a sweltering hot afternoon several years later.
By then I’d already started my own little party-planning company, All Occasions, and Michael was in his final semester of business school at Georgetown. My income made our lives a bit more comfortable. We’d moved to a nicer apartment building, one with an elevator and no roaches, and we saw a movie or went out for a beer together every week. We’d bought a living room set that was on sale, and secondhand computers and a television. But most of my money went toward my student loans; I was frantic to get rid of them as quickly as possible, and I doubled down on my monthly payments.
Whenever I thought about our future, I imagined it as a series of stepping-stones: We’d made the leap from West Virginia to D.C., and now to a better apartment. We had a few nice belongings. Next we’d buy a car that had fewer than six numbers on its odometer, and after that, we’d move to a pretty little house. Slowly but steadily, our life would take on a reassuring, solid shape. But Michael was focusing on a very different future. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe he’d be successful, but we were two poor kids from West Virginia. We were the first ones in our families to go to college. He was the dreamer, I was the pragmatist. How high could we realistically aim?
Every afternoon, when he had a break between classes and his shift at the pizza place, Michael laced up his sneakers and ran, looping through the city’s eclectic neighborhoods—Chinatown and Dupont Circle and Cleveland Park—as he tried to burn off some of the energy pulsing through him.
“A drink,” he gasped as he flung open the door one unseasonably hot May afternoon.
“Get it yourself, caveman,” I said, not even looking up from my computer.
“No, I mean a drink,” he panted, bending over and putting his hands on his knees. “That’s it. That’s what’s missing. I just went to 7-Eleven to get a drink, and they’ve basically got four choices: soda, Gatorade and iced tea—which are just as sugary as soda—or plain old water. None of it looked good to me. There’s a hole, Julie, right there in the middle of the 7-Eleven case. A giant freaking hole! What if there was flavored water that tastes good? But not as sweet as Gatorade; that stuff tastes as sugary as soda … no artificial dyes, but maybe I’ll add some vitamins. Health food is becoming trendy; it’s not for hippies anymore. I just read an article about it in Newsweek . I’ll use natural sweeteners instead of high-fructose corn syrup, that’s the key …”
As he spoke, Michael absently shed his clothes and walked into the shower, and I could hear him still talking over the flow of the water. I smiled and turned back to my computer, knowing his methodical brain would have worked through the kinks in his plan, weighing the potential downsides versus the merits, by the time he turned off the water. He’d already considered and discarded the ideas for a dozen companies.
But within five minutes, he’d called in sick to work and was racing to the grocery store, his hair still dripping wet. He went to three different grocery and health food stores that day, and by the time I went to bed, our kitchen looked like a convention of mad scientists had invaded it. Concoctions filled every pot and pan we owned.
“Take a sip,” Michael demanded the next morning, thrusting a spoonful of something lemon-smelling in my face as I stumbled into the kitchen for coffee.
“Did you even sleep?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“Is it too sweet?” he asked urgently. “My taste buds are shot. I need a fresh palate.”
“Not too sweet,” I said, licking my upper lip. “But …”
“Not quite there yet. I know, I know.”
I looked at the ingredients flooding the kitchen—the brightly colored limes and oranges, the thick, golden honey and agave nectar, the jars of liquid vitamins, the stubby roots of ginger and rolled sticks of cinnamon and
By then I’d already started my own little party-planning company, All Occasions, and Michael was in his final semester of business school at Georgetown. My income made our lives a bit more comfortable. We’d moved to a nicer apartment building, one with an elevator and no roaches, and we saw a movie or went out for a beer together every week. We’d bought a living room set that was on sale, and secondhand computers and a television. But most of my money went toward my student loans; I was frantic to get rid of them as quickly as possible, and I doubled down on my monthly payments.
Whenever I thought about our future, I imagined it as a series of stepping-stones: We’d made the leap from West Virginia to D.C., and now to a better apartment. We had a few nice belongings. Next we’d buy a car that had fewer than six numbers on its odometer, and after that, we’d move to a pretty little house. Slowly but steadily, our life would take on a reassuring, solid shape. But Michael was focusing on a very different future. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe he’d be successful, but we were two poor kids from West Virginia. We were the first ones in our families to go to college. He was the dreamer, I was the pragmatist. How high could we realistically aim?
Every afternoon, when he had a break between classes and his shift at the pizza place, Michael laced up his sneakers and ran, looping through the city’s eclectic neighborhoods—Chinatown and Dupont Circle and Cleveland Park—as he tried to burn off some of the energy pulsing through him.
“A drink,” he gasped as he flung open the door one unseasonably hot May afternoon.
“Get it yourself, caveman,” I said, not even looking up from my computer.
“No, I mean a drink,” he panted, bending over and putting his hands on his knees. “That’s it. That’s what’s missing. I just went to 7-Eleven to get a drink, and they’ve basically got four choices: soda, Gatorade and iced tea—which are just as sugary as soda—or plain old water. None of it looked good to me. There’s a hole, Julie, right there in the middle of the 7-Eleven case. A giant freaking hole! What if there was flavored water that tastes good? But not as sweet as Gatorade; that stuff tastes as sugary as soda … no artificial dyes, but maybe I’ll add some vitamins. Health food is becoming trendy; it’s not for hippies anymore. I just read an article about it in Newsweek . I’ll use natural sweeteners instead of high-fructose corn syrup, that’s the key …”
As he spoke, Michael absently shed his clothes and walked into the shower, and I could hear him still talking over the flow of the water. I smiled and turned back to my computer, knowing his methodical brain would have worked through the kinks in his plan, weighing the potential downsides versus the merits, by the time he turned off the water. He’d already considered and discarded the ideas for a dozen companies.
But within five minutes, he’d called in sick to work and was racing to the grocery store, his hair still dripping wet. He went to three different grocery and health food stores that day, and by the time I went to bed, our kitchen looked like a convention of mad scientists had invaded it. Concoctions filled every pot and pan we owned.
“Take a sip,” Michael demanded the next morning, thrusting a spoonful of something lemon-smelling in my face as I stumbled into the kitchen for coffee.
“Did you even sleep?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“Is it too sweet?” he asked urgently. “My taste buds are shot. I need a fresh palate.”
“Not too sweet,” I said, licking my upper lip. “But …”
“Not quite there yet. I know, I know.”
I looked at the ingredients flooding the kitchen—the brightly colored limes and oranges, the thick, golden honey and agave nectar, the jars of liquid vitamins, the stubby roots of ginger and rolled sticks of cinnamon and
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