My jowls are saggy today. Look at them. Droopy, fleshy, wrinkly things that used to be cheeks. Disgusting.
I remember a fews years ago, when I wasn’t sure whether to do Botox or Xeomin. But I decided every once in a while, you want the comfort of a brand name.
So, it’s time for a Botox appointment. I want it today, right now. But I heard from Mary Shingles that costs are running as high as 4 days, 25 minutes per injection, per person. Expensive.
It was decisions like these that I hated. How many days will they charge? How many hours? How many minutes? Is it worth it? I wonder if there was ever a time when people didn’t have to pay for things with days of their life. I guess there was. We learned about it in school, right?
It was something about resource control, and population control. Something about balancing the scales. Solving both problems at once. The more resources you take up, the less time you get to live. I think people got scared when Mumbai ran out of food. Or was it Shanghai? Anyway. It was a long time ago, and now I have to decide whether to exchange 4 days, 25 minutes of my life for a Botox injection.
These decisions were easier when I was a kid. Give up a day of your life in exchange for a banana-seat bike? With a basket? That’s worth a full week, easy. Back then, you just didn’t think about it. Pay a day if you need to, it’s future you’s problem. Not that I ever really bought anything big back then. I was happy with my bike. Well, my bike and food. But meals are minutes; they’re nobody’s concern. Those minutes add up, of course, but you’re going to be dead a lot sooner without food.
Now that I’m not a kid anymore, things are different. If you want to flatter me, try calling me “middle-aged.” I’d look it, too, if I went to my appointment today. But sagging jowls aren’t the only thing that’s different. What they don’t tell you about being my age is that you want more things. A house, a couch. A car. Botox. All cost weeks, if not years, to purchase. The older you get, the more you buy, and it makes the little time you already have even shorter. But what am I supposed to do about it? I can’t have nothing.
Well, I guess I could, if I were one of those essentialists, whatever they call themselves. They sometimes live to be 90, sure, but what fun is that if you sleep in a tent, or one of those pathetic micro-homes? I bet they don’t even give themselves spa days. Or exfoliate.
At the same time, you don’t want to be like the McAllisters. They used to live on Sycamore, you know, in that beautiful home on the corner with the grand colonnades and the resurfaced pool. They died two days ago. Mr. McAllister lived to be 39. Mrs. McAllister might’ve gone at 36. All from buying that house.
And where did they go? That’s the big question, really. If you’ve got an answer, tell me. Did they die on the spot, “poof,” leaving their cold bodies on their clean marble floor? Did some secret agents shoot them with lethal injections in the middle of the night? Some people think when they get your vitals for your countdown bracelet, they implant a little chip without you knowing, and it kills you when you spend all your days. But I don’t really like to think about that. All everyone knows is that once the bracelet says 00:00, you’re gone.
Speaking of which, where was my bracelet? I always kept it in my purse, the sea-foam green one. Yep, still here. I could wear it, I guess, but it says something about you if you do. Shows you’re stingy. Or life-conscious. Obsessed with your mortality, that sort of thing. It’s not cute.
Plus, I knew I had lots of days to spare. I kept a mental note; I was pretty good about it. Other people aren’t so good — like the McAllisters.
“Danica?” a voice called from downstairs.
It’s Rafa. Guess he was out again. He’s out a lot, which I like. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a sweet man. And he has the most gorgeous taste. He can turn a college dorm into a five-star room in 20 minutes. And he knows it. Which is good. I don’t have to pretend to be a good wife by reminding him.
He does the same line, over and over again: “I just love taking care of beautiful things.” That’s why he said he fell in love with me. Corny, sure, but I fell for it. I’ve always been drawn to men who can take care of their own things. If you want to find a good husband, find someone who makes their bed every morning. I think my spiritual advisor told me that. Or Adrienne from yoga.
To take care of beautiful things, Rafa had to buy them, too. He walked through the entryway, carrying a brand new ceramic blue bowl. Sunlight glinted off the rim and cascaded around the hollow surface as he walked, revealing what looked like tiny aqua jewels embedded in the smooth ceramic.
He placed the bowl on the living room table, perfectly. Not a flinch of hesitation, nor a second thought of rearranging. It matched perfectly with the throw pillows and the window panes.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, taking a step back and crossing my arms. “Now what are we gonna do about the wall?”
