When we lost our dream home to another bidder—the same amount, but cash and not contingent—I slammed our bedroom door so hard it shuddered and fell off its hinges. We just left it lying there. My husband Loren walked over the door and got in the bed and didn’t get out for a whole day. Although I was also so depressed I could barely move, I found the strength to heat a can of tomato soup which we ate out of the pot with a wooden spoon, lying together and grieving together in bed. 

But then our realtor called with great news. No, not about our dream home, that was forever gone to us, but about the house next door. There were some differences, he explained, but it really was a similar vibe. A little different footprint maybe, but plenty to love. When I rolled over and told Loren, life suddenly returned to him, like a wilted plant freshly watered. He got out of bed and got in the shower, and while I waited my turn I assembled a new and spectacular future for us on top of the charred remains of our old one. 

“It’s great to see you on such short notice,” Andre said, shaking both of our hands. 

The sign in the front of our dream home now had SOLD! taped over it. 

“Let’s take a look,” I said, holding my purse tighter against my side. I could tell that for both me and Loren it was very painful to stand there on the porch, looking over at our dream home. So we toured the house next door, noting what we needed to renovate—carpeted bedrooms, ‘80s-era fixtures, the laminate kitchen counter—and we made a little list of pros and cons: 

pros: house, big back yard, brick facade

cons: (indecipherable scribbling)

We signed on the line for the full asking price and within the month we were living there.

That first night, we wanted to celebrate, so we picked up a bottle of wine (the one with a recommended tag under the row of merlot), and ordered a delicious cheese pizza and breadsticks from Jet’s. We ate at the dining room table, beneath the simple pendant light, with a little jazz music playing on the TV. It wasn’t just one thing: everything feels special when you’re doing it in a new place.

“I can’t remember what it was we loved so much,” I said, chewing crust.

Loren said he couldn’t either, that it was great the way things had gone. He was really dunking his breadsticks in the marinara. 

“I’m actually excited about how much work there is to do here,” I said, taking a long drink from my wine glass.  “Let’s start with the master bath?”

Loren agreed, and he didn’t think it would really take that long. 

After dinner, we sat on the couch and watched the TV that was propped up on cardboard boxes. We watched two episodes of Forensic Files, even though we had already seen them. It felt different to watch it when you already knew who the killer was. Everything felt inevitable.

Then Loren asked what did I think about sex?

To be honest, my belly was very full, but I wanted the night to be special. It had been awhile. “Just give me a little bit,” I told him, and I went upstairs, the plastic over the carpet squishing beneath my bare feet, to try to poop. But even though I tried several positions, I couldn’t really get anything to come out. So I took a shower and brushed my wine-stained teeth and shaved and got into bed naked. I could still hear the narrator on Forensic Files droning from the living room. And then, suddenly, I fell asleep.

#

But we never really started unpacking. Everything was still in boxes folded up and taped because nobody had moved in next door. At first we hated to look at it, our dream home, so we kept the blinds shut, but after a few days, when nobody came, looking at it became a little more palatable. We took the patio chairs out of the garage and set them outside, and we enjoyed another bottle of merlot. We talked about how we might change the landscaping over there, or maybe the siding. We speculated about who they were, where they were. We did that a few nights in a row so that the liquor store gave us a free bottle on account of our punch card. 

“Maybe we can unbox our clothes at least?” I suggested one night. 

Loren said that he agreed. 

So, a bit wine drunk, we went into the garage and took out the boxes of clothes and unpacked them there in the living room on the floor. I had packed a bit haphazardly so each box was a surprise. I pulled out my summer dresses, clumps of black tube socks, a couple mismatched pieces of lingerie. When I took them out of the box Loren raised his eyebrows and tapped on an imaginary long cigarette like that French skunk. 

Loren opened up his box and extracted a very large black suit. He held it up against his slender body and we both cried from how much we were laughing. 

He asked me if I remembered how he used to be that big? But I really didn’t. It was almost frightening how much he’d changed when I wasn’t looking. I dared him to put it on but he wouldn’t. And seeing my own clothes there, I felt like they belonged to somebody else. He held up a vibrant purple thong and fired it across the room like a rubber band. 

