Free My Only Wife by Jac Jemc Page A

preferred to drop the subject, to go wash the evening from herself.
    That night, I read in the immense curtained-off bed, until my wife, returned to me, clean and damp, slipping through the drapes onto the endless plane of the mattress. I went to sleep sure we would spend at least the next day holed up exploring that attic more.
    My wife got up before me the next morning. I found only her absence beside me, but laid in bed for a while. She returned babbling about how beautiful it was outside, how we should take advantage of the weather. She dragged me out of bed, into the shower with her. We had our own showerheads in the marble and glass room. We toweled off and lounged around our individual sinks. We were so used to fighting for time under the faucet, for mirror space.
    We let the dogs out and chased them around the enormous backyard. We grilled vegetable kabobs for lunch. We struggled to set up a net to play volleyball and badminton and then played for less time than it took to get the net assembled. We remembered how bad we were at both, how not athletic.
    My wife and I fell to the lawn exhausted from the fresh air, knees a bit grass stained, noses a bit stuffy from the spring pollen being carried through the breeze.
    My wife and I let the dogs lick the sweat from our faces.
    We laid there like that through the late afternoon. We watched the sun set, propped up on our elbows, new dew starting to chill through our clothes.
    My wife said, “We should share this while we’ve got it. We should have some friends over here. We should throw a bash! We finally have the space for it! It won’t be cramped. It’ll be an experiment. What happens when people aren’t forced to talk to each other because of proximity? Friday, maybe? What do you say?”
    I agreed and said I would call people that night, to make sure they were free.
    My wife rolled onto me, excited. She kissed my face, voraciously. “Are we going to be the best party-throwers ever? Are we going to set a new standard for the elite house party?” It was a high-society voice.
    I raised an eyebrow. “I think probably not, but is that what we want to be?”
    “No!” she exclaimed, grinning, getting to her feet, wobbling a bit, dizzy with plans. “We’ll be the most all-inclusive velvet carpet ushers that ever existed. We won’t turn a soul away.”
    “I don’t think this is going to be that huge, honey,” I said, getting nervous. Perhaps we had different ideas of what this soiree would be. We didn’t see too many people anymore.
    She was already walking back toward the house. “We can dream big!” she shouted, arms thrust in the air, spinning around as she headed toward the deck. She tripped on the second stair.
    “Big!” she shouted, righting herself.
    I called people that night, asking if they were free. Many were. Some asked if they could bring friends. I told them to tell their friends to bring friends. While I called each name in my phonebook I paced up and down the grand staircase in the entryway of the house. My wife passed by several times, pirouetting across the hall, losing her balance in a twirling chaîné. She pumped her arms in the air, each time I said “See you then” or “I’m glad to hear it.” Her enthusiasm convinced me this was going to be good.
    We had two days before the party and four days before the owners of the house returned.
    We spent the next morning mining the cookbooks for elaborate appetizer recipes. We scanned bar guides for fancy drinks, to offer specialties people wouldn’t expect.
    We went on an impressive grocery store shopping spree. We didn’t want to clear out our hosts’ pantries or bar shelves.
    My wife and I filled two shopping carts with bottles and jars and loaves and boxes of the good stuff. We had paid no airfare for this trip. My cousin had already insisted on paying us for taking care of the dogs, so these party supplies were to be the only real expense of this vacation.
    We spent Thursday preparing