It’s fun to encourage him — he likes the challenge. And I like his beautiful things. Rafa smiled, and glanced up at the blank wall above the mantle.
“I drove down Sycamore today, through Canyon Estates,” he said, approaching the bare wall. “Everyone’s doing a yard sale. I think the neighborhood's trying to buy some time back. They’re spooked by the McAllisters.”
“Are you saying we should go?” I asked.
“You asked what to do about the wall, so…”
“How much was the bowl?”
Rafa’s smile thinned. He hated when I asked about price.
“I don’t know, maybe five and a half.”
“Hours?”
“Weeks.”
I knew the answer to the next question before I asked.
“Do you have your bracelet?”
“Nope.”
“Rafa, honey, I told you it might be a good idea to bring it when you go out, at leas—”
“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. So are we going to this yard sale or what?”
...
It was beautiful in Canyon Estates. Not that our neighborhood wasn’t, but wow. This place was special. I bet nobody here got to over 65, just to pay for the land.
We turned onto Sycamore, and parked beneath a canopy of golden trees. Rafa was right: all the garages were open, people bartering luxury goods like they were raw meat at a flea market.
Only one garage wasn’t open. The McAllister's. Well, if you could say the house was really theirs still — a large “For Sale” sign swung silently on the grass. There was the grand mansion, all alone on the corner of Sycamore, its winding driveway leading up to an elegant glass doorway that sparkled with the reflection of golden trees.
“What a house. Sort of...Renaissance, don’t you think?” Rafa asked as he strutted by. He stopped in front of one of the grand colonnades, stretching two stories high.
I didn’t say anything. I was peering into the front window, that looked in on their exposed kitchen. Smooth marble, and even smoother granite, crystal blue. Pots and pans hanging from a ceiling mount, swaying slightly in the breeze lilting through the window.
Mr. and Mrs. McAllister would’ve been cooking in that kitchen two days ago. Singing, maybe. I can see him put his arm around her back as she makes him fried eggs. The perfect house, the perfect life — if you want to pay for it. I bet they died on that cold, crystal blue granite. And then where did they go?
“Honey, look at that,” Rafa said, pointing to another house.
Someone was selling their Aston Martin, parked proudly atop a sloped driveway flanked with gravel. The car was a sleek blue-grey, with sharp, pointed headlights.
“Wonder how much that’s going for,” Rafa said quietly, but loud enough that I could hear him.
“Aren’t we here for wall decorations?” I asked politely.
“Yes, yes.”
A man holding up an array of gold-cased shower curtain rings caught Rafa’s attention. As he wandered over to him, I felt my eyes shift back to the McAllister’s. It was such a beautiful home, even more idyllic from a distance. Imagine if I were in that kitchen…
Right then, I noticed there WAS somebody in the kitchen. I took a closer look, and squinted my eyes through the bright sunlight. Yes, there was someone there. A woman, wearing a blazer. She was wiping down the blue granite. Is someone living there? Already? I started to walk toward the house, when—
“Danica! Danica! Come look at this.”
I knew what it meant when Rafa’s voice got like that. He’d found another beautiful thing he wanted to take care of. We walked two houses down from the McAllister’s, where a young man with a blond ponytail, no more than 35 years old, was still setting up his little yard display.
“Do you see what I see?” Rafa asked, nodding his head toward the garage.
Leaning up against the garage door was a huge rectangular painting. The first thing I noticed was the blue. It was our blue. Blue ocean waves crashing against a soft beach, and a hard horizon line splitting the painting in two. All the blues—the sky, the crystalline water—converged in the middle, to make a color exactly like our interior accent color at home. Exactly like the ceramic pot Rafa bought today. Exactly like the blue granite at the McAllister’s.
“I like it,” I said, trying to hold back my voice. I glanced at the man with the blond ponytail. With these sorts of things, you don’t want to show them how much you want something. Rafa didn’t get that.
“It’s perfect,” said Rafa, marching over to pick up the painting. He turned to the ponytail. “How much?”
“For that? One year, three months,” the ponytail man said. He had a trace of an accent. Swedish? Swiss? I don’t know.
Rafa’s hands were already pulling the painting toward him. “I’ll take it—”
“That seems steep,” I jumped in. Rafa hates when I do this. But someone has to.
The ponytail man folded his arms. “I paid two years for it. This artist is a big deal, you should see what he’s selling for in Malibu.”
