get that back.
Mia pulls her sunglasses back down and covers the squint. She folds her arms across her chest and says, “We’re almost to the bakery. Do you have money for croissants?”
The bakery is closed. Croissants sold out. Even from far away, I can tell Mia is fuming, her hands in fists on her hips, but as she turns back toward the car she forces a smile on her face. She’ll get over it, I remind myself. After I suffer through half an hour of hick country music for the remainder of the drive to the cottage, we’ll be back to being cordial again as we drive through the gates of Lakeside. She is happy there. Once we have arrived, she’ll forgive me for our late start. As we unpack, I will play some jazz, a far superior song structure than this simplistic insult to music blaring through the car radio at present. All will be well once we arrive. Marriage: it’s a give-and-take. One day, I get my way, the next, I do something nice for my wife. It’s how it goes. I reach deep into my patience well and find it’s almost dry. Almost.
It’s never ideal when I run totally dry, trust me. Plenty of people in my past found that out the hard way. But I’m more mature now, I don’t let myself get that depleted. I know how to soothe myself, I know what, and who, I need. And I usually get what I want. I’m sure you’ve figured that out already.
The good news with the detour to this strip mall in the town of Port Clinton is that I am at last getting to stretch my legs. When I finally parked the car and we climbed out, I realized my back was seizing up on me. I ignore this old-man type of physical pain, just as I ignore cashiers and parking lot attendants. They are all a bother, beneath my wasting a breath or thought on.
The fresh air feels good, crisp and clean. Although you can’t see the lake from here, you can feel the water’s presence like you do when it’s about to rain. There’s just something in the air that’s thicker, moist and heavy, like a humidifier on a dry winter’s night. There are cars towing boat trailers parked near us. Bumper stickers proudly proclaim the town as the Walleye Capital of the World, although I read they lost that distinction lately. Life: it’s transitory. And in life, there are always winners and losers. It’s nice to be a winner.
“How about getting some ice cream, honey?” I say as Mia returns with a frown on her face. She wanted to make certain the bakery was closed by walking across the parking lot, even though we could plainly see from here that nobody was inside and there were chairs on the tables. I guess she likes torturing herself, pressing her nose against the front window of the darkened shop, like a puppy hoping to get adopted at the shelter. Just like most of those puppies, the odds weren’t in her favor. She lost.
“We missed them by fifteen minutes. They close at 11:30,” she says. I don’t correct her and point out that it’s actually already noon. “I don’t feel like ice cream right now.”
“Not even Toft’s?” It’s a famous ice cream parlor from Ohio’s oldest dairy. I smile thinking about the bright blue Toft’s sign, the ridiculous sculpture of a cow wearing sunglasses inside a white wooden pen in the parking lot, the smell of vanilla beans and strawberries when you step inside the door. We have spent many an afternoon on the outside patio with the boys, ice cream dripping onto the round blue tables while they tried to lick every drop before it melted. My mouth is watering just thinking about a scoop of Java Chip. In a bowl, not a cone. With bowls, you’re always in control.
“Not even Toft’s. Besides, dairy is bad for you, you know that. It’s mucus. Perfect for baby cows but that’s all,” Mia says, opening the door to the Flex. If the car hadn’t been between us, I know she would have shot a glance at my belly. I hate that. “I would like a salad or something, though. Do you think the restaurants are open in Lakeside?”
Our eyes meet across the top of the Flex. She looks small, and no longer as angry. I feel like a large disappointment. I hate that feeling. She is waiting for an answer. I am preparing for country music mush through the speakers as my penance.
“Yes, I checked. Everything is open. We can eat in Lakeside,” I say with gusto. I’m suddenly very hungry, and I hope food will fix the hollow feeling forming in the pit of my stomach. “I’m sort of craving Sloopy’s pepperoni pizza about now.” I open the car door and slide back behind the steering wheel.
“Pizza is a terrible choice, Paul.” Mia clicks her seat belt into place. I see her look at my stomach as she adds, “Processed meat, dairy—well, whatever. It’s your life.”
“They have salads, too,” I say. I know I sound defensive. I just can’t have her ruin my favorite pizza joint, too. I give her the freedom to eat as she pleases, so I deserve the same respect, don’t I? She gets to eat and do whatever she wants all day long, and all I ask for is just that: respect. “You are ruining food for me.”
“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” she says. She thinks it’s funny. She finds another of her favorite country music stations and turns the sound up. I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Or punch the button to start the playlist, our playlist with the Police’s “Every Breath You Take” up next. That is the music we should be listening to instead of this. I keep both hands on the wheel but it takes willpower. Marriage, I remind myself again, is a give or take. I’ll give now, so I can take charge later. We’re so close to Lakeside. I can handle this.
Now I know who this new Mia is reminding me of: working girl Mia. The woman I met at Thompson Payne in the conference room. Confident. Sharp. Later, once we’d begun dating, she told me she’d never been in love before me, not really. And I told her what I told you: I knew we were perfect for each other from the moment we met. As long as she could become the wife I was looking for, of course.
She was the most beautiful person I’d ever met back then. Physical perfection she’s retained to this day, with the exception of the baby fat years, as I’ve noted. I poured on the Paul Strom charm, asking her to dinner that very afternoon. John had told me the company policy, of course. But no one paid any attention to policy like that, especially when it involved agency superstars like I knew I would become. I dropped by her office; it was a late afternoon in September and the sun was already making its way to the horizon. I knocked on her open door and she looked up. When a faint blush began circling her cheeks, I knew she was mine.
“Do you have plans for dinner tonight?” I said, leaning against the doorway. I was wearing a new designer suit, navy, with a crisp white shirt and a red power tie. I knew I looked good. Her office was messy, a typical creative desk, strewn with rough sketches and preliminary layouts for ads; storyboards for television spots were tacked to the cork-covered wall on her right. The only non-work-related item on her desk was a framed eight-by-ten photo of her parents, who were notable Manhattan movers and shakers I already knew from my research. The only surprise: her office had a window as big as mine. That meant the partners were wooing her, though not the way I was, of course.
Behind her desk, Mia blinked those big blue eyes.
“I was thinking Diamond’s, the new restaurant in German Village. I haven’t been yet, but I hear it’s fabulous. I should be able to get us a great table.” I managed to employ my smile-wink right then and I saw she was interested. It was the chemistry in the air, that zing of electricity rushing between us. And we had barely touched yet. I felt an attraction to Mia that was foundational, at some cellular level. I knew she sensed it, too.
“Sounds good,” she said. “I hope to be finished with this ad by
