The Starbucks closest to Adam’s house was closed. But the one down the road was open. He’d brought her hot coffee with cream and sugar.

  “Hello!” he shouted.

  Had she been swept away? Or drowned? Had she left to find a different bridge?

  Someone tapped him on the shoulder. For a second he thought it might be her.

  It wasn’t. It was an older woman, wearing a fashionable raincoat. “What are you doing?” she asked him, her eyes wide and fearful. “It’s slippery—you’ll fall!”

  Adam smiled at her. “Thank you. I’ll be careful.”

  He turned back to the river and stopped smiling. He leaned farther over the rail. “Are you there?”

  He didn’t bring coffee today.

  The river was lapping at the edge of the bridge. Adam was alone there. Everyone else had taken shelter or was looking for higher ground; his mother said she’d found some. He held on to the railing.

  “I’m here!” he shouted.

  And then he held his phone out over the side and let it go. (This wasn’t a very big sacrifice; it had been days since he’d had service.) (He would have dropped it anyway.)

  She wasn’t there.

  His phone was gone.

  Once upon a time, in a land that was losing, a man sat at the edge of a river.

  It’s Adam. Adam is the man. He sat by the river, and he couldn’t see the bridge. The bridge was gone. The road was gone.

  The rain was still feeding the river, and the river was eating everything, and Adam was watching it go—that’s when he finally saw her. She was still far away, but he saw her.

  “Hello!” he shouted, falling onto his stomach in the mud and reaching into the water.

  “Adam!” he heard her shout.

  She was coming closer to him. Swimming toward him.

  They caught each other’s arms and held fast.

  “You’re alive!” she cried. “I’ve been looking for you, hoping.”

  “I was looking for you!” he said. “You left the bridge.”

  “I didn’t leave. I just came unstuck. And then I was caught up, like everything else, in the river.”

  “We’ve found each other now,” he said, grasping at her arms, trying to haul her up onto the bank.

  “No,” she said, pulling back. “Adam, what are you doing!”

  Her arms slipped away from him. They caught each other by the wrists.

  “I can save you!” he said.

  She laughed at him. Her lips were red. Her teeth were pointed. Her skin was the color of a green tea Frappuccino.

  “It’s still a no,” she said, squeezing his hands tight.

  She was stronger than he was. Bigger than he was. She was trying to hold on to him without pulling him in.

  “Are you here to save me?” he asked.

  “Oh . . .” she said sadly. “No.” She pulled herself carefully toward him. “But I’m glad you’re alive. You’ve always been lucky.”

  “The road is gone—is this what you wanted?”

  “No.”

  She was a dark shadow in the water. But he wasn’t a fool—he knew she had a tail.

  “It will be easier for you now,” he said. He was crying again. “I’m glad.”

  She shook her head. “This isn’t easy. This is just another kind of hard. That’s all that’s left now, for any of us.”

  Adam still didn’t understand. She shook her head, like she didn’t expect him to.

  Then she pulled herself close, so carefully, and raised herself out of the water.

  “My prince,” she said, and kissed him.

  And then she let go.

  Mixed Messages

  Beth

  Are you there?

  Text me when you’re there.

  I might not text you back right away—we’re going out to dinner for our anniversary. (Not our wedding anniversary.)

  Jennifer

  Happy anniversary!

  You’re there!

  Well, I’m here.

  Are you at work?

  Indeed. I’m the only copy editor working today. I wonder if everyone else was laid off. It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened . . .

  Can you talk?

  Talk? No. Text? Yes.

  Beth

  I meant text.

  Jennifer

  Well, here I am. What anniversary is it, if not your wedding anniversary?

  It’s our together anniversary. Like, our kissing anniversary. I like it better than our wedding anniversary. The weather is better.

  You’re the one who wanted to be a June bride . . .

  I just didn’t want to wait for the weather to change to lock that down.

  Got to lock it down.

  Is that what you wanted to text me about? Your anniversary?

  No.

  Okay . . .

  I’m nervous to tell you.

  Is it about me?

  No!

  No. Sorry. It’s about me.

  Are you sick?

  No. Sorry.

  Stop asking me urgent questions, so I can finish typing it . . .

  Sorry, sorry. I’ll wait my turn.

  I think I’m pregnant.

  Really?

  Yeah.

  Why did that take you so long to type?

  Oh my God, Jennifer. It started out longer, but you kept interrupting me.

  You really think you’re pregnant?

  Maybe.

  Is that . . . possible?

  Are you asking whether Lincoln and I still have sex?

  I am NEVER asking whether ANYONE is having sex.

  Well, we do. We have sex. That’s not a problem.

  Okay, I’m glad.

  We should talk about sex more.

  You and Lincoln?

  No, you and me.

  You have chosen the wrong best friend.

  Women are supposed to talk to each other about sex. It’s supposed to be healthy. And empowering.

  Jennifer

  Well, I’ve never been much of either.

  Beth

  There is a shrug emoji, you know.

  I’m old-school. I like this guy:

  He’s like “Meep.”

