My Wife Was Drunk at Hobby Lobby

James Miller

We shared shrimp and fries, but my wife mostly handled the straw, buried in bloodied mango. Not bad, our flash-frozen margarita. I asked about Golden Books, for our child. Did she ever read the Hans Brinker one? We couldn’t remember where the death came in.

So we tried to walk it off after dinner. Stumbled across the parking lot, dodged mom-cars angling for choice spots. A patient from the hospital across the street was twirling in the gloom, from asphalt to squares and slices of grass. She worked the teenage trees like a lap dancer at Hi-10 Cabaret. Flipped the ID bracelet around her wrist, three times. Stood for two beats staring us down. Then raised her hands high overhead and woke her hips. Oh yeah, let’s take it to the roof.

But my wife was still wobbly. I need some tape and tarp, she said. Sale on at the Lobby, till Saturday! She reminded me their Muzak is all savior songs. Little tinkles from Thomas, a believer now.

I was telling my wife about the lamb, laying down on Broadway, as we flashed inside. About an hour before closing. Stink of plasticine frosting on the air. Autumn overdrive.

My wife fooled them with her beeline walk. Filled her basket with spools of twine. An angel was coming off duty, unstrapping wings, winching down from the rafters. It was Javier, our reference librarian, collecting extra holiday cash. Or was it Samantha from security, late of the campus golf cart, no gun on her belt this evening? It looks like everyone, my wife said. Wait a while and you’ll see the crazy aunt, the one who sank Charles Koch’s yacht. That’s how they getcha—people circle round the shelves, hoping to see dead mamma, Beyoncé’s sister, the guy who invented Pringles.

My wife spent a good long while in the Lobby bathroom. I stood outside and scrolled Twitter, our pile of trinkets at my feet. She texted me from the toilet. At the end the beast eats the audience, the first row at least. I need you to be there. Show them how to climb in, you know? Sure! I texted back. I’m a good swimmer. From juice to juice.

In the checkout line I showed her one of the kipple books lined up beside Tic Tacs and half-pound bags of Twizzlers. 31 Prayers For My Future Husband. Don’t open it, she said. If you do, they won’t fit back in, not ever.