One thing Zoe noticed about Jack late in their marriage was the way he would sleep as she talked. Sometimes, she could pretend not to notice it. She’d be talking about their holiday in Japan, or how they should do a roast when the kids came home on Sunday, or something menial Zoe had heard married couples talk about growing up, and then happily, had become, and she’d notice Jack’s eyes glaze over, and something would fall in her stomach. 

He had brown hair, sort of aging now into grey, blue eyes, and a really sexy smile, but not so sexy that he couldn’t be trusted. He was just that: perfectly trustworthy. And he had a way of staring at things. Zoe loved that about him. Loved to watch his eyes make decisions.

“Oh, that’s so pretty!” she said, clip-clopping up to a gorgeous Mercedes. She attempted to sit on the hood, sliding around the headlights, trying to stretch her legs out, trying to look hot.

“Zo, pretty is not what makes you buy a car…” he replied, eyeing up the car, mesmerised. It was a really pretty car. “This is probably the last car we’ll ever own. We need something safe, but sleek, and good for longer drives.” Jack was obsessed with the kids being out of the house, because it was fun, at first, to be just a couple again. He got well into retiree culture before Zoe had finished cleaning out their rooms.

“Well then this might be the one for you, I would say.” A car salesman appeared behind Jack, causing Zoe to stand up straight. Like that, the conversation was over. Jack followed the salesman towards the even sleeker car that the salesman said may have suited them even better, if they were fine paying an extra however many dollars. And they talked for half an hour about details and safety features and horsepower. Jack knew what all of that meant. He knew everything. He bought her that car. It was her car, he said. He loved her. He had loved her. But that was years ago.

After a while, they couldn’t even have a conversation. And then she couldn’t pretend not to notice anymore. Jack couldn’t listen. He really, truly had never listened to anything she’d ever said. People at work seemed happy to hear about her weekends, her life, her goals. Her jokes made her friends laugh. Her kids loved her. Why couldn’t her husband?

So, she went looking through his phone. The thing about looking is that you’ll always find something. And she did. Of course. Exchanges she had only ever had with him, for 20 years. And he had been having them with someone else. 

She left quietly, and he knew why.

Life with Jack and the kids had been decadent. This little apartment she now shared with a stranger was stale. The days meshed and melted like the chocolate her kids would leave in the sun. Flavours swirled in her mouth even after night fell. It felt like nothing, and it tasted like nothing. 

Sometimes, when it would rain and the gutter would flood, she’d imagine him going back to the fucking Mercedes warehouse and looking for a new car. And he’d find one that he loved—a different one. And Zoe would be outside, drowning in the gutter. And he wouldn’t notice. She imagined what it would feel like to drown. Over, and over, and over.

And then Clara would traipse in, hang her willowy frame in her doorway and say something like, “Finn and I are going out to eat. Do you, like, want us to bring you back anything?” Zoe knew it was forced. They lived together now. They had to get along.

Clara would bring in new pieces of furniture, new kinds of groceries, meal kits and planning services, while Zoe couldn’t even think to leave bed for long enough to ask how she got around talking to their neighbours, who always seemed to be right outside. It was the first thing Clara had said to Zoe when she first moved in, right as Zoe was lugging the last of her things up the bare, concrete stairs. Clara had already spent six months in the Sublime Apartments. 

“Oh, like, by the way, Andrew and Evan live right next door and are just way too comfortable in other people’s places. Keep the front door locked where you can. They’re not criminals, just fucking annoying.”

“Right, sure,” Zoe wasn’t sure she understood. She still didn’t know which one was which.

“And the girls downstairs are nice. If you need something, ask them and tell them you live with me. I’ve been cat sitting for them since I moved in here, so I guess they owe us one.”

One evening, six hours into binging Grey’s Anatomy, Clara flopped down onto the couch. Zoe looked over. It was the first time she’d been shocked in weeks. 

“Finn dumped me,” Clara said. Her voice was strained.

“Oh, Clara,” Zoe sat up. “I’m so sorry.”

Clara gestured to the TV. “Do you mind if I watch?”

“Sure.” And Zoe flicked it back on.