“I don’t even remember buying that,” I said. 

Then he asked me, did I remember when we were first dating, when I came over to his house wearing that purple thong and an overcoat, just that? 

But I said that didn’t sound like me at all, that he must be confusing me for someone else, and I finished the bottle and went upstairs and put myself to bed. 

#

In the morning the doorbell rang. I woke up wearing my clothing from the day before, my mouth wide open and dry. I thought that Loren would answer but I turned over to see that he wasn’t in the bed. The doorbell rang again. I got up and looked at myself in the bathroom mirror and thought while I looked tired I looked alright. 

I went down the steps, the bottoms of my feet sticking to the plastic, and looked out the window onto the porch. It didn’t give me the right angle, but I could see the shadow of a person standing there, swaying slightly. I decided to answer it. 

“Would you like your curb sprayed?” he asked me. He was a little young but a little rough looking. He wore a coat that was too long. He was too young to drive a car.

“I’m sorry?” I asked. 

“Want your curb sprayed, lady?” he asked again. 

I was suddenly conscious of standing there alone. I wondered where was Loren, and then I noticed the car wasn’t in the driveway. We’d been leaving it there since the garage was still filled with boxes. I wondered where were the people who’d dropped the kid off. 

“What’s a curb spray?” I asked because I felt uncomfortable. 

“I’ve got numbers and letters. I’ll spray your name, whatever, anything you want on the curb?” the kid said. 

“I don’t want that,” I said. 

He looked a little disappointed. “It’s a good deal,” he said. “I can do it for five bucks.”

“I don’t care how much it costs.”

The kid stood there, looking around. He looked behind me, inside the house. 

“You moving, lady?” he asked me. 

I turned around and looked behind me into the house, at the clothing on the floor and the opened boxes around. I felt resentment for somebody, anybody. 

“Yes,” I said. “Actually, we’re moving next door.” I leaned over and pointed to our dream home. “Easy move,” I added, feeling more comfortable with the lie. 

“That’s funny. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of that before,” he said. “Not a long way to go.”

I agreed. 

“Do you want that curb sprayed?” he asked me. 

I thought about the different things that could be sprayed on the curb there. I thought about different obscenities. I wondered, if I asked him to put a bad and racist word, would he do it? “Can you do Michelle and Loren Brennan?” I asked, since those were our names.

The kid thought about it. “Awful long for a curb spray,” he said. “Usually it’s like one word or the house number.”

Loren pulled into the driveway in our bright red Camry. He sat in the driver's seat with the motor running looking at us standing there. 

“You got kinda bad breath, lady,” said the kid. 

“And you’re not much to look at,” I said. 

Loren got out of the car holding a bag of Krispy Kreme. He had a tray with a couple of coffees on it. He was struggling to balance everything as he walked up the driveway. I felt suddenly endeared to him. 

“Do you want a curb spray, mister?” the kid asked, motioning with his kit. 

Loren said he didn’t know what that was. 

“I told him how we were moving next door,” I said.

Loren sat the doughnuts and coffees on the patio table and sat down in one of the seats. I sat down there next to him. I didn’t need to open the bag because I already knew what was in it. That, and because I wasn’t hungry quite yet.  

“Listen, kid. I bet you want to make a couple bucks?” Loren asked. 

“Sure do,” the kid said. 

“Get in there and pack all that up,” he commanded, motioning to the clothing.

The kid sat his curb spray kit on the patio. “Should I take my shoes off?” he asked. 

“Who cares?” Loren said. 

He opened up the bag of Krispy Kreme and took out a perfectly glazed chocolate donut. He was really enjoying himself. I took a long sip of my coffee, even though it was too hot. It burned my tongue, my gums, the roof of my mouth. The skin hung from the roof of my mouth like the flap of a tent. I took another sip anyway. I liked how bitter it was, how much it hurt. 

We had a nice morning, Loren and me, sitting out there watching him pack everything up for the big move.