“Honey, it’s fine. I’m paying for it,” Rafa said with a little nod.
“Do you have your bracelet with you?” I asked, knowing the answer again.
“No…”
“Then how do you know it’s fine?”
“Well...do you want to pay for it?” he asked.
That was new. I mean, I always paid for my own things. But not house stuff, you know, beautiful stuff…that was Rafa’s realm...
Rafa glanced at me, then back at the painting. “We need this. Look at it. But you’re making me nervous. And I guess I haven’t checked in a while...have you?”
I rummaged around in my sea-foam green purse for my bracelet. I pulled it out, and checked the number. 7,891 days left. I could buy it, if I wanted. But is it worth 400 days? Just for a painting? I looked up to see Rafa staring at me.
“I can tell you don’t want to. I’m getting it. Put it on my tab,” Rafa said, turning to the ponytail man.
He held out his thumb to the seller, as was custom. The ponytail man brought out a small scanning device, and Rafa held his thumb down on it. Almost instantaneously, the ponytail man’s bracelet clicked, and a small light flashed on it. The man smiled. He just got another year and 3 months to live.
“Thank you, sir.” The ponytail man grinned and handed Rafa his next beautiful thing.
The painting looked as perfect on the wall as I imagined it. I mean, it was Rafa’s vision, but if you live with someone long enough, you start to think their style is your own. He had it perfectly framed so that a soft blanket of light kissed one of the edges. I wasn’t as sure about his ceramic bowl before, but now it all made sense. It all worked perfectly.
I sat on the couch, staring at the painting. The more I looked at it, the more my mind started to swirl into that crystal blue water. My eyes pierced the firm horizon line, where the water touched the sky. As I stared at the horizon, I saw something there that I didn’t notice before. A small island, so small you could barely see it. A little speck, a pebble-sized interruption of an otherwise perfectly straight horizon line.
I wonder why I didn’t see it before? I kept staring at that little dot, so far away, yet so obvious now I knew it was there. I wonder if that’s a real island? Has anybody been there? Could anybody go, if they wanted? My thoughts melted deeper into the water. I drifted asleep wondering if Mr. and Mrs. McAllister were on that island.
...
When I woke up, Rafa was gone. He usually is, like I said, and I could always tell. But this time, I wanted to see if he took my advice.
I wandered up the stairs, rubbing sleep from my eyes. It was almost sunset already—I had napped longer than I thought. I walked into our room, and into his closet. I reached above the shelf with the collared shirts and brought down a shoebox: the box for his favorite white shoes, with the blue suede accents. He wore them on our first date.
Yep. There it is, inside the shoebox. His bracelet. I knew he didn’t take my advice. He never does. I checked the number on the bracelet. It was lower than I thought it was. Which means it’s definitely lower than he thinks it is. And much lower than my own.
As I walked back down the stairs, two feet per step as it’s been the last few years, I heard the sound of Rafa’s car pulling into the garage. I tucked his bracelet into my pocket.
I sat back down on the couch, and stared up at my—our—perfect painting. My eyes couldn’t look at anything but the little island on the horizon. I think I met the McAllisters there in my dream, but if anyone says they “think” they remember a dream, they’re lying.
Rafa walked through the entryway with a little grin on his face. That grin could only mean one thing, that he’d bought something. But this time, I didn’t know what it was.
He walked up to the painting without saying anything. It looked like he was about to readjust it on the wall, but he restrained himself. His first instincts are always perfect with those things, and he knew it.
Then he turned around, and tossed a pair of silver keys at me. The grin on his face grew wider.
“What are these?” I asked, rubbing my drowsy eyes.
“Guess,” Rafa said.
I wish he’d just tell me. Nobody wants to play a guessing game after a nap.
“Oh...you bought that car, didn’t you. The one at the yard sale. The Aston Martin.”
“Guess again.”
I was too sleepy for this. Rafa could barely contain his excitement. He sat down in the plush white chair directly underneath the mantle and the perfect painting.
“I bought the McAllister house,” he said, breaking into a full smile.
Any drowsiness I had left was slapped out of me.
“You did what!?”
“I bought that house. I was looking at it today, and realized their color scheme is perfect. It’s what I’ve been wanting all along. Did you see the blue granite? In the kitchen? It would match perfectly with our furniture, and—”
“How much was it?” I asked.