It felt like days they sat there, crying in alternation, making food, and sitting back down as images of Owen Hunt and Cristina Yang and Meredith and Derek moved swiftly across the screen. They’d nap and shuffle themselves around, and every now and again Clara would get up and change into workout gear as if she was really going to go out. Then, she would look at herself in the mirror, a tear would hit her eye, and then she’d realise she could probably never leave the house again.

“I just don’t understand,” Clara would often say between sobs. “We’d been together for, like, over a year. It felt like it was real this time.”

“Yeah, well, Jack and I were together for 20 years.”

“Yeah.”

“You two were so on and off, you must be glad the rollercoaster is over?”

“Part of me keeps hoping he’ll come back.” Clara adjusted her top. “But I think you’re right. Even if he did come back, I’ve had enough.”

This shook Zoe awake. “Why now?”

“This is the third time he’s dumped me," Clara said. "But I don’t like the future I see if we get back together. What’s in store for me, Zoe?"

Zoe looked at her and said nothing. 

“I’ll tell you what I see. I see marriage, maybe. A few blonde kids who nag me to take them surfing every weekend, running around in board shorts and telling me I'm ‘super dope, man’. I see Finn lookalikes, and that’s it. I’m twenty-three, and what have I got to show for it? Nothing but a bachelor’s degree, a stupid ex-boyfriend and a rotten mattress."

Clara breathed heavily, but Zoe let her continue.

“Finn leaving me has made me realise, why am I not out doing this sort of thing?” She threw her hands at the TV.

“Brain surgery?”

“Well, yeah, or, no…” She paused. “Why am I not qualified in something? Why don’t I do anything?”

“You do stuff,” Zoe tried.

“No, I don’t. I party, and I get dinner, and I go to the beach, and I go for lunch and then I party until 6 a.m. and sleep until 2 p.m. and do it again. It’s fucking meaningless, Zoe.” She put her head in her hands, sweating slightly despite having not gone for this run three days in a row now. “I know what I need to do.”

“What?”

“I need to get up, clean my teeth, and go buy a new fucking mattress.” 

“Sure, why not,” Zoe muttered dryly. Truth was, this was probably the longest conversation Clara and Zoe had ever had. Clara walked into the next room, and yelled, “You’re coming with me, bitch! We need to get out!”

They drove in Clara’s pretty white Volkswagen. Clara went on and on about things she felt like she could do now that she was alone. Most of her friends were single after all, she said, and then she’d skip the next song on CarPlay and keep talking. And what if she went back to uni? She could get her masters, and then she could get a cool job. Maybe she could study something sexy, like criminology, or medicine. Well, maybe not medicine. 

Zoe stood in the warehouse, staring at the magnificent bedspreads and fancy pillows as Clara jumped on a bunch of mattresses. 

One bedspread in particular—a red, silky-looking one with swirling patterns sewn in—caught Zoe’s eye. She imagined what it would be like to have sex in those sheets. How pretty she’d feel waking up naked in them. You could probably never feel unhappy waking up in bedsheets like those. 

Clara quickly picked a mattress, after the salesperson explained that this was an entirely different sort of mattress from the type Clara had before, and how it was actually much better and the higher price would be worth it. This made Clara smile wryly, and jingle her keys between her fingers. She looked at Zoe. “Shit, then I have to get that one, don’t I?”

“Do you have a card, Miss?” asked the woman at the checkout.

“Sure do.” She handed over a credit card. Zoe stood at the next register over, holding a box of those lovely red sheets.

They loaded the mattress into the car, then heaved it up the stairs and onto Clara’s bed. The other mattress, which they dubbed the “evil mattress”, was thrown down and promptly taken to the bins. Neither of them said much, but both seemed to be thinking very hard as they carried things, and cleaned things, and then eventually flopped down onto their respective, brand-new beds. Zoe’s phone lit up. She lifted it to her face and squinted. An email.

Clara came in and draped herself across Zoe’s doorframe. 

“My divorce just got finalised,” Zoe said. “It’s over.” 

 Clara smiled, and said, “You know, I think today was the first day of our new life, Zo.” Zoe sat up, smiled, and thought, this is the first time someone other than Jack has called me Zo.