Chapter Text
“You know this relationship isn’t working Joel.”
Joel watched his wife, standing up in front of him, saying him she was about to leave.
He hoped it wouldn't happen, but he knew he had taken too many things for granted.
This person, this stranger who looked him in the eye and told him she was leaving home, he no longer recognized her.
Her eyes were different, a veil of hardness had fallen over them. Her body was different, unwelcoming, her arms stiff at her sides. Her hands, which once enchanted him, seemed unfamiliar, cruel, her fingers thin as claws ready to tear his heart apart.
Her entire evasive figure seemed to reject him.
“I can't go on like this. You can't go on like this.” Her voice was no longer a melody; those inflections that once delighted him now seemed unbearable, repulsive, hurting his ears.
The kitchen walls were oppressive, the sizzling of the pan on the stove an unpleasant backdrop to that confession, the smell of burnt eggs reaching his nostrils like the final confirmation of his defeat.
He turned quickly to remove the pan from the heat, cursing when he grabbed the hot handle, throwing the pan and its contents into the sink with a crash that splattered scrambled eggs all over him, the backsplash and the sink.
She stood there motionless, as if none of it concerned her anymore. Not the scream that Joel made, nor the unusable frying pan, nor the eggs that had made a mess everywhere.
Joel turned around again, catching sight of the suitcases in the hallway.
He looked again at his partner of fifteen years, his high school sweetheart, the woman he thought he knew better than anyone else.
The impassive woman standing before him was not her.
“You know what's going to happen now,” he hissed.
“There's nothing else I can do.”
She turned away.
Joel felt words welling up in his throat. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
He wanted to shake her. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry.
Joel hadn't cried since they lost Sarah.
He did nothing. He felt a lead weight sink into his heart as she walked in the hallway.
He clung to the kitchen counter, his knuckles tight around the white laminate.
The daylight streaming in through the window made everything terribly real, the pale December sun enveloping the room in a yellowish, almost sickly hue. Like jaundice, like an infection.
The doorbell rang.
She opened the door and Brian hurried to take her luggage.
Brian, the office colleague whom his wife had invited to dinner once.
The office colleague who had eaten at his dining table.
Brian. The man who rattled off anecdotes about everything.
Brian. The man who knew a little about everything but only superficially, by his own admission.
Brian, the man who had no flavor, totally forgettable, the most ordinary face Joel had ever seen.
Brian, the man Joel had thought he never had to worry about.
Brian, the man who was taking her away from him.
It was a comedy of the absurd.
A revolting, low-grade theater performance.
Joel yelled his wife's name once. Just once, as she gathered the last of her things.
She turned, looked at him, a slight crack of remorse finally bent the corners of her lips and veiled her eyes, she mouthed “I'm sorry,” and she was out the door two seconds later.
Everything was shrouded in a gloomy silence.
He didn't notice the tears streaming down his cheeks until he saw the damp patches on his gray sweater.
He didn't move until he felt a lick on his fingers.
He wiped away his tears and looked down. He didn't even know when Tommy had scampered over there.
Brown eyes, black muzzle, black and white coat. He looked at him gently, his slightly panting breath blowing on his hand before licking it again.
Joel slumped to the floor, Tommy climbed onto his lap, resting his muzzle on his shoulder.
He hugged him. And cried. He cried until he had no more tears left.
Joel had locked himself in the house, calling in sick to work and delegating to the replacement he had had to hire to take Tommy's place.
He kept him updated with long, detailed emails, which Joel replied to late at night when he couldn't sleep.
He spent his days on the sofa, in front of the television, which he didn't really watch, with Tommy lying on the rug next to the sofa.
He didn't eat.
He cleaned up the smell of sulfur two days later, the metal sponge scrubbing away the humiliating stench of when his wife had walked out the door.
The idea of ending it all had crossed his mind several times.
He'd even tried.
He'd stood looking at the sharp knife he'd pulled from the kitchen drawer for what seemed like an eternity, savoring the feeling of being one step away from avoiding what would happen to him. He'd weighed it in his hands, running a finger just above the sharpness.
He would have planted it in his chest, slumped over, removed the blade, let the blood gush out of him.
He was ready.
Tommy had come closer, rubbing against his legs.
He flinched, the knife had slipped from his hand, falling onto the kitchen counter.
His head had snapped down and he'd seen his brother looking at him.