“Think of what we could do with all that space. I toured today, and—”
“You toured today? That’s where you went when I was asleep?”
“Well yeah, they had a realtor there. You saw the for-sale sign, right on the lawn…”
So that’s who I saw in the house today. A realtor, wiping down the countertops. Rafa was still talking, his eyes glowing.
“...I was looking around, on the tour, and they had a wall that was just perfect for this painting. For this painting! That we got today! It seemed like it was meant to be.”
“How much was it?”
“...We can move these sofas into the open floor plan, you know, next to the kitchen, and—”
“Rafa. How much was it?” I asked, firmly.
Rafa stopped talking. His eyes were still darting around, looking at all the beautiful things in our house, our perfectly good house, that he couldn’t wait to take care of in an even better house.
“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it,” he said, barely looking at me.
“It’s not fine. I need to know. How much was it?”
Rafa looked at the floor.
“10,000 days.”
I gasped. Rafa jumped -- he wasn’t expecting this reaction. I never overreact.
“What? I know it’s a lot…” he said.
I fumbled my words around in my brain as I fumbled for his bracelet in my pocket. “But, but...you don’t have that many days. You should be…”
Before I could grab the bracelet, Rafa stood up, and put his hand on mine. I looked up at him.
“You should be dead,” I said.
“I know,” Rafa muttered, eyes shifting, “but you’ve been making me paranoid about it lately, so I did something else instead.”
His eyes moved around, looking at everything except me.
“I split it between us. 5,000 days each.”
My stomach dropped to the floor. I pulled Rafa’s hand off my arm.
“You did what?!”
“I’m sorry! But I figured I wouldn’t have enough days, and I didn’t have my bracelet on me. But I didn’t really need to, I knew I wouldn’t have enough. So I thought, you know what, this actually seems right. We’re married, we should pay for this house like a married couple. 50/50 split.”
“But I didn’t even say I wanted the house!”
“I saw you looking at it today. Every part of you wanted it. I know the look you have when you really want something.”
“How did you even spend my days? I wasn’t with you!”
“Well, I came back home before signing the deal. I wanted to ask you first. But you were asleep, and you looked so peaceful, and...I know you keep your bracelet in your sea-foam green purse. The one I got for you three years ago to match with your Guccis, remember?”
“So you used my bracelet without me knowing? You gave up 5,000 days of my life, while I was asleep?”
“You still had plenty. A lot more than me, anyway.”
“You don’t know that. You don’t check your bracelet.”
I fished in my pocket, and pulled out Rafa’s bracelet. I held it up to him.
“I don’t care about that. We just bought something beautiful. Together.” Rafa said, gesturing for me to put his bracelet away.
“Check the number,” I said.
“I’ll take care of the house. I’ll take care of you. You never have to worry.” Rafa’s eyes weren’t darting around anymore. They were locked on mine.
“Check the number,” I said again.
Rafa took the bracelet from me. He turned it over in his hand once.
“I wish these came in blue,” he said.
He finally looked down at the number on the bracelet screen. When he did, his eyes went somewhere. Somewhere far away. Maybe all the way to that island on the horizon in the painting. They were there for a second, but then they came back. He glanced at the bracelet again.
“Well, it’s not zero,” he said, with a chuckle.
His eyes moved away from the bracelet slowly. He looked up at me, the beautiful thing he said he would take care of.
“Think of how perfect our life will be in that house,” Rafa said. “Wouldn’t you want a few minutes of perfect, instead of a lifetime of mediocre?”
He gestured around our house. Our mediocre house. With the ceramic bowl glinting with jewels, the plush white couches, and the pristine new painting with the island on the horizon.
I thought of the McAllisters, out on that little island. The more I looked at it, the more I realized the island wasn’t as little as I thought—in fact, I could see the whole thing clearly now. I could see the rocky crags crashing against the foaming water. I could see the McAllisters standing there, waving at me. They were beautiful, just like the painting. Their lives were beautiful. They made sure of it.
Rafa was staring at me, waiting for me to answer him. Waiting for me to tell him how much I wanted that perfect house. That perfect life. And what was I supposed to say? I can’t have nothing. So I might as well have beautiful things.
That’s when I decided to get my Botox appointment. If I was going to die soon, I didn’t want it to be with saggy jowls.