Hugh’s furry ear rotated toward the sound before he opened his eyes. Mark’s voice again, pitched higher than usual.
“Rachel. Rach. Look at it. Really look at it.”
The ceramic thing had appeared on the coffee table three days ago, carried in by Mark’s mother in both arms like a rescued child. Hugh had watched from the bookshelf as she’d positioned it just so, stepping back twice to admire the placement. The object itself squatted low and wide, its surface glazed the color of ballpark mustard left too long in sun. Two handles sprouted from its sides, curved like arthritic fingers, coated in a green that reminded Hugh of algae on the pond near the old apartment.
Rachel’s fingers found the spot behind his left ear. She’d been doing her emails on the laptop, one-handed, for the past forty minutes. “Your mother drove from Poughkeepsie.”
“My mother has a phone. She could have called and asked if we wanted a—” Mark’s hand circled in the air. “What even is this? A vase? A soup tureen? Some kind of modernist urn?”
“She was thinking of us.”
“She was thinking we have a big, empty house and no taste.” Mark dropped into the armchair, making it creak. He’d been standing for the past ten minutes, had walked to the vase and back four times. Hugh had counted. “Friday. She’s coming Friday, and you know what she’ll do if it’s not out.”
Rachel’s typing stopped. Her hand went still against Hugh’s spine. “She’ll ask where it is.”
“She’ll get that look. That tight smile. The one where her whole face says ‘I drove three hours and this is the thanks I get.’”
“So we put it out Friday.”
“And then?”
“And then Saturday morning it goes in the hall closet with the fondue set and the ice cream maker.”
Mark’s laugh came out through his nose, sharp and brief. “We have a system for hiding gifts now. That’s where we are.”
“We have a system for a lot of things.” Rachel shifted, her thigh muscle tensing under Hugh’s ribcage. He dug his claws in slightly, just enough pressure to remind her he was comfortable. She settled. “That’s marriage.”
“Marriage is lying to my mother about liking her pottery?”
“It’s not pottery, it’s ceramic. And yes.” Rachel’s finger traced the ridge of Hugh’s skull. “Sometimes marriage is nodding and smiling and putting the ugly thing on the table for one dinner.”
Mark got up. The floor registered his footsteps, vibrations Hugh could feel through the couch frame. “Coffee. I need coffee. You want?”
“Sure.”
“Milk?”
“You know I take milk.”
“Just checking if that’s changed too.”
Their voices faded toward the kitchen. Hugh heard cabinet doors, the hiss of the faucet, the clink of mugs on granite. He stayed motionless, counting seconds. Thirty. Forty-five. The refrigerator opened and closed. Mark said something too quiet to catch. Rachel laughed, the real laugh she used when Mark wasn’t performing frustration.
Hugh rose. His spine curved upward, each vertebra articulating, front legs extended until his chest nearly touched the cardigan Rachel had left bunched on the cushion. He stepped down, one paw and then another, silent on the area rug.
The vase sat exactly where it had been. Hugh circled it once. Up close, he could see tiny bubbles frozen in the glaze, imperfections in the surface like pockmarks. One handle sat slightly higher than the other. The whole thing leaned imperceptibly left.
He sat. His tail wrapped around his haunches. The vase’s center of gravity was low, but the table’s surface was slick, some kind of lacquered wood that showed every pawprint. He’d knocked Rachel’s water glass off it last month with barely any effort.
Hugh lifted his right paw, held it suspended. Then he extended it forward in one smooth motion, claws sheathed, pad connecting with glazed ceramic.
The vase rocked. Tipped. Committed to the fall.
It hit the hardwood beyond the rug’s edge with a sound like a plate breaking, but deeper. Louder. Pieces skittered under the couch, across the floor, toward the hallway. The mustard base cracked into four major sections. One green handle landed intact near the baseboard, curved and absurd on its own.
Hugh was already back on the couch, nose tucked against his tail, when the footsteps came running.
“What the hell was that?”
Rachel appeared first, stopped in the doorway. “Oh.”
“Is that—” Mark came up behind her. “Oh my God.”
“The vase.”
“I can see it’s the vase.”
They stood there, both of them, staring at the wreckage. Hugh’s chest rumbled, the purr automatic and involuntary.
Rachel moved first, stepping carefully around the shards. She crouched, picked up the intact handle, turned it over in her palm. “I’ll get the broom.”
“How did it even—” Mark looked at the table, at the scatter pattern on the floor. “It was in the center.”
“Does it matter?” Rachel stood, still holding the handle. Something in her voice had changed, gone lighter. “It’s broken now.”
Mark met her eyes. A beat passed. Two. Then his mouth twitched at the corner. “Yeah. It’s broken.”
“We’ll have to tell her.”
“Terrible accident.” Mark’s voice was serious, but his shoulders had dropped. “Very sad. We’re devastated.”
“Absolutely devastated,” Rachel agreed.
They looked at each other for another moment, and then Rachel’s laugh came out, quiet and guilty and relieved all at once. Mark’s followed, and they stood there in the wreckage of the ugly vase, not quite smiling but not quite able to stop either.
Hugh stretched on the couch, extending each leg in turn. Rachel would come back soon, would sit down and open her laptop and her hand would find that spot behind his ear again. The problem was solved. The mustard thing would never squat on their table again.
His eyes drifted closed. The floor vibrations told him Rachel was walking toward the kitchen, Mark following behind her, their voices overlapping in a way that meant the tension had finally broken along with the ceramic.
Friday would come without the vase. Hugh’s purr deepened into sleep.