He'd put the knife away.
On the fifth day, he started eating again.
On the sixth day, he took a hot shower and put on something other than the sweater and sweatpants he hadn't taken off since his wife left.
He packed a suitcase, putting the essentials inside.
He knew it wouldn't be long now.
A week later, they rang the doorbell.
A woman introduced herself as the hotel manager.
She was about five feet five inches tall, long brown curls framing her chubby face, small, sharp eyes, and a polite smile on her face.
She wore a black suit, a knee-length skirt, a jacket, cream colored blouse, fawn-colored stockings, and black shoes with square toes.
Elegant, precise, cold.
She spoke as if she had never uttered anything outside of prepared speeches, enunciating her words with perfect diction, detached and emotionless.
”I assume you know why we're here?“
”Yes,“ he looked down at the tips of his freshly polished leather shoes.
He thought of his mother, how she used to tell him that mud on his shoes never made a good impression.
He had rubbed them so much that he could see his profile on the shiny material.
”Good. I'll ask you the preliminary questions here, and once we get to the hotel, we'll go through the registration process. Is that okay with you?"
“Of course.”
As if he had a choice.
“Perfect, we always appreciate our guests full cooperation.”
Two waiters in livery stood behind her, one of them handed her a folder.
“So, I see here that your wife left you a week ago, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
He sat on the sofa on which he had spent the previous seven days feeling on pins and needles, on the edge, rocking slightly, a movement he stopped as soon as he met the manager's inquiring gaze.
“May I ask why?”
Joel's chest tightened in a vice.
“She...” he hesitated, biting the inside of his cheek “left me for another man.”
“I'm sorry,” she said robotically.
Joel wanted to scream. He limited himself to flexing his fingers on the round edge of the cushion.
The overly expensive blue sofa his wife had wanted so badly. She had pestered him for weeks until Joel agreed to buy it.
He rubbed his hand over the velvety material, thinking about how she had so easily left it behind, along with her marriage.
When the manager asked him if he was ready to undergo the procedure, he replied affirmatively.
He wasn’t ready in the slightest.
He asked to keep Tommy with him, which was granted.
The director scribbled something on the folder before taking her leave of him.
As he walked out the door with his suitcase in hand, they informed him that there was no need to bring it.
Joel looked at the suitcase, looked at the waiter, let go of the handle, and the suitcase fell near the door, next to the coat rack.
He closed the door and walked behind him.
He got into a car with tinted windows, which looked like the one that had taken his brother away.
Tommy curled up on the seat next to him, while the waiter sat on the other side.
The manager was in front, next to the other waiter who was driving.
The hotel was a white blob standing on a hill overlooking the ocean.
It had not been built for that purpose; it had been converted following the enactment of the law.
Before that, people used to go there on vacation.
Joel had always found a sense of comfort in water. Water washes, water cleanses. He loved to hear it gurgling among the rocks, watch the sea foam breaking on the shore, smell the salt in his nostrils, even feel his skin tightening as it dried in the sun and his fingertips shrivel when he stayed in the water too long.
It gave him a sense of order and fairness. The sea did not discriminate, it treated everyone the same.
It was a liquid cradle that enveloped you when it was calm, and a relentless vortex of currents and waves when it was rough.
Tormenting his thumbnail with his hand hidden under the sleeve of his sweater, the collar of the shirt he was wearing underneath feeling tighter than usual, he thought back to his wife's face.
Her dark, soft curls, her deep, captivating, reassuring chocolate eyes, the small space between her front teeth, her plump lips and how they always taste like cherries from her favorite chapstick, her hearty, infectious laughter, all those little things that made her her.
When she told him she was pregnant, his construction company was just starting out, money was always tight, but Joel was over the moon.
He worked hard, for himself, for his wife, but above all for the baby she was carrying.
She wasn't even born yet, and Joel already loved her more than anything else.
He wanted her to have everything she needed, he wanted her to be proud of her father.
His construction company took off pretty well, Tommy soon became his partner, and Joel was able to buy the house his wife wanted to raise their daughter in.
A quiet neighborhood, great schools, a nice house with a backyard where Sarah could play, safe, quiet streets where he could teach her to ride a bike.
There was nothing Joel wanted more than to see a smile light up his wife's face.
When his wife went into labor, he ran two red lights, his heart bouncing like a pinball in his chest.
