“You still use that?” he asked. On his face was Sarah’s least favorite expression, the one where his forehead was furrowed, mouth slightly agape in a way that made him look slightly concussed. “I thought it was just taking up space on the stove.”
Sarah didn’t want to explain to him that his taking up space was her making the kitchen more attractive; that, while he saw a pot, unused and extraneous, she saw her history. She didn’t want to explain to him, again, since he’d clearly forgotten, that the Dutch oven, with all of its chips and scratches, had belonged to her parents, that it had been one of their wedding gifts, and that even if Sarah only used it a handful of times each year—for their Chanukah brisket, or for matzoh ball soup, when it was her turn to host Passover—it had meaning for her. It still, as they said, sparked joy. Its rich red-orange color lifted her mood a little every time her gaze happened upon it; when she ran her hands along its smooth enameled curves, she thought about her mom, and the holidays they’d spent together. She’d tried to explain this to Eli, who’d listened, nodding along, promising to do better. “Sorry,” he said. “I won’t do it again. I’ll ask before I get rid of anything else.”
That, it emerged, was a lie. As the spring progressed, every few days, Sarah would look for something—her set of two-pound hand weights, the ceramic vase she’d bought in Mexico the year they’d gone to Tulum, the blue-and-white teacups from Chinatown, or her Collected Shakespeare from college—and discover it wasn’t there. “I don’t understand,” Eli would say. “I thought we agreed about this.” He’d draw himself up proudly. “I got rid of all my dental textbooks.”
“Eli.” Sarah sounded as weary as she felt. “Nobody wants dental textbooks. They were just taking up space.”
“Right! That’s why I got rid of them.”
“I can get rid of things,” Sarah said. She’d hold up her Shakespeare collection, or her teacups. “But not this thing.”
“So not any things,” Eli would say, and Sarah would have to press her lips together to keep from saying truly hurtful things, things she could never take back. She didn’t understand what had happened, or why Eli not only no longer saw their belongings, but no longer saw her, either—who she was, what she liked and used, what was meaningful and what was not. Which made her feel okay about lying. It was easy to do. Eli was smart, but not especially observant when it came to women’s clothes or accessories. “Are those new?” he’d ask, peering at her earlobes or staring severely at a dress.
“This old thing?” she’d say, or, touching her earrings, she’d say, “I’ve had these for a million years,” knowing that Eli wouldn’t be able to tell for sure whether she’d owned something for decades, or had bought it the week before.
She could have kept lying. She could have endured the new austerity, the Buy Nothing group, the compost bin he’d set up on the kitchen counter, and the hipsters she’d find hovering by her front door every few mornings, their faces hopeful above their masks. She could have lived with the stories she’d been forced to invent to counter his relentless attempts to purge their lives of everything she loved. She could have made herself endure it.
But then there were the flip-flops.
“I need to tell you something,” Eli had said, years ago when they’d first started dating. They’d been in a restaurant, and he’d reached across the table to take her hands.
Sarah looked at his serious expression and felt a prickle of unease. Had something bad happened to a patient? Was he sick? Or was he going to tell her that Annette had come back, that he had to give his ex-wife another chance, that Ruby deserved her real mother?
She swallowed hard. Eli was already so dear to her, with his high forehead, his curly hair, and his sweet smile. Eli was wonderful, and dating was awful. There’d been guys she’d liked who’d never called, guys she hadn’t liked who had called （and called and called, and then had showed up at her apartment or her office, refusing to take no for an answer）。 And, of course, there’d been her first boyfriend, who’d broken her heart so completely that it had taken her a full year before she’d allowed another boy to even hold her hand.
She sat back, bracing herself. And then Eli had gravely announced, “I have plantar fasciitis.”
“What is it? Is it bad?” she’d asked. It certainly sounded bad.