Serial Monogamy by Kate Taylor Page A

clean underwear, and remind them that Daddy would collect them before dinner. This is what we had agreed, with frigid civility. We tried to avoid making practical arrangements in front of the children, reminding each other when voices grew nasty or my tears began that we could not risk them seeing this kind of thing. Al took the girls one weeknight and every other weekend, but perhaps this was just temporary. He had said he wanted joint custody: I had pointed out he didn’t have enough room in the apartment to keep the girls all week and was desperate at the idea they might one day encounter his girlfriend. My brother had told me I needed alawyer and provided several names. I hadn’t called them yet and Al hadn’t raised the possibility of divorce. Now that he had got out, he mainly tried to avoid more arguments. Occasionally, one of the girls would say she didn’t want to go for the weekend. When pressed the children would always agree they wanted to see Daddy; they just did not want to sleep over at his apartment.
    “Why?” I asked, uncertain that I wanted to hear the answer.
    “It smells funny,” Anahita said. I instantly imagined the worst and felt my anger rising. What kind of smell? The smell of a new perfume? At my pleading, Al had promised that, for the time being at least, he would hide all signs of his student from the girls and I, thankfully, had never seen her. She was this invisible, unknown malignancy.
    “What kind of smell?”
    “Soapy. Like medicine.”
    “Like medicine? It’s probably just he cleans with a different kind of cleaner than Mummy is using. That’s all, sweetie. Just a different cleaner.” I didn’t know if I really believed that, but whatever it was, the place doesn’t smell like her home.
    “Yes, it smells,” agreed Goli, backing up her sister. “And Daddy buys the wrong kind of milk.”
    “What kind does he buy?”
    “He buys the blue one, the one that you always drink, and we drink the red one.”
    Al was feeding six-year-olds skim milk. He never uses milk himself, takes his coffee black and doesn’t eat cereal. Maybe the student was buying skim.
    “Did you tell him it was the wrong kind?”
    “Anny told him and he said to stop fussing.” Goli stared up at me. Her lower lip trembled.
    “He said milk is milk,” Anahita added. “But you always say it’s different and that kids should drink the one in the red box.”
    “I’ll tell him you need the right kind of milk. Tonight, I’ll tell him when he comes, I promise.”
    “Why can’t he just stay here tonight?” Anahita wheedled.
    “No, Ana, you know. We’ve talked about this. You need to see Daddy at his place.”
    After they left, the house would be overcome by an unwelcome hush. In the quiet, I could hear an odd mechanical hum that I had never noticed before. It sounded ominous, as though some system were malfunctioning. I would hunt about for a bit and then realize it was only the fridge. The phone would ring and I would start up with fright. It was only a telemarketer. I swore at him and banged down the phone. I had never noticed the quietness of an empty house before; I mean, before Al, before the girls, I lived alone in a variety of houses and apartments and they never seemed empty. I was sometimes lonely, I wanted some larger life outside the confines of the small spaces I inhabited but I never felt uncomfortable in them.Now, I would roam about, picking up a magazine and casting it aside, retrieving a stray pink sock from under the couch and finding myself in tears.
    The days of those empty weekends were tolerable; they were just like my regular work days and I would keep working to fill them even if I was struggling with the novel I was supposed to complete that spring, uncertain how the characters might ever extract themselves from a disintegrating marriage. The nights were worse, much worse. I could barely tolerate myself or the house after dark. I tried to make sure I had something planned; sent out