He had argued with the nurses who wanted him to leave the delivery room, stubbornly remaining at his wife's side.
Sarah was born six hours later.
The first time his daughter's little hand had clasped his thumb, his world had been turned upside down. It was no longer gravity that kept him grounded, it was Sarah.
Sarah, her dark eyes and the way they asked for love.
They had been the best years of his life. No matter how little sleep he got or how clumsy he was at changing diapers, watching his daughter grow was the most important and enriching experience he had ever had.
From a tiny bundle of just under 7 pounds, she had transformed into an intelligent, funny, brilliant, and incredibly sweet girl. Joel's heart was full of love; he would have done anything for his daughter.
She had felt ill one day in mid-August. She had fainted in the garden. Both Joel and his wife had blamed it on the heat. Then the memory lapses began. Sarah always felt weak and confused and had difficulty walking. They took her to the emergency room. And the diagnosis that Joel never wanted to hear was delivered by an unpleasant oncologist he wanted to kick.
Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance.
The five stages of grief. They had given him a pamphlet from a support group. His wife asked him to go so they tried a couple of sessions.
Joel thought it was bullshit.
Sitting there in a circle babbling while his daughter was alone in the hospital felt like a total waste of time.
When Sarah died, something inside him broke.
Losing her had taken away the greatest love of his life. All his efforts seemed futile.
His entire existence looked meaningless and miserable. The best and truest part of him had been buried along with his daughter.
He thought back of those meetings in a slump basement.
Maybe they would’ve helped. Maybe not.
He was too much of a ghost of himself to try again.
Two years had passed, and he and his wife had become strangers.
Joel had blamed it on the people who interfered by giving unsolicited advice on how to deal with grief as if they had the truth in their pockets, the endless bureaucracy that followed a person's death, the time that work stole from both of them.
They had dragged themselves through it all without leaning on each other, they shared the same space, moving like robots in a house that was too big, too quiet, pushing each other away without even realizing it.
He was left an empty shell, clinging to life because he couldn't abandon his wife.
Ironically, she was the first to go away.
When the car stopped in front of the hotel, he yanked the door open and ran to the side. The manager went inside, while the waiter who had been sitting next to him throughout the ride rushed over to him, holding Tommy's leash as he vomited bile and regrets into a rose bush.
“I'm fine,” he hastened to say, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as the waiter looked at him “We can go.”
He entered through the sliding doors and looked around.
Waiters wearing the same uniform as those who had accompanied him greeted him with a bow.
Beige as far as the eye could see.
Light-colored drapes, cream-colored armchairs, ecru carpets, marble floors.
On the walls, naturalistic landscapes.
He was led to the reception desk, where a petite woman greeted him from behind a mahogany counter.
“Welcome, Mr. Miller. We are delighted to have you as our guest and wish you a fruitful stay.”
Joel thanked her politely, feeling enveloped in an eerie, sterile calm. Everything and everyone around him seemed spotless, pristine.
He couldn't explain it even to himself, but they didn't seem human; they seemed mass-produced. He felt like he was trapped in a bad dream.
A waiter led him to the registration room.
There were rows of chairs next to a desk where the director was sitting with a slim young woman.
Her blonde hair was tied back in a perfectly straight ponytail, she wore light makeup and had an imperturbable expression, broken only by a faint, polite smile that she gave to every guest who crossed the threshold.
Joel entered, holding Tommy's leash, and sat down in the front row, his brother stretched out at his feet.
He looked around, peering at the other people's faces.
Everyone sat motionless in their chairs, their backs straight against the backrests, their legs elegantly closed in front of them, their hands resting on their laps.
No one was there of their own free will.
Their bodies were limp, while their eyes reflected a compendium of all human emotions.
Hope, nervousness, shyness, bravado, indifference, anxiety.
When they called his name, proceeding in alphabetical order, Joel had already witnessed several of what he would call interrogations.
He sat in front of the two women, Tommy sitting next to him.
“Joel Miller, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
The blonde woman's voice was flat, as sterile as the rest.
She checked the first box on a sheet of paper in front of her.
“Age?”
“50”
“Any allergies?”
Joel shook his head.
“Occupation?”
“Contractor. I have my own company.”
“Kids?”
“No… I had a daughter” he swallowed “but she’s dead now”
No comment, just a barely perceptible movement of her pencil.
“Sexual preferences?”
“Well, I'd say I like women.”
