entire lives had clattered to the floor. Of how crowns on the floor looked exactly like metal traps, open and set, waiting. Out the window, Esther could see the empty beach and the boardwalk. There was no sign of anyone at all. She fervently hoped Burch and Avery had drowned. If they returned now, more than dinner would be ruined. She looked at the food and then at Noel.
“Are you hungry?” Esther asked.
Noel was but could not bring himself to say so. He could not bring himself to take Esther in his arms or her face in his hands or to remove the wasted dinner with a sweep of the tablecloth, transforming the table into a bed. All he could do was stand there—at the edge of the jungle—and listen. All he could do was hear the word but not say it. Famished.