How This Night Is Different: Stories

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The crowd was bloodthirsty, crunching on crudités and getting antsy for some action. The eighth day after the birth, nonnegotiable, a Tuesday. Everyone had to be at work shortly.

“Let’s get this show on the road, yeah?” Rich materialized next to Mark on the lip of the sunken living room and suggestively chomped the tip off a baby carrot. “Where’s the kid?”

A good question. Mark, in a sleep-deprived haze, had registered the nonpresence of Beth and the baby in the living room and set about in slow motion locating them before forgetting his mission’s objective in the fog of exhaustion, the lull of the din in his living room, the colorful array of vegetables and dip, the insistent pierce of his mother’s voice.

“My baby with a baby!” Shirley shrieked from across the room, waving her mimosa. She was beside herself, had spent the earlier part of the morning cooing bubbe, bubbe, bubbe over and over again at tiny Lucas, who just stared, wide-eyed, at nothing in particular, balling his itty-bitty hands, his little hungry bird mouth ajar.

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