That Sounds Fantastic

 

by Kevin Timothy Dugan

 

 

 

 

 

Amherst had frozen over, so Tyler and Claire huddled in the oversized living room, next to the fireplace, which was unkindled and strictly for decoration. It was his fifth time up this year, up to where she studied, away from the city. For the first time, his visit was not precluded by ambivalence or antagonism. Also for the first time, those feelings were not extinguished at the sight of each other.

They were eating marshmellows while sitting on a couch, watching TV. The landlords decorated the room in the gaudy but earnest fake aristocrat style that grandmothers are fond of, and Claire had bought an overwhelming number of poinsettias in elaborate pots to give the room some winter spiff. Tyler crossed his right leg against the other, and his arm limped around the back of the couch, which was also behind Claire.

"I'll tell you what," he said during a commercial. Claire turned her head towards him and leaned in a bit closer. She was not wearing eyeliner. "I'll start making dinner, then we can have sex and take a long nap together. How does that sound?"

Claire burrowed her hand in between his legs to hold on to him. "That sounds fantastic."

Tyler hesitated to get up, and his girlfriend rubbed her forehead against his clavicle, gently, not unlike a pestle in a mortar. His arm snaked around her, with fingers splayed above her breast, as if he could stimulate his every nerve against hers; as if his body had to compensate for not feeling as engrossed as his brain.

The show came back on. It was some new reality program about washed up rock stars living in a halfway home, and you're supposed to watch them relapse; that's the fun of it. With Claire's attention divided, Tyler kissed her on her crown, centimeters away from her cerebral cortex, and rose, his hand retreating from her, dragging, languid.

In the kitchen, Tyler started making crab cakes, and brought out from the refrigerator everything they had bought from the supermarket because they were all still in plastic bags. Tyler moved with aptitude throughout the kitchen, even though he lived in Canarsie apartment without a stove. Claire was stretching on the couch, halfway watching the show but really considering moving some of the plants into other rooms.

"I'm glad we didn't go out today," Tyler shouted from the kitchen. Claire turned her head in the direction of the room and bit into a marshmellow. "We always go out, get lost in the museums. I miss being close to you. Here."

 

Claire muttered a positive noise in agreement. Words would have been superfluous on that point.

 

Tyler cracked two eggs into a mixing bowl and looked through the window into the glinting white yard.

 

"I know that you wanted to come down to Brooklyn this time around, but I'm glad I'm here. I needed to escape for a little while."

 

He moved towards the cabinet and took out the paprika. "I'm never going to make any money doing this, so we might as well take advantage of having two places. It's like having a winter cabin."

 

"Mmn," she said with some bite. She missed New York, but that wasn't really the problem. She didn't want to talk about work or bustle. The thought alone made her more tired. She was also peeved at Tyler's recent hints at marriage.

 

Marriage was not on the table.

 

Tyler had been interning at MSNBC, working for the nightly news. He also bartended for money. He was more stressed than normal. The producer laid off every paid staffer and shoveled the work onto the unpaid interns. He hadn't been sleeping much.

 

Claire, in her last undergraduate year, had kept herself busy with work as well. On top of that, she had finally made friends, and was determined to catch up on the social life from which she had abstained. But there were fights. She and Tyler had opponent schedules, and sometimes felt that their doings were extensions of who they were; it was as if asking, pointedly, 'can you really love me for who I am?'

Claire got up and walked into the kitchen. She put her arms around her boyfriend's waist and watched him add lemon juice and paprika into the bowl.

 

"I'm happy you're here," she said, kissing him on the neck. He kissed her cheek and squeezed her hand. He said her name in a descending two-note jingle--Claa-aire--and continued mixing the batch for dinner.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Tyler had never made crab cakes before. The idea came up the day before, in the supermarket with Claire, when they decided to try to cook something new. Claire was the one who suggested the crab cakes. He looked up the recipe on his phone. They had to buy all of the ingredients, except the paprika and salt, plus other food for his weekend stay, and the grocery bill came out to well over sixty dollars.

 

But, Tyler found, crab cakes are not difficult to make.

First, in a mixing bowl, put together a melted half-stick of butter, one fourth tea spoon of ceyenne pepper, one table spoon paprika, four large eggs, two table spoons of lemon juice (freshly squeezed, if possible), six table spoons of sour cream (tartar sauce is fine, too), one table spoon of Worchestershire sauce, half a teaspoon of salt, and a cup of parsely. Whisk it together until it's fairly consistent.

