Metaphorical Martha

Jill, you will be pleased about this: my tentative title for my novel is "Brett Hall is a Meatball Sandwich." I also want to add that a lot of this novel isn't really biographical, so don't worry too much about it.

I've decided to stop for the day, I'm at 2,178 words and trying to pace myself this time around. I have incorporated 3 Martha Stewart crafts so far, and am pleased to report that my latest addition is close to as symbolic as that shell-covered pot from last year. Here is what I have added this morning:


Fortunately for Sadie, neither of her roommates are at home when she enters her quiet apartment. Her body feels heavy and immovable; her mind and her mouth seem disconnected, incapable of coming together to explain exactly what has just happened. All that she wants is her bed, but when she gets under her blankets, she feels suffocated. This is the bed where her and Brett had spent so many nights together, including the night in which they met. On her wall hung a Fourth of July clip-art streamer that she had taken from the party in what felt like the greatest of drunken ideas. The blue medallion-centered pendant that topped off the trio of red and white honeycomb garlands had faded with time, changing from a bright royal blue to a sad and lonely periwinkle. This, Sadie thinks, is exactly what happens when you depend on something to last even though it was never meant to.

Despite the fact that her clothes are wet and the humid, dead air makes her feel like she is on fire, she has no choice but to hide from the world underneath the covers. Her room is a place where he was, a place that is bursting with memories and longing. Under the covers, nothing can touch her. Nothing has any expectation of her; she is free to simply exist.

* * *

For many, Brett’s gentle snoring that is punctuated by unintelligible words would have prevented any possibility of sleep. But for Sadie, she knows that she would not sleep even if the room were completely silent. She has never been able to sleep when another person is in her bed, but with this one, she can hardly believe that he is in her bed at all.

By all accounts, Brett Hall is superior to her. He is more attractive, he attends a better school, and he has more money. He is the starting striker for the Harvard soccer team, and majors in finance. But it isn’t just how he presents himself on paper that makes him out of her league; it’s the way that he carries himself. That easy confidence that borders on cockiness, that sure-of-himself attitude, makes everyone around him automatically believe in his authority. He is smart—not overly smart, not eager smart, not trying-too-hard smart—smart enough to get into Harvard with the help of his athletic abilities, and smart enough to likely hold a job on Wall Street when you consider how attractive and confident he is. He is funny—not too funny, since people that are that good-looking don’t have to be—but funny enough. He isn’t a particularly nice guy, but he isn’t mean either. People usually remember him as being smarter and funnier and nicer than he actually is.

Brett Hall is the kind of guy where when women meet him, most can hardly help themselves in envisioning their married lives together. He would look pretty in the lavish and well-attended wedding photographs, your children would be adorable, and seeing him holding your children would induce an ovary explosion. The two of you could attend fancy dinners with his investment banking colleagues, and summer in Nantucket in a rustic cottage where you sip sangria on the dock while discussing your children’s private school politics and the latest Alexander McQueen collection with his co-workers’ wives. It isn’t necessarily the life that Hillary-supporting, political science-majoring Sadie had ever imagined for herself, but all of a sudden, it seems nice.

Brett is a nine. Sadie is a seven