Lily and the Octopus by Steven Rowley Page A

her comfortable with medications to stop any pain and seizures, or they can put her under, take a
bigger sample of the octopus, and devise a more aggressive treatment plan.”
    “What are you going to choose?”
    I shrug and take another sip of my drink. “I dunno. I have to talk it over with Lily.”
    “It’s your decision, though.”
    “Is it?” I look around the deserted bar. “Where is everyone?”
    Trent turns around and flinches, like it’s the first time he’s noticing the emptiness. “Don’t know. I guess it’s a later crowd.”
    The bartender must be eavesdropping because he chimes in. “It picks up after eleven.”
    I take out my phone to check the time, but it’s not rebooting and I plunk it down on the bar. “Great. Fucking Tuesdays.”
    “What’s wrong with Tuesdays?” Trent asks.
    “Everything. Monday’s always Monday, but at least it’s the start of something new. Wednesday is hump day, Thursday’s almost Friday, and Friday brings the weekend. But
Tuesday? Nada.”
    Trent looks at me and shakes his head. “What difference does it make? You work at home.”
    “I work
from
home,” I say, but I don’t know why it makes a difference to me. “My phone is fried, my parking spot was too small, I stepped in”—I look
down at my shoe—“urine. I don’t know what to do about Lily. Should I go on?”
    Trent puts his hand on my shoulder. “We need to get you laid.” He surveys the room again, but the prospects are dim.
    “Oh, I got laid.”
    “When?”
    I reach for my phone to check today’s date before remembering it’s dead. “I don’t remember. Recently.” I guess there’s life in me still.
    “Recently?” He sounds skeptical.
    “Yes. Recently.” And then I’m forced to concede, “I think it was recently.” Time runs together.
    “Well, we need to get you laid again. At least some uncommitted lip.” That’s what he calls casual kissing.
    “Maybe after eleven.”
    Why did I have such a distaste for Tuesdays, now that I freelance from home? Trent has a point. If I hated Tuesdays for their sameness when I was part of the world, a member of a more
traditional workforce—their lack of anything to help them stand apart—wouldn’t it make sense that I hate everything now? Every morning I rise at eight. It takes a little effort to
wake Lily, but not much. I throw on some clothes, usually something that I can wear to the gym as a motivator to go. We head outside for the first of the day’s walks. The morning sun feels
just right, not too hot or oppressive. I know this in part because Lily only starts to pant when we round the corner in front of our house, and the panting goes away after she has just a few sips
of water. I give Lily her breakfast and I have one (always one) cup of coffee sweetened with Stevia. I bring my laptop from my desk where it has charged overnight and sit in the kitchen in the spot
where the glare from the window misses the screen. I write for an hour or maybe two and then have a bowl of Kashi covered with half of a sliced banana (the other half goes in the fridge). Then I
allow myself the day’s procrastination: I read the news, I argue with dumb people on websites, I stalk random crushes online. Sometimes I actually make it to the gym; lately not as often. In
the afternoons I try to get out of the house, but even then the errands and the distractions have a sameness to them. Groceries for the night’s meal, coffee on Larchmont, a movie at the
Arclight I don’t particularly want to see. I get in the car, I park the car, I get out of the car. The driving, the destination, I don’t always remember. Lily and I take a second walk,
an evening walk, where we enjoy the soft haze in the sky except at the height of summer when it is still quite bright, or the turn of the winter solstice when it is already dark. Lily gets dinner
and a rawhide chew. I have a glass of wine and something to chew on myself, usually dried mango or apricot, but the