Here I Am by Jonathan Safran Foer(20)
“Nothing has changed,” Jacob said, running his hand along the dry-stone wall as they walked the mossy path to the entrance. Jacob wondered, as he’d wondered ten years before, how the hell such a wall was made.
“I remember everything but us,” Julia said with an audible laugh.
They checked in, but before taking the duffel to the room, went to the fire and eased into the coma-inducing leather armchairs that they hadn’t remembered but then couldn’t stop remembering.
“What did we drink when we sat here last time?” Jacob asked.
“I actually remember,” Julia said, “because I was so surprised by your order. Rosé.”
Jacob let out a hearty laugh and asked, “What’s wrong with rosé?”
“Nothing,” Julia laughed. “It was just unexpected.”
They ordered two glasses of rosé.
They tried to remember everything about the first visit, every smallest detail: what was worn (what clothes, what jewelry), what was said when, what music was playing (if any), what was on the TV over the honesty bar, what complimentary appetizers were offered, what jokes Jacob told to impress her, what jokes Jacob told to deflect a conversation he didn’t want to have, what each had been thinking, who had the courage to nudge the still-new marriage onto the invisible bridge between where they were (which was thrilling, but untrustworthy) and where they wanted to be (which would be thrilling and trustworthy), across a chasm of so much potential hurt.
They ran their hands along the rough-hewn banister of the stairs to the dining room and had a candlelit dinner, almost all the food sourced from the property.
“I think it was on that trip that I explained why I don’t fold my glasses before putting them on the bedside table.”
“I think you’re right.”
Another glass of rosé.
“Remember when you came back from the bathroom and it took you like twenty minutes to see the note I’d written in butter on your plate?”
“?‘You’re my butter half.’?”
“Yeah. I really choked. Sorry about that.”
“If we’d been sitting closer to the fire, you might have been spared.”
“Although hard to explain the puddle. Ah, well. Next time I’ll do butter.”
“Next time is right now,” she said—an offering and a summoning.
“And I’m supposed to just churn them out?” With a wink: “Churn?”
“Yes, I get it.”
“Your stoicism is a butter pill to swallow.”
“So give me something good.”
“I know what you’re thinking: Bad butter puns, how dairy!”
That got a chuckle. She reflexively tried to withhold her laughter (not from him, but herself) and felt an unexpected desire to reach across the table and touch him.
“What? You can’t believe it’s not better?”
Another chuckle.
“Butter precedes essence.”
“That one I don’t get. What do you say we move on to bread puns, or maybe even dialogue?”
“Have I milked it too much?”
“Relent, Jacob.”
“Who ya gonna call? Goat’s Butter!”
“Best yet. Definitely the one to end it on.”
“Just to clear the dairy air, I’m the funniest man you’ve ever known?”
“Only because Benjy isn’t yet a man,” she said, but the combination of her husband’s overwhelming quickness and his overwhelming need to be loved brought waves of love, pulled her into its ocean.
“Guns don’t kill people, people kill people. Toasters don’t toast toast, toast toasts toast.”
“Toasters toast bread.”
“The margarine for error is too small!”
What if she’d given him the love he needed, and she needed to give, if she’d said, “Your mind is making me want to touch you”?
What if he’d been able to make the right joke at the right time, or better still, be still?
Another glass of rosé.
“You stole a clock from the desk! I just remembered that!”
“I did not steal a clock.”
“You did,” Julia said. “You totally did.”
The only time in his life he impersonated Nixon: “I am not a crook!”
“Well, you definitely were. It was a tiny, folding, cheap nothing. After we made love. You went to the desk, stopped the clock, and put it in your jacket pocket.”
“Why would I have done that?”
“I think it was supposed to be romantic? Or funny? Or you were trying to show me your spontaneity credentials? I have no idea. Go back and ask yourself.”
“You’re sure you’re thinking of me? And not some other man? Some other romantic night at an inn?”
“I’ve never had a romantic night at an inn with anyone else,” Julia said, which shouldn’t have required saying, and wasn’t true, but she wanted to care for Jacob, especially right then. Neither knew, only a few steps onto that invisible bridge, that it never ended, that the rest of their life together would require steps of trust, which only led to the next step of trust. She wanted to care for him then, but she wouldn’t always.
They stayed at their table until the waiter, in splutters of profuse apology, explained that the restaurant was shutting down for the night.