Peyote

He found her agenda on the kitchen island, strewn atop a sea of bills and fashion magazines. Her neat cursive caught his eye as he waited for his chili to heat in the microwave.

It was odd to see the leather bound book without her. It seemed a part of her, he had fond memories of her scrawling, brow furrowed in concentration. Though he had not read the book before, glancing at the open pages of an agenda hardly felt like an invasion of privacy. It felt akin to reading the grocery list pinned to their fridge door, akin to perusing the calendar hung at the entrance to their condo. It’s not a diary, it’s an organizational tool, she’d say when he teased her about it. Which made him tease her even more.

It laid haphazardly, as though dropped, open to a page which had a list titled “Coveted Furniture”. The list included Danish shelving units, a spiral watering can, and hooks for the door in the kitchen pantry. It was broken down by rooms, cost and priority. He laughed, amused by the jotted idiosyncrasies, the meticulous recording and micro-analyzing of the mundane. How healthy had the day been from a dietary standpoint on a scale of 1 to 10? How many hours had she slept? Were her dreams more vivid on those nights when she woke up more well rested? On one page he found a daily budget which factored in everything from car insurance payments to time it takes for a tube of mascara to run out. Although the agenda lacked conventional intimacy, a fragment of the self had been chronicled on the pages. She was someone who noticed the small things, such as which flowers bloomed first on the balcony. Someone who listed topics to discuss in therapy, though she had never attended it. Someone who cared for others—recorded dates of friends moving anniversaries, the births of acquaintances babies, lists of possible gifts for her grandparents' anniversary. Her daily plans were often crossed out, rearranged and rescheduled so she could care for her nephew.

She did not have a journal when they first met. If she had, she mused, their first encounter would have inspired many lists. He’d applied at the craft beer bar that she worked at and they realized that they had graduated the same year, from the same college. They both had liberal arts degrees and shared a passion for urban planning. Yet, the most bizarre fact was that they had never run into each other. They had no mutual friends.

She swirled her wine glass, the memories creating a longing for a stout. Mere months after meeting, dismayed by the days spent applying for jobs and receiving letters of rejection, they decided to leave the bar and travel through Asia. For two years they delayed making choices that would anchor them to anything or anyone but one another. He’d proposed on the last day of their trip.

So, they came home and got married. She took a job in a rehabilitation clinic and he went back to the craft beer bar while he looked for a gig in their field. He never found one.

As they neared the age of 30, two years into their marriage, they could only agree on one thing. A mutual misery. Confronted with their inevitably fleeting youth, they decided to travel. They sought to recreate a time when they had coped through companionship. He continued working at the bar and set aside any money he could spare to fund the trip. She took extra shifts at the clinic but as she watched her parents struggle to retire, her aims shifted. She obsessively planned, and attempted to couple the security of a middle class life with the freedom they sought together.

As the sun set on the decade, the relationship was in tatters. They moved like strangers forced to occupy the same space. She knew he found her boring now. And she found his lack of ambition infuriating. While trying to carve out a space for them to escape to, the chasm between them widened. He worked nights and the bar and she worked days at the clinic. Sometimes, in passing, they spoke of their plan to leave.

The notion that he had bothered to examine the agenda that afternoon still shocked her, she had believed he no longer cared. But, he had cared enough to examine the agenda, to piece together the vague particulars and decipher the patterns. While his chili went cold in the microwave, he had discovered the affair. She'd come home from the clinic to find him packed up. There was no explosive fight. He went to South America to take peyote and find himself.

He had finally found the excuse he was looking for to leave. A reason to escape his boring wife and tedious responsibilities. She felt abandoned, left out of the next great adventure, though she knew it was all her fault. She used this pain as propellant and launched into a relationship with Nathaniel. He worked in finance.

She looked into the kitchen, and debated refilling her wine glass. There was no beer in the house. Nathaniel was yelling something into the phone. Banging his fists on the island for effect. The island was always clear now, Nathaniel liked things clean.

Would things have gotten better? She often caught herself reminiscing on the rare moments in the end when she felt connected to her husband. When he would come home late from the bar, crawl into bed and curl himself around her. They would whisper in the darkness, confiding and conspiring with one another.

They had not spoken since the day he left. He’d weaponized his silence, not allowing her the chance to explain, to make amends. After the first few weeks she’d stopped reaching out too. They had not even discussed the impending divorce.

Her cell phone vibrated in her lap. Her mother in law’s pale puffy face flashed across the screen. Her makeup appeared chalky and was caked deep into her wrinkles. The photo was taken at one of many banal black tie family events.

Hello?

Hello. The older woman’s voice sounded hoarse. We haven’t heard from you. I thought that you would have called.

What do you mean?

You don’t know?

I don’t know what?

He died. Last Tuesday. I thought someone would have told you.

The kitchen blurred. No one had told her. She had cut herself off from their old crowd. When she finally spoke she felt separate from her voice. As though she was listening to an echo. A recording of herself.

What happened?

We aren’t sure, he was in Peru. It’s been a nightmare. No one speaks any English.

Her throat caught. She couldn’t speak.

He’s left you $20,000. It wasn't on purpose, he hadn’t gotten around to changing his life policy. We’ll need you to sign some documents.

They exchanged forced niceties, struggling to hold back tears. She promised to come to the funeral and hung up.