Prelude to Nothing (very short story)

Outside a restaurant, somewhat recently, a couple argued, and I found myself trying to trace their story/dynamic.

“Yeah, February is the worst,” he said, not taking his eyes off his phone. He was already pissed off, and she immediately regretted complaining as they walked down the long, snowy Manhattan block. Who did she think she was? Trying to compete for his attention with the brand-new iPhone he’d bought that morning was stupid. Especially in its bright, shiny, no-case era, he was far too deep in the honeymoon stage with his new phone for his attention to split elsewhere.

But it was nearly impossible not to complain about the frigid weather she was dressed so poorly for. Her favorite faux fur jacket had seen better days and no longer kept her warm. Its tiny pockets barely fit her tightly balled-up fists, which rested inside uncomfortably. She wished she had brought gloves, and also wished he wouldn’t walk so fast. The high heels her friend had lent her were really slowing her down. If she didn’t walk at a geriatric snail’s pace, she’d topple over and land in a mess of gray snow caked with garbage and piss.

“Don’t you own any winter-appropriate clothes?” he barked, briefly cocking his head to face her. She clenched her teeth at the sound of his fingers continuously tapping against the glass keyboard. She desperately wanted to come up with a clever, sassy one-liner. But by nature, she was a real ruminator, the kind of person who only ever thought of the perfect comeback after the moment had already passed.

“What about that blue sweater I bought you? You should have worn that,” he said.

“It’s in the wash,” she replied.

“Are you serious? You can’t wash that. It’s not that kind of sweater; it’ll shrink. Dry clean only.”

“Sorry. I meant that it’s in my laundry basket,” she said, correcting herself. He seemed relieved to hear that.

White lies are like tiny miracles. The sweater wasn’t in the laundry basket or the washing machine. It was crumpled up in a pile of clothes she’d decided to sell on Depop. It was half a size too small, very itchy, and all her friends agreed that it made her look like a frumpy English teacher. She hated wearing baby blue and always wondered why he’d buy her something so obviously unflattering.

“Don’t treat your belongings like shit. That wasn’t from the dollar store, you know,” he muttered. He was so irritating. She knew it wasn’t from the dollar store. He knew she knew that, too. Sometimes, she thought he loved to make her feel stupid because it made him feel smarter. But he was really milking it this time.

She already felt like an idiot for wearing a short, skimpy, polyester dress with no tights to the opera. And she had already apologized, like, a million times. She said she was sorry she had never been to the opera before, and that she was even more sorry she didn’t know that it was that type of fancy event. She didn’t bother telling him that the only thing on her mind as she got dressed was whether he’d think she was pretty or not. He wouldn’t get it. She disliked that shallow part of herself. But even more, she disliked not being older, wiser, and more mature. She was by far the youngest and worst-dressed person in the theater.

She knew she had embarrassed herself and him in front of his very old, traditional, WASPy parents, whom she was meeting for the first time. But it was too painful to dwell on. So instead, she fantasized about owning a full-length snowsuit, and that by morning, his parents would be diagnosed with dementia and forget her and her dumb, whore-ish outfit entirely.

She didn’t know what was worse, the night itself, or being forced to walk in the cold because he wouldn’t call an Uber outside of the opera house. “It’s too crowded, there are too many people,” he said, though it sounded more like an excuse not to be seen with her. When he finally stopped at the next corner, he asked if she wanted to split an Uber. Something had come up, he said, and he needed to go home immediately.

Well, that’s not exactly what happened; that’s what she told her friends when they asked how meeting his parents went. What really happened is that he didn’t ask her to split an Uber. He called a car, and as she got in, he asked if she wanted him to add a stop at her place. She said yes. She shouldn’t have used the word “split” when she retold the story, because that wasn’t exactly right; his stop was five minutes away, and hers was forty. But he didn’t ask her to pay him back. He never did. So she knew starting a fight or telling him to be nicer to her was out of the question.

She thanked him for the Uber. For a moment, she wondered if she should thank him again, for the red wine, the fancy dinner, and tickets to the opera she had pretended to enjoy and understand. She thought it was truly terrible: dramatic, yet somehow anticlimactic. She couldn’t wait for it to be over. But deep down, she wondered if maybe she just wasn’t smart enough to appreciate it.

The entire ride to his apartment, he remained preoccupied with his phone, and they barely spoke. She decided it was better to stay quiet; she didn’t want to bother him. She wanted to text her best friend about how badly this was going, but she was too tipsy to fish her phone out of her bag in a way that wouldn’t make her look like she was three glasses past good judgment. So she just looked out the window, letting a few blocks pass, her eyes skimming the displays in the designer stores that filled his neighborhood.

“Don’t you think Gucci is kinda ugly?” she wanted to say, to try and lighten the mood. But she didn’t. Because of the small chance that he liked Gucci. It was way too risky. They clearly had very different tastes when it came to fashion. As the car crept down his block, he quickly kissed her goodbye. It was something she’d prayed the entire ride he’d do, so she’d have some confirmation that he still liked her. But when he got out of the car, her whole world started spinning, and she felt incredibly nauseous. It wasn’t just the bumpy SoHo cobblestone street they were driving on or all the alcohol she consumed. She thought that the kiss felt different. At least she had convinced herself that it did.

As the driver turned on the radio, she noticed on the GPS that the ride would now be 57 minutes instead of 40. She looked out the window and wished she hadn’t copied her anorexic friend’s diet the day she was meeting his parents. She regretted wanting to look a little bit skinnier for tonight because now all she wanted to be was sober.

“I think he’s going to leave me,” she said.

“Huh?” said the driver, an older man with white hair and kind eyes. She thought she had said that in her head.

“Oh. Sorry, sorry,” she said, trying her best to fake-laugh it off. But she wanted to disappear. She knew it was true. He would leave her for someone younger, naturally blonde, and more neatly packaged. Her contents rattled inside too much for him. And her blonde highlights made her look cheap. He would leave her for the kind of girl who wouldn’t dare wear thrifted clothing, Victoria’s Secret body spray, and glittery eyeshadow to the opera. Someone classier. Someone more polished. Someone who moved through the world correctly.

She wished she could’ve been honest with herself sooner, admit she just wasn’t ready for any of this. But she knew what she was getting into when she started dating someone twelve years older than her.