The woman ticked a box on the sheet.
Joel had never been accustomed to sharing so much about himself in front of strangers.
He run a hand over his beard, uncertain.
“However…” he paused for a second, “I had some experiences with boys back in high school so I’m not really sure… it could be both. Is this option available?”
The director, who had remained silent and attentive until then, rested her elbows on the desk and looked at him.
“We're sorry, Mr. Miller. There have been several problems in the past, so this option has been eliminated.”
Joel swallowed his annoyance.
Of course. They needed to label everyone.
“Gay,” “lesbian,” “straight.” Choose a box and don't step outside the lines.
In such a structured system, “both” was not a plausible choice.
“Straight, then” he replied.
He was bending his back to the system. He was pigeonholing himself.
“You can stay here for 45 days. You will be accommodated in one of our single rooms.
If, during the 45 days, you find a suitable partner, you will be transferred together to a double room and will have the opportunity to deepen your relationship. We remind you that, as a fundamental requirement, your partner must have at least one essential characteristic that you also possess.”
Joel nodded.
“If, at the end of your stay here, you do not find anyone suitable for you, you will be transformed into an animal of your choice.”
Joel looked down at Tommy, who was sleeping peacefully at his feet.
They had given him the same speech not long ago.
Tommy had never been the marrying type; he was more into one-night stands with girls he met in bars, whose names he couldn't even remember the next morning.
Joel had opened the newspaper one morning, sipping his coffee in his office, and read aloud:
“Heated debate on the law against singles.”
He shifted his gaze to the short article, where even more threatening words were printed in black and white.
“In an increasingly individualistic society, some members of the Conservative Party have proposed a law to combat the rise in single people.”
He looked up at his brother, sitting on the other side of the office, his feet up on the desk, nibbling on a doughnut while examining some papers.
“Tommy, have you seen this?”
His brother waved his hand dismissively.
“Who cares, they're all pigs clinging to their seats.”
“Well, maybe you should care.” Joel raised an eyebrow, turning the page toward his brother, tapping his finger on the large bold headline.
Tommy focused on those words for a second, looking up from the inventory tables.
“Oh, please, Joel. You know how it works, they just fight to show they're doing something, then ten years go by and nothing happens,” he blurted out, small crumbs of doughnut sprouting from his lips.
Joel sighed.
Then the phone rang. The site manager was complaining about a missed delivery of materials. “We don't have the beams, Joel,” he thundered, “that idiot supplier of yours isn't answering the phone, so there are two options: either you call him and find out what's going on, or I'll go there myself and kick his ass.”
Joel knew Doug. He was a good man, excellent at his job, but patience was not his strong suit. “Okay Doug, calm down, I’ll take care of it. No kicking ass, understood? I'll call you back.”
He had spent the rest of the morning on the phone with the supplier and Doug, trying to smooth things over.
The newspaper lay in a corner of the desk.
The next day, the cleaning lady threw it in the trash.
Joel completely forgot about it until two weeks later, when the evening news opened with the news that the law had passed.
His brother was their dinner guest, and he turned to him, who remained unfazed and continued to tell his wife a joke that a carpenter had told him that morning.
Tommy never took it seriously, laughing at Joel and his wife as they urged him to settle down before it was too late.
He had been brought here six months earlier.
They had returned him to them transformed into a dog.
A Border Collie, his favorite breed.
“Can my brother stay in my room?”
The director looked down at his feet. Joel saw disdain flash across her face, quickly dissolving into her previous falsely courteous smile.
Her head tilted to one side, her lips parted, revealing just a glimpse of her teeth, she chirped, “Of course.”
“Now, Mr Miller, if the procedure fails…” she paused, a long, almost satisfied look shone in her pupils “What animal would you like to be transformed into?”
Joel had been thinking about it for the past two days, swallowing the nausea that bubbled in his stomach whenever he thought of that scenario.
A sheep?
A quiet life, grazing in beautiful meadows, living with a flock... but Joel was a solitary, quiet type.
It wasn't for him.
Maybe a lobster?
They live up to a hundred years and remain fertile. But Joel wasn't that attached to life, he didn't care about having children until he died... but he did like the sea... No, there was only one possible decision.
No matter how messed up his brother was, he would never leave Tommy alone, and anyway, he was the only family he had left.
He had looked into his languid brown eyes and decided that it couldn't be anything else.
“A dog.”