The following month, I tried something different. Instead of asking Natalie to explain a late evening after she'd already come home exhausted, I suggested that we sit down on Sunday afternoon and work out a calendar together. I told her she could put every client event, dinner, and night with friends on it without having to justify why she wanted to go. I would do the same with my shifts, the hospital's emergency-call rotation, and my weekend plans.
"That sounds romantic," she said, looking at the blank calendar I'd printed. "Scheduling time together like we're running a dental practice."
"I'd settle for knowing when we're both free," I answered. "Maybe then we could go somewhere."
She tapped the paper once and agreed to try. For two weeks we used the calendar, and I was surprised by how much relief a simple piece of paper gave me. I didn't spend afternoons wondering whether to cook for two or one. We chose a Friday evening to see a movie, and for the first time in months I found myself looking forward to a plan instead of worrying it would disappear.
On Friday afternoon she canceled. A colleague had invited her to an exclusive opening downtown, and she insisted attending would help her career. I asked whether we could move the movie to Saturday. She said she was already doing something Saturday, although the calendar showed nothing. When I pointed that out, she accused me of using the calendar to keep score.
"I thought we made it so we could plan things," I said.
"Exactly. Plan. Not chain me to the house because you wrote something down in ink."
"You agreed to the movie."
"And I changed my mind. Adults are allowed to do that."
I stood in the kitchen holding two tickets on my phone. The argument wasn't really about the movie, and I knew it. Plans could change for good reasons; the hospital had taught me that better than most people. What hurt was that she no longer seemed to think the disappointment she caused mattered unless she could prove I'd been unreasonable for feeling it.
I went to the movie alone. I bought popcorn because I'd already promised myself I would enjoy the evening, and I sat near the back where the screen filled most of my view. The film was a comedy, but I found myself watching the couples around me more than the jokes. People leaned toward each other to whisper, held drinks while someone tied a shoe, and shared small private smiles during the credits. I drove home feeling lonelier than I had in the empty seat beside me.
Natalie was already asleep when I arrived. Her shoes stood by the bedroom door, and the expensive fragrance she'd begun wearing lately lingered in the hallway. I checked that the back door was locked, fed the cat we'd adopted three years earlier, and got into bed without waking her. She rolled toward me in her sleep and placed one hand on my shoulder as she used to do. I lay still until it became too painful to enjoy the gesture.