 

Once it's pretty even, add two cups of bread crumbs and two pounds of crab meat. Make sure to pick any remaining shells out of the meat. Stir it with a wooden spoon. It shouldn't be too watery.

 

Measure them out in half cups; this recipe makes twelve. Sprinkle a baking sheet with one fourth cup of corn meal, and then place the crab mixture evenly on the sheet. Sprinkle them with another one fourth cup of cornmeal, cover in plastic wrap, and chill in the refrigerator for about an hour.

 

After they have cooled, melt six table spoons of butter in a skillet until the foam subsides. This should be on a medium high heat. Each crab cake should get about 3 minutes on each side, or until golden brown.

 

By the time that Tyler had put the crab balls into the fridge, Claire had fallen asleep on the couch with the TV on. She was still in her sweat clothes, under a blanket, which she must have gotten from her room. He went back into the kitchen and read a magazine article about a thirteen year old British boy who fathered a baby with a fifteen year girl. After that, he turned on his phone, which he had kept off for the last day or so, and listened to his messages—all work related. He noted them, but decided not to answer until he got back to New York.

 

He set the table with place mats and napkins under the utensils, put some tartar sauce in a small bowl, and uncorked a large bottle of cabernet sauvignon. Before he started frying the crab balls, he went into the living room and woke Claire with a kiss on her forehead. He brought the rest of the marshmellows back into the kitchen, knotted the bag and placed them atop the refrigerator.

 

Claire came in and watched him fry the crab balls, four at a time. It only took fifteen minutes or so, and he placed them on a plate lined with paper towels. Claire poured the wine.

 

"These are great, honey," she said. They were actually still cold in the center.

 

"Mm," he said, swallowing. He noticed they weren't cooked but figured she got the better batch. "How was your nap?"

 

"I had a dream that I was graduating. I was going up to the podium to get my diploma, but there was nothing in the case. I know that nothing is supposed to be in the case, and they mail it to you later, but everyone around me had the piece of paper and were showing it to their parents. I tried to hide it under the gown, and everyone asked where it was, so I said I had lost it. My dad started searching everywhere, and I pretended to also, but I just wandered as far as I could down the lawn."

 

"I had dreams like that last year."

 

"I don't think I found anything. I mean, why would I? The end is hazy. But yeah."

 

They both ate a crab cake.

 

"This dinner is nice," she said.

 

"Mm," he said, looking her in the eye, smiling. Her eyes looked younger, smaller. "And next time, let's make something that won't take so long." And he winked.

 

* * *

 

 

They made love on the couch and it was familiar and sweet. They were both drunk from the wine, and Tyler lost his balance a bit when she gripped her leg around his lower back. They had made love three times the night before; the first two were one right after the other when he first arrived around 9 PM, and the third was at 4 AM, when he couldn't sleep. Still, this time was just as inspired.

 

They were both slicked with sweat afterwards, spooning on the couch. Tyler fell asleep not long after. Claire removed herself from him and showered quickly.

 

After her shower, she remembered to take the pill, which she should have taken that morning. This was the first time she had ever forgotten.

 

She returned to the living room and sat in the void left on the couch by his curvature. She ran a hand through his hair. When he awoke, she leaned in, kissed his ear and said, "let's go to bed." She got up, lead him to her room by the hand, and unmade the bed for him. He went with his clothes on; she took hers off.

 

 

* * *

 

The bus came late. They were waiting across the green, on a stoop, amid a group of backpackers and other college students in the midday sun.

 

"You don't have to wait," Tyler said.

 

"It's fine."

 

"You're going to be late."

 

"No, I'd rather be here."

 

They reminisced about the weekend, and Tyler promised that Claire could come down to Brooklyn the next week.

 

"It's actually a really nice day, without the wind," Claire said. Tyler tugged on her coat, under which she wore her sweat clothes.

 

"That's ok," he said.

 

They looked in the direction from which they expected the bus to come. Its silloughete was there, elaborating in the background.

 

"I see your bus."

 

He kissed her hand.

 

"I miss you. You know that," she said.

 

"I know."

 

The bus arrived. They kissed briefly. She watched him board the bus and sit in the back, by the window. Happiness, she thought, was a weekend like this.

 

The bus drove away, and Tyler turned on his phone. He was very behind on work.