Home Show
By: Emily Gaynor
Tags: Retail Therapy, Fiction, Home Decor, Short Story

It all began three years ago on Madison Avenue. The couple rarely made the trek uptown but thought they should let Seneca’s mother know in person that she was no longer a grandmother-to-be. In accordance with the rest of her personality, Marianne took the news coldly. After leaving her classic six, they decided to walk a few extra blocks before hopping on the subway.

It was that first week of spring in the city where the weather is perfect, but you’re so concerned that it will still be cold that you miss the opportunity to take out that perfect weather-less dress that has about two wearable days a year. The one that you spent a fortune on because it looked perfect in the warm lights of the dressing room, and because when you came out to inspect yourself in the big mirror, the salesgirl cooed at you, and you thought for a moment you could see the thought in her eyes I wish I could be like you.

But on the occasion of announcing her miscarriage to her mother, Seneca thought, fuck it, and put on the dress. The warm breeze tickled her exposed ankles and though just a few days ago she had flushed a bloody clot of a fetus down the toilet like a neglected goldfish, she felt beautiful and strong; enviable.

At the insistence of Seneca’s bladder, they stopped in the nearest store that looked like it would have a public bathroom, which happened to be a Ralph Lauren flagship. Inside, shades of white flooded their vision, punctuated with jet black wrought iron accents. The marble staircase was glittering and grand, and before hurrying to the top floor where the salesgirl had directed her, Seneca briefly paused to wonder what it would be like to live in a home with stairs.

After relieving herself she allowed herself to wander. Hands clasped behind her back, she drifted through the store as though it were a museum. She studied the displays resplendent with fine leathers, pewters, and carved wood. She mindlessly grazed each surface as she had seen women in movies and television do, in the way she had witnessed her own mother as a child. She patted the centers of pillows to check for appropriate fluffiness. She ran a waffle-textured towel along her cheek.

Jameson, who had grown impatient waiting on the lower level, went to look for his wife.

“There you are,” he said, “do you want to start heading back to Brook-“

“Darling, do you think these sheets are high enough thread count for the guest room?” Seneca interrupted.

Though he was baffled, Jameson was never one to let on any doubt. She loved this most about him, that he would rather figure the puzzle out himself than ask for a clue. He wondered if by “guest room” she meant the setup they used for the rare visitor that consisted of a worn jersey sheet spread across their living room sofa.

“They’re 600 thread count Egyptian cotton,” she continued, “but I was really hoping for 800.”

Across the floor, a woman asked her husband if the cashmere blanket she had selected was “snuggly” enough to give as a gift to their friends who had graciously allowed them to borrow their private jet. “You want to be cozy when you’re flying private,” the wife said as her husband thoughtfully stroked the blanket. All at once, Jameson understood.

“Babydoll, I thought we were opting for silk in the guest room?”

The last week had been tough on their marriage, but in this moment Seneca had never loved him so powerfully.

“Silk for summer, Egyptian cotton for the winter.”

“Ah, I see. Well, then 800 count for sure. These simply won’t do.” He put a firm arm around her waist as though someone might try to buy his wife if he weren’t careful.

She sighed. “I suppose we can head to Brooks Brothers then. You really could use some new shirts.”

On the subway home, Seneca rest her head against Jameson’s shoulder the entire ride, even though it gave her a terrible crick in her neck. When they returned to their Sunset Park one-bedroom he made love to her, cherished her as though she were the most rare and beautiful item he could have purchased from a catalog.