  Do you type him out every time?

  I’ve got a shortcut on my phone.

  Meep.

  Jennifer. I really think I might be pregnant.

  So that’s . . . possible? You still get your period?

  I would have told you if I stopped having periods.

  Would you?

  Yes!

  It’s been so long since I had a period, I sort of forgot people our age get them. In my mind, periods are for teenagers.

  Like snap bracelets? And jelly sandals?

  And cyber-bullying.

  1. I’m sorry to flaunt my uterus privilege.

  2. I feel like you’re not really responding to my pregnancy concerns.

  1. Hey. It’s okay. I don’t think either of us has much uterus privilege.

  2. I’m not sure what to say.

  3. Why aren’t you at your anniversary dinner?

  I’m meeting Lincoln outside the restaurant. He’s late.

  You’re eating inside a restaurant?

  It’s Nia’s—they have outdoor seating, but you have to go inside and wait for it. But you can’t get in line until your whole party is here.

  Wear a good mask.

  I always wear a good mask.

  You don’t think I’m pregnant.

  Do you.

  I don’t think anything; talk me through your thinking.

  Oh my God, some young guy just winked at me.

  Beth, I think we need to have a little talk about the birds and the bees. That’s not exactly how it happens.

  I just peeked inside the restaurant to check on the line, and he winked at me!

  What did you do?

  I got the hell out of there! I’m a married woman, and he’s clearly a maniac.

  He wouldn’t have to be a maniac to flirt with you. People flirt with you all the time. I’ve seen it.

  Beth

  Are you talking about that time we were at the Chili’s in the Fort Worth airport, and that waiter called me “mama”?

  Jennifer

  Yes.

  It’s because I was wearing an empire-waist sundress. He thought I was pregnant.

  Well, he was clearly into it.

  I haven’t been flirted with in a century.

  In *this* century?

  That’s correct.

  Your husband flirts with you.

  Mitch hasn’t flirted with me since nineteen hundred and ninety-three.

  That’s a lie; I’ve seen him flirt with you; once, with a tuba. But I can’t argue with you right now—Lincoln is going to be here any minute. Do I tell him I might be pregnant?

  Have you taken a test?

  No.

  Talk me through your thinking . . .

  My period is late.

  How late?

  A week.

  And that’s unusual? It’s usually pretty regular?

  Historically.

  Like . . . ten years ago, historically?

  No. Usually. Recently. Mostly.

  Okay. Well. You could take a pregnancy test.

  You think it’s menopause, don’t you?

  No. I don’t know what to think.

  You think it’s perimenopause.

  I don’t even know what perimenopause is.

  No one knows what perimenopause is! It’s just what you blame when you’re old and you feel fucked up.

  I don’t think that. I don’t make presumptions about other people’s perimenopause.

  Don’t distract me with alliteration.

  I’m sorry. (People with ovaries can be so touchy . . . )

  How does it feel to think you might be pregnant?

  I’m not pregnant.

  You could take a test.

  I told myself I’d never take another test.

  I know.

  Beth

  Oh my GOD. That cute guy is still staring at me.

  Jennifer

  Wait—is he young or is he cute?

  I think he might be BOTH. What the fuck. Should I tell him I’m infertile?

  You could just tell him you’re married.

  I’m not telling him anything. This is unnerving.

  What are you wearing?

  Why—do you think I might be asking for it?

  Look, it’s my anniversary. I’m trying to lean into my assets.

  I hear you, mama.

  Oh God, sorry—I was trying to be funny.

  No, it’s okay. It *was* funny.

  I was just moving so that guy can’t watch me. Who goes to a tapas bar in the suburbs to flirt with middle-aged women?

  Where is Lincoln?

  I don’t know, he’s supposed to be getting his hair cut.

  He’s cutting his Covid ponytail?

  Yes. Finally.

  Won’t you miss it?

  Maybe? I don’t think so.

  I thought you liked it.

  I did at first. It was like being married to MacGyver. And then it was like being married to late ’90s Eddie Vedder. But now it’s kind of like being married to the guy who opened Omaha’s first health food store. Like, he won’t wear it down, and he won’t wear it in a bun, and he won’t let me braid it. So it’s this very low ponytail every day. It’s becoming A Look.

  I can’t believe he won’t let you braid it. That’s very selfish of him. My girls won’t let me braid their hair anymore, either.

  We are surrounded by selfish people.

  (Your girls used to let me braid their hair when they were little, I loved it.)

  If Lincoln would wear his hair down, it would be very early-’90s Eddie Vedder, and I might still be into it.

  I wish Mitch would have grown a Covid ponytail.

  At least he can go back to the barber now that he’s triple vaccinated.

  He refuses to go back. He says he doesn’t want to pay for a haircut when I can give him a perfectly good one for free. I guess I’ll be cutting his hair until I die or develop a tremor.

  So much to look forward to in this scenario.

  INDEED.

  Beth

  I can’t tell Lincoln that I think I’m pregnant.

  Jennifer

  Why not?

