When Maurice finally got home that night, he desired nothing more than a long hot bath. For once, he didn’t want to see Cosa. His eyes were nearly swollen shut from crying all night and his black hair curled to the right in an astounding cowlick. He could never be her prize lover looking like this. A yellow Post-It on the front door brought him to halt.

Maurice,

I found Cosa wandering around the Anthro department tonight. I figured she needed a ride so I went ahead and brought her home. No thanks necessary – It was a complete pleasure. That woman’s a real doll.

See you next week at the faculty meeting.

Dr. Andy

Maurice ripped the note from the door and rushed into the house. Everything was still, totally quiet. He plunged into the bedroom, barely able to see through his puffy eyelids, his breath heaving from him in anger, madness, terror. Andy the office douche bag had picked up his wife. Because he had forgotten her. A soft shape arose under the white sheets. Cosa slept sweetly on the bed, her face against the pillow, a half-smile on her lips. Maurice gently picked up her warm hand and wept into it.

            After watching Cosa sleep – How could she breathe with her smiling face smothered by the pillow like that? – Maurice paced the halls. He ran a hand across his scalp and several threads of black hair came off onto his sticky palm. Stopping by the kitchen, Maurice stuck his arm into the fridge and grabbed three eggs. His feet padded back down the hallway and into the bathroom. He drew a steaming bath. I just need to steep, he thought. Once submerged, Maurice groped over the edge of the tub for his eggs. Just use three eggs for three minutes a day and your balding will come to a halt, a Chinese medicine doctor had whispered to him in a health food store one day when he was shopping for colon cleanser. He gently burst the yellow yolk onto his delicate follicles. He shook the excess slime from his locks and sank down under the water. Steeping in progress, he thought, holding his breath.  

That night, the bath didn’t calm his nerves. Maurice drank a glass of orange juice and sat in Cosa’s messy home office, staring at her books and trinkets. Papers were strewn everywhere along with Christmas ornaments, dog toys, kitchen utensils, and his wife’s assorted water bottle collection. Under some doo-dads, Maurice found a picture from their honeymoon in Brazil. They were on the beach, Cosa looking up at him while pushing her glasses up her nose. He was looking off into the distance, a hand running distractedly through his thick black hair. Maybe he hadn’t always been the most attentive husband, maybe he had never been what she needed. Maurice sighed and sponged at a tear with his sleeve.

As he rifled casually through Cosa’s desk junk, he found Griot’s skull sketch and the notes she had taken that fateful night about the Mostufan tribe. As he carefully read about the surgery and its effects, Maurice hit upon the cause of his wife’s aloof happiness and his own anguish. The hole. He went to their bedroom, watching Cosa’s gentle breath upon the smooth pillow. They would be together, he decided. He would do what was necessary to be the right man for her. He sat down at their computer and bought tickets for the next flight to La Paz.

            A week later, the couple woke up beside one another and wriggled happily against the white satin sheets. Several spoons were nestled between them on the bed. But they still had never felt closer.