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April 28, 1992
Meg opens the refrigerator door, frowns, then closes it again. She does the same thing with the cabinets they use as a pantry. And then she heads back to the bedroom in search of her husband.
"Honey? I thought you were going to get the stuff for your shindig."
"I did," Alain says, halfway through swapping his I-am-a-serious-academic-teacher-of-literature sweater for something more casual and less intended to maximize the mere half dozen years between him and many of his students.
"And where it is?"
"In the refrigerator."
"Okay," Meg says. "And, um, where's the part of it that isn't beer?"
"Well, I just thought we could use what we have on hand, right?"
"What we have on hand. Right. Um, Alain, neither of us has been to the store in almost a week. What we have on hand is three eggs, and third of a loaf of whole wheat bread, half a jar of marmalade, some grapes that are probably more accurately described as raisins at this point, forty-five millilitres of orange juice, two cans of soup, and most of a box of corn flakes. The ones you didn't like. You said they tasted funny."
"They did," Alain says and then frowns. "You didn't go to the store?"
"I told you I wouldn't have time this week."
"So we don't have, um, chips or crackers or cheese or anything?"
"They're all on the list. Which is on the bulletin board. Where you could grab on your way out the door. When you went to get . . . "
"The beer."
Meg nods.
"Do we have popcorn?"
"On the list."
"Well, damn. All right, ma belle, what do we do?"
Meg sighs. "Well, let's see. We've got about twenty minutes before ten people start arriving. You order some pizza, I'll run down to the store on the corner and see what I can find quickly and if anyone is hungry before the food is here and ready we'll just . . . tell them we're désolés."
Alain leans down to kiss her. "I love you."
"I know. Et je t'aime aussi." Meg grabs her purse from the dresser. "Remember that Heidi doesn't eat meat. I'll be back as soon as I can."
Meg stops at their coat/storage closet to get a jacket. Or at least, that was the plan . . .
"Honey? I thought you were going to get the stuff for your shindig."
"I did," Alain says, halfway through swapping his I-am-a-serious-academic-teacher-of-literature sweater for something more casual and less intended to maximize the mere half dozen years between him and many of his students.
"And where it is?"
"In the refrigerator."
"Okay," Meg says. "And, um, where's the part of it that isn't beer?"
"Well, I just thought we could use what we have on hand, right?"
"What we have on hand. Right. Um, Alain, neither of us has been to the store in almost a week. What we have on hand is three eggs, and third of a loaf of whole wheat bread, half a jar of marmalade, some grapes that are probably more accurately described as raisins at this point, forty-five millilitres of orange juice, two cans of soup, and most of a box of corn flakes. The ones you didn't like. You said they tasted funny."
"They did," Alain says and then frowns. "You didn't go to the store?"
"I told you I wouldn't have time this week."
"So we don't have, um, chips or crackers or cheese or anything?"
"They're all on the list. Which is on the bulletin board. Where you could grab on your way out the door. When you went to get . . . "
"The beer."
Meg nods.
"Do we have popcorn?"
"On the list."
"Well, damn. All right, ma belle, what do we do?"
Meg sighs. "Well, let's see. We've got about twenty minutes before ten people start arriving. You order some pizza, I'll run down to the store on the corner and see what I can find quickly and if anyone is hungry before the food is here and ready we'll just . . . tell them we're désolés."
Alain leans down to kiss her. "I love you."
"I know. Et je t'aime aussi." Meg grabs her purse from the dresser. "Remember that Heidi doesn't eat meat. I'll be back as soon as I can."
Meg stops at their coat/storage closet to get a jacket. Or at least, that was the plan . . .