  Because it makes me sound crazy. I’m *being* crazy.

  You’re not being crazy. It’s possible.

  If it were possible, it would have happened. It didn’t happen. It isn’t happening.

  You could take a test.

  I’m not taking a test.

  Okay. You can just wait and see.

  This is what happens, right? Everything stops working. This is the progression. Virgin, mother, crone. I just skipped the middle phase.

  Is it virgin/mother/crone? Or virgin/whore?

  You’re thinking Madonna/whore.

  I think it’s madonna/whore.

  Something/mother/crone.

  Snap bracelets and jelly sandals/mother/crone.

  I can’t tell Lincoln that I’m a crone now.

  You’re not a crone. Your period is just late.

  My period is checking out. It’s moving on. My Aunt Ruby is getting too old to travel.

  I don’t miss my period, but I do miss the estrogen. My skin is so dry.

  God, I’m sorry. I really shouldn’t complain to you about any of this.

  No, it’s okay. Who else are you going to complain to? I don’t compare your pain to mine when you’re hurting.

  That’s very kind.

  It’s only middling kind.

  No, it’s good. It’s like—“Love means never having to say you’re sorry.”

  It’s more like—friendship means never having to check your privilege.

  Well, I appreciate it.

  Besides, how many times have I complained to you about my kids . . .

  Oh my God—I would never resent that.

  I know.

  For what it’s worth, I don’t think you have to tell Lincoln that your period is late or irregular. People don’t talk to their husbands about their periods.

  I do.

  Why?

  I don’t know. Because it’s happening. Because I need somebody to get me bananas in the middle of the night, so that I can take my Advil.

  Jennifer

  You still get cramps?

  Beth

  Yeah. Like clockwork.

  I don’t miss cramps.

  I never thought I would either—but now I think I’ll miss the whole thing. The routine of it. The cycle. The *clockwork*. I could depend on it.

  What can I depend on now?

  Time marching on?

  You’re not very comforting.

  I know; I never have been. But I’m very good at commiserating.

  You are a genius commiserator.

  You’re commiserating with me now, and you don’t even have ovaries.

  Just because you talk to your husband about your period sometimes doesn’t mean you have to talk to him about it this time. Do you think he’ll notice that you’re late?

  No . . . but I think he’s already noticed that I’m anxious.

  You could tell him why you’re anxious?

  What if *he* thinks I might be pregnant? What if he *hopes*?

  Would he hope?

  I think he always kind of hoped.

  Well, you hoped, too.

  Yeah. But not anymore. I put that behind me.

  Maybe he put it behind him, too.

  I don’t want to remind him.

  You don’t want to remind him that you don’t have kids?

  Honestly? Yeah.

  I try to keep him focused on everything we have. I lean into our assets.

  Do you mean that you try to keep yourself focused on what you have?

  It’s the same difference!

  And I hate to say this, but you were better at commiserating before you went to therapy.

  Mitch says the same thing.

  Always with the insightful questions now.

  I know. I apologize.

  I can’t say, “Lincoln, it’s our anniversary, and all I’m thinking about is that my period is late, and that that doesn’t mean what it used to mean; it means that it’s finally over.”

  Don’t tell your husband, on your anniversary, that it’s finally over.

  But it is! You know what I mean!

  That isn’t going to happen for us now, and I already knew it wasn’t going to happen, and I never fought that hard to make it happen. But now it’s over. It’s over. I’m diminishing. It’s time for Galadriel to head into the west.

  Jennifer

  Is that the Lord of the Rings speech?

  Beth

  Yes! How did you know that?!!

  I know some things. Occasionally.

  I think it might be a little melodramatic to announce your perimenopause with a speech from Lord of the Rings.

  You know . . .

  Normally, you’re the one telling me not to be melodramatic and negative.

  That was old Beth, flush with estrogen and optimism.

  This is new Beth. Crone Beth.

  Crone Beth shoots straight. She tells it like it is.

  You know what I noticed after my hysterectomy? When I went through overnight menopause?

  I remember there were hot flashes . . .

  I had so much less patience for people’s shit. I think estrogen makes you an enabler. All those mothering hormones—you let people walk all over you. And you feel sorry for everyone. The other day, I was reading People Magazine, and it was some sob story—it’s always some sob story—and I thought, “I don’t have enough estrogen for this.”

  You were reading People Magazine?

  On my phone. In the News app.

  Remember magazines?

  Remember newspapers?

  I’m part of the old world. I’m a twentieth-century woman. I’m a relic of a forgotten age.

  Is this more of your speech?

  Lincoln told me that he never planned on having a family. Before we started dating.

  Does that mean he didn’t want kids?

  No, I think it just means he never planned it.

  Well, he’s not much of a planner.

  I am. I had a plan. Four kids, remember? Three years apart?

  I remember.

  That was so stupid of me.

  It wasn’t stupid.

  I tempted fate.

  I don’t think you actually believe in fate.

  No. I believe in entropy. Which is worse.

  I’m going to float a few options here . . .