The husband wants to take a drive, have dinner in some other town, get out of their little city. They go to a saloon in Marlboro, but there aren’t any tables free so they eat at the bar. It’s not usually a problem, but sitting at a bar on this night, at this point, seems like a picture of the wrong versions of both of them. Service is extremely slow, or it feels that way to her. He wants to talk about being friends with the client again. They’ve had this conversation before. She has requested in couples therapy that he call a time-out on their friendship.
I can control myself, he says.
Do you hear what you’re saying, though? she says. I know you can control yourself.
She was angry when I told her we couldn’t be friends, he says.
Was she, the wife thinks.
She asked me, “Don’t I get a say?”
Does it even matter the exact way in which the wife says No, or the exact way in which the wife points out that this person who is not in this marriage with them does not get a say?
It feels as shitty as anything that he’s the one telling her this. She tries to make him understand this part of it too, but in a curious reversal, he suggests that there’s something wrong with her for being closed about it. She should know now, she thinks, she should know everything she needs to know about how it’s going to go from here. She should know.
I miss her friendship, he says tonight.
She should know now. She should know. Maybe she does know and doesn’t want to.
Now she’s crying at a bar. She didn’t even cry at bars when she did drink. Wait, did she? She’s sure she didn’t. Probably. Not most of the time. She might have yelled at a bar a time or two or three.
They run into a friend on the way out, having dinner with his new girlfriend. There is no way not to say hi to the friend, no dodging out some back way, and no fake smiles to be mustered. Their friend suggests the four of them get together sometime. Their friend is in love. The wife knows this will never happen.