This Isn't About Jam

“I asked for raspberry.”

“Not strawberry?”

“Yeah, nah.”

“¿Cómo?”

“It means—fuck, I can’t open the bloody thi—”

“Give it here, you’re hopeless.”

“It means that—thanks, how’d you do that?—that you can’t read a shopping list.”

“You wrote strawberry.”

“Get the list, Alex. Look, r-a-s-p—”

“And that’s supposedly an ‘r’ back in Australia?”

“It would be if it weren’t for the coffee ring. I wonder how that got there.”

“I think it has more to do with your handwriting.”

“Or your aversion to coaste—fuck!”

“¡Joder! Don’t move!”

“I’m—”

“Nora, don’t move. I’ll get the broom.”

“You ask him for raspberry jam and he gets you stra—”

“I said don’t move. Here, sit down.”

“Well then you sit down.”

“OK, let’s sit down.”

“You have spinach between your teeth.”

“Is it gone?”

“No, here.”

“That’s enough.”

“But it’s still there.”

“That’s enough, OK, stop. Thank you. It’s gone? OK, Nora, is this really about the ham?”

“Jam.”

“Is this really about the jam?”

“Mm, no.”

“What’s it about?”

“Mmm…y d—d—d—day.”

“You’re mumbling.”

“Mmmy dog d—d—stday.”

“Speak up.”

“My dog died yesterday.”

“Sí, lo siento.”

“Are you? Then why didn’t you come over last night?”

“Because you weren’t sad.”

“How would you know?”

“Because you said so.”

“And?”

“And I believed you.”

“Did you, though?”

“So you were sad, then?”

“I still felt thi—where are you going?”

“I’m just getting a beer out of the fridge. Want one?”

“No…and watch out for the glass. I still felt things. I felt—I’m just gonna speak, alright? I felt guilty for not being sad. Alex, are you listening? The top drawer. No, that’s the bottom. I still felt guilty for not being sad. No, that’s a lie. I just, I don’t know, I just wanted you to be there. And I did feel sad for a moment when I realised she’s just a sack of flesh and bones somewhere right now, that my parents probably dumped her in a random bin instead of burying her; and we’re all the same. One day I’ll be a lifeless sack of flesh and bones.”

“Do you want to be buried or cremated?”

“Fuck off.”

“OK, but now you’re getting existencial? and there’s no unwritten contract that says you need to be there when your partner feels sad about la inevitabilidad? of death.”

“My dog died.”

“Tienes razón, lo siento.”

“No, I don’t wan—stop, alri—OK, get off.”

“You taste like toothpaste.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“She says with a smile.”

“You’re clever.”

“Should we sweep this up?”

“What’s that smell?”

“What smell?”

“No Alex, ew, put your arm do—”

“It must be you.”

“Cheese?”

“Should I take a photo?”

“Did you eat all the cheese?”

“Nora, come sit down.”

“What’s this?”

“Put it back in the bin and come tell me how you’re actually feeling.”

“…OK, I don’t mean to be passive aggressive. What, where are you g—?”

“I’m gonna squeeze you an orange juice.”

“But that’s not my love language.”

“I know what your love language is.”

“You’re not funny.”

“And yet she’s smiling again.”

“OK, sit down and let’s be communicative.”

“OK, but I can squeeze you an orange juice while we speak. Wa—”

“Be careful of the glass.”

“Sí, lo sé. Go on, tell me how you’re feeling.”

“Bottom shelf. No, behind the measuring cups. OK, I feel… I felt lonely, Alex. Don’t look at me like that.”

“I’m here for you.”

“Not yesterday, and you bought me strawberry jam.”

“This isn’t about jam.”

“OK, listen. My dog died yesterday and you ‘didn’t feel like’ coming over.”

“OK, I understand, but you weren’t sad.”

“We’re going around in circles. Let’s swim out of the rip, alri—A rip? It’s like the water that takes you out to sea o—”

“And it’s a circle?”

“I don’t know, but that’s not the point. I felt… I felt alone. I felt more alone than I ever have… maybe, probably, probably not. OK, that’s an exaggeration, but I felt lonely. How should I put this? Shh, that’s a rhetorical question. When you’re alone and you know you’re alone, you don’t feel lonely; but when you’re with someone and you’re both pretending you’re a team, that you aren’t alone, that you get through all this together and suddenly, I don’t know, you find yourself just as alone as you always were, you feel lonely, insanely lonely. God, you found the most articulate woman on the planet. Am I making any sense?”

“You feel alone.”

“OK, but do you get me? And then I started wondering what the hell you were even here for. Why are you here, you know what I mean? What’s a partner for if not to hold you when your dog dies? It’s in moments like these, those, that I’m supposed to stop and realise how wonderful it is to have someone here who loves me. But I look around and I feel worse—looked around, felt worse—because you weren’t there, and now I feel more unloved than I did when I was completely alone. Did I already say that?”

“Here you are, careful.”

“Thank you.”

“Nora, is this really about Scruff?”

“Did you add sugar to this?”

“No, you never have it with sugar.”

“It’s really sweet, but yeah, dewst—ike—me?”

“What?”

“Do you still like me?”

“Nah, just here for the sex to be honest.”

“Fuck you.”

“OK, Nora. Listen to me.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m in a kitchen tiptoeing around broken glass, and arguing about jam and your dead dog. I just watched you pick an empty cheese wrapper out of the bin, and to be honest, you smell like musty laundry right n—yes. Yes, you do.”

“I’ll go sho—”

“Nora, sit down. You know last week’s work lunch? I was showing Águeda and everyone your photos all like, ‘mi novia está buenísima, pero buenísima.’”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“I wrote your name on my arm.”

“God, that’s a bit much, isn’t it?”

“Fuck off.”

 “Are you alright, now? Should we sweep this up?”

“Let’s get the spinach out of your teeth first.”

“You said it was gone.”

“Yeah, nah. It’s definitely still there.”