Sweet Nothing by RICHARD LANGE Page B

for a minute, then text Sure without consulting Julie first. She doesn’t have to approve everything.
    My nigga, Vince texts back.
    My boss, Big Gay Bob, sticks his head into my office and asks if I saw the editorial about teacher layoffs in this morning’s Times . I didn’t, but I say I did.
    “The councilman wants to respond,” Bob says. “Give me something to run by him.”
    “Your wish is my command,” I reply in a funny voice, then spin around to my computer like I’m going to get started right away. Instead, I sit there and pick a scab on my knuckle until it bleeds.
      
    OUR CONDO HAS a small balcony that overlooks Wilshire Boulevard. The street is four lanes wide and noisy all the time. There’s always a bus making a racket or a couple of Korean kids racing tricked-out Nissans. Still, the balcony is the only place I can be alone. Five floors above the Miracle Mile, facing south, the orange lights of the ghetto like a fire burning in the distance.
    Julie and I have an arrangement: As soon as I walk in the door from work, I get a gin and tonic and a little time to decompress. Fifteen minutes on the balcony to myself, that’s all I ask. After that I’m ready to be a good husband, to do the daddy thing.
    Tonight that means letting Eve crawl all over me and tickle me with a big pink feather. She learned this from a cartoon, tickling someone with a feather. I pretend to laugh as she attacks the bottoms of my feet, my nose, my chin. When she sees how much fun I’m having, she gives me the feather and demands that I tickle her so she can pretend to laugh too.
    “Don’t rile her,” Julie says. “Dinner’s ready.”
    We’ve started saying grace before we eat because Julie wants Eve to have traditions.
    “What are we, fucking Amish?” I said when she first came up with this.
    “It’s important,” she said.
    Julie and I grew up in regular families, families that ate dinner in front of the TV and talked about going to church on Christmas but somehow never made it. I used to fetch my dad beers from the fridge for quarter tips. The rules are different now. We’re supposed to raise Eve to be one of those kids who weren’t allowed to drink soda or play with toy guns, which is fine, I guess, if all the other kids are like that too. I want her to fit in. I want her to be happy.
    I clean up the kitchen after we eat, load the dishwasher, and Julie gets Eve ready for bed. We tuck her in and kiss her good night together, then settle on the couch. Julie flips through a magazine while we watch our shows. Other nights she messes around on her iPad or works a crossword puzzle. What this means is that she’s always so distracted that she can’t follow the plot of even the dumbest sitcom.
    “Who’s he again?” she asks.
    “The blond girl’s uncle,” I say.
    My mind wanders too. I find myself thinking about little adventures I had as a kid, songs I used to be able to play on the guitar. My fingers twitch as I try to pick out the chords to “Under the Bridge.” Julie laughs at me.
    “What are you doing?” she says.
    I feel fat sitting there on the couch with my wife in the watery light from the TV five stories above Wilshire Boulevard. Bloated. Like a greedy mosquito too full of blood to fly.
      
    THE COUNCILMAN STOPS by the staff meeting to tell us what a great job we’re doing. I write his press releases, help with his speeches, and take care of his website. He’s okay. He’s got more personality than brains, but what politician doesn’t? He also has this way of talking down to you sometimes. He knows three things about me—that I went to UCLA, that I have a little girl, and that I sometimes eat Taco Bell for lunch—and that’s enough for him. Every conversation we’ve ever had has revolved around one of those subjects.
    Later we all gather in the break room for Maria the receptionist’s birthday, cake and everything. I show up because you have to in a small office like this. I eat some ice cream