Porcelain

Chapter 1
“Harp?” Scott’s deep voice echoed from the second floor of our home, on the twenty-first floor of the Echelon building, which happens to be one of only two other units with two floors. The largest condominium building within the Seaport District of Boston. His middle-ground negotiation tactic for living in Boston was to reside near the water to view it as he awoke in the morning and went to sleep at night. I agreed to that without any dissent.
He is a decent Bostonian who sometimes can pass as a native. He is constantly reminded by those he is friendly with from our building association that he’ll never be a proper Bostonian because he wasn’t born here. This tidbit of colloquialism Scott often reminds me of as well. He’ll usually build off this belief by reminding my mother that he is fast approaching living in Boston longer than she did.
Scott is inching close to forty now, as I lovingly remind him often. He is marinating at thirty-eight until September, while I am lingering at thirty-five until October. I work. Scott is recently retired. He is entirely supportive and rather enjoys this dynamic. Scott claims he is shrinking, though I can attest with authority that it isn’t true, and he is still just shy of six feet six inches. His hair remains dirty blond, but he wears it somewhat mature or, as he says, in a “brush fade with product”—which I argue makes him just over six feet six inches. He will, with authority, boast that he still weighs 210 pounds—the same weight he was in his senior year of high school. Though I speculate that with his recent retirement hobby of being a food enthusiast, that may not be the case for much longer. Scott claims I’ve grown, but the only thing adding height to my stature is my footwear; I am still five feet tall, but I’ve been telling the world I’m five feet four for years and no one questions that when you wear four-inch heels.
“Yes!” I replied as I gently placed my large black Saint Laurent tote on the entryway table, a bag Scott purchased for me at the start of his most recent season as a promise that this was his last. Beside it was the elegant bouquet of white Calla Lilies Scott had delivered to me the morning of his final game.
“Hey,” he said as he quickly and cautiously jogged down the stairs and kissed me. “I didn’t start dinner; I figured we’d go out—celebrate your new role.”
“That’s so sweet. Yes! Thank you.” I beamed with excitement. “Let me clean up and email Dr. Wagner about rescheduling my last session before summer starts.”
“Did you get the email from her that she’s stepping back?” he asked with concern. “I’m not looking for a new therapist at thirty-eight. Whatever issues I have unresolved are part of me indefinitely.”
“What problems do you foresee not resolved—”
“Like she hasn’t filtered them back into your session,” he replied sarcastically while flipping through the mail. “She’s less subtle than she used to be.”
“You don’t need to worry about finding a new therapist.” I chuckled. “She’s keeping us. I suppose she has to…”
“Can’t have one of us without the other.” He smirked. “Makes for dull academic publications.”

“Have you read any of them?” I groaned. “I never venture beyond the abstract.”
“You don’t get very far. It’s evident Jean never took a creative writing course.” His eyes pulled away from the mail for only a moment and looked at me. “I’m always “Shaun,” and you’re always “Hayley”— unimaginative.”
“The moment the abstract reads: “Patient B exhibits,” I realized very quickly, I’m “Hayley” once again.”
“The only enjoyment in being “Patient B” is knowing I’m not the protagonist.” He grinned. “Because “Shaun” can’t exist without his “Hayley.” Which reminds me, Patient A, your new treadmill came; I had them set it up in the office.”
“Thank you for handling that.” I quickly kissed him. “Your retirement suits me.”
After sending a quick email to Jean asking to reschedule my Skype appointment with her, I reemerged in our entryway to Scott, still reading the mail, his brow pulled tight.
“Where are we going to dinner?” I asked as I adjusted the collar of my jacket for the walk along Seaport Boulevard. “Close, or should I put on flats?”
“Nah, nothing far; I made a reservation at Del Frisco’s. Figure it’s a nice spring night—we should enjoy it before it becomes oppressively hot.” He stated as he continued to examine the mail. “Did you look at the mail?”
I shook my head. “No, why? What’s up?”
His brow was deeply lined with thought, which could only mean one thing: He wouldn’t mention it. I typically don’t raise the topic. The once thin line between his brow deepened. His smile lines pulled tight as his eyes read each line with a speed that only meant he was eager to get to the point of this letter, hoping for a peaceful ending. But all I could feel was that Scott was fishing for his entry into the discussion—a discussion we rarely have. I resolved to allow this discussion and hope for a speedy resolution; otherwise, it would fester within his core during dinner.
“Residential or employment change?” I directly asked.
“His address did change. But he’s got limited skills, so his employment will never change,” Scott slowly replied without removing his eyes from the letter. “But he’s petitioning for a hearing date.”
“On island or off?” I quickly inquired, only to speed the discussion to its endpoint.