The Husbands

by Holly Gramazio

Inside she discovers, looking through papers piled on the kitchen counter, that the husband is called Jason Paraskevopoulos, and that she’s kept her own surname, perhaps for political reasons or perhaps for ease of spelling.

MICHAEL (HANDSOME) (SLIPPERS) (NAKED) ANTHONY KIERAN JASON

She stares at it, then remembers (Feminist Apron), who was either before or after (Naked).

A mattress leans against a wall; someone has scrawled LITTERING IS A CRIME MATTHEW on it in permanent marker.

A notification: he’s written an immediate follow-up. It reads, in its entirety: My dear, do you have any close-up photographs of the skin between your outstretched fingers?

“Yeah,” Noemi says, “I would be amazing at cancelling a wedding. I would knock that shit out of the park.”

She makes up a mnemonic for the main entry code so that she can get in and out of the house with confidence: 635324847, count out the letters of regard the dozen men in your upstairs room, octopus (mnemonics have never been her strong point).

Honestly, I should just learn—I did try but every time I change worlds all my Duolingo progress resets.”

GOOD HAIR, Bohai writes on one Post-it, then adds, OR NO HAIR. “Nothing in between.” She puts FOREARMS on one. INTERESTING SKILL. KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS. OWNS SCARF.

“Can’t believe you’re going to abandon your sexy Speedo husband so fast,” she says. “Next week would be good.”

“I, too, am waterproof and touch-operated,” he will say. This is worse than nostril-hair husband but not as bad as “citation needed” husband.