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That'd Be Good​

 

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When Miguel came to visit, having promised to build a gazebo in her North Carolina backyard, things were fine, if geographically complicated, for Lily, with a whiff of promise for something more than just good sex interspersed between trips to Home Depot and her good home-cooked meals. And, as always, the shared history between them: the man she’d been married to for ten years—now dead for as many—had been Miguel’s best friend since junior high.

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When all that was left for the gazebo was the painting she could do herself, he’d flown back to L.A. and that, seemingly, was that. But a few months later, when she visited her elderly aunt in Berkeley, Miguel drove up to take her on a four-day trip down the glorious coast.

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A thrift store or two was fine with Lily—but not every thrift store between Berkeley and Monterey. And his unfathomable declaration—that he hates eating out—wasn’t fine with her at all.

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“You’re impossible to be around,” she said, in a motel room with no view of the beach.

 

“I don’t like poetry,” he said. “Stop quoting to me.”

 

Silence followed.

 

“Home Depot was good,” he offered.

 

“The gazebo was good,” she added.

 

“Sex was good,” they said in unison.

 

“But this?” he said.

 

“Not so good.”

 

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On their last day, driving her to the airport, Miguel said, “What about your kitchen?”

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“My kitchen?”

 

“Could use some work.”

 

“Go on,” she said.

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“New countertop might be nice, new cabinets, too—and your sink disposal shouldn’t make that sound.”

 

“That could take a while.”

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“True,” he said. “But it would be good.”

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