Avery Hates Jack Part II

As soon as I’d opened our apartment door, I could hear the sound of the bedroom television. My mood—brought upon by my first meeting with the good doctor—deflated. I glanced at my watch. 12:37PM. What is Jack doing home? I asked myself. He should still be at work.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. I hate Jack. I firmly believe he’s the ultimate jackhole. First, he ambushes me—after a long night at the hospital—with news that our seven-year relationship is over. He then storms out without another word. Next, he ambushes me—after a long afternoon with no Xanax— with the news that he’s already seeing someone else. He then storms out again without another word. Now, after I’ve finally—with the help of a dreamy therapist—decided to calmly accept my fate, he ambushes me for a third time.

I wasn’t ready for this yet. My plans for a relaxing bubble bath followed by a leisurely lunch of contemporary Italian cuisine at Pelago were now thrown out of the window. An afternoon of tipsy shopping at Ralph Lauren after drinks on the 96^th floor of the John Hancock? Forget about it. This afternoon was supposed to prepare me for Jack’s return. It was supposed to ease my spirit so I could rationally participate in the dialogue that he and I so desperately needed to have.

Not yet ready to face him, I retreated to the kitchen. I figured I could drown my anxiety in the final slice of chocolate cake left over from dinner two nights ago. When I opened the door of the stainless-steel Sub-Zero, I was further disappointed to discovered the cake was missing. Apparently, he’d eaten it.

While I’d be seeking refuge from my emotional anguish, Jack was at home. Eating my last slice of chocolate cake. I yelled an expletive and slammed the refrigerator door. To my surprise, Jack stood behind it stone-faced. On his lower lip, a dab of chocolate frosting. In his hand, a crumb filled dessert plate.

There we were. Face to face. Ready to begin round two.

All together now:

I hate Jack.

Avery Loves Psychobabble

I left Dr. Drexel Carrington’s office on cloud nine. My secret crush on him aside, the previous 45 minutes left me feel reinvigorated. Under the good doctor’s guidance, I was going to “breakthrough” this “mental crisis” and “reaffirm” my “self-worth”. I love psychobabble.

The sun shone brightly as I sauntered down Michigan Avenue. Everyone seemed to be smiling. Today was going to be a good day. First, I’d head home and take a luxurious bubble bath. Next, I’d treat myself to lunch at Pelago, followed by a drink at the Signature Lounge. Touristy, I know. But I can think of no better place to make a person feel as though he were on top of the world. The afternoon would conclude with a little retail therapy at Ralph. Mr. Lauren always makes me happy.

This renewed energy must have been written across my face. The moment I entered my building Simms, the daytime doorman, returned my smiled.

“You’re in excellent spirits, Avery. Didya win the lottery or something?”

“Nope.” I replied. “Jack’s moving out.”

I didn’t stop walking until I reached the elevator. I can only imagine the puzzled look on Simms’ ruggedly handsome, middle-aged face.

Once I’d reached the 14^th floor, I headed toward my front door intent on making lemonade out of lemons, sangria out of sour grapes, apple martinis out of rotten—well, you get the idea. There was a lot that still needed to be determined. When would Jack be moving out? What would we do about separating our finances? How were we going to get out of this real estate contract?

I shook those thoughts out of my head. Those thoughts were for later. This day of self-pampering would help me prepare for that discussion. This day would help me find that calm and collected space. Later, when Jack returned, I would be ready to broach these topics in a rational and civilized manner.

That was the plan. My smile, however, faded as I entered my apartment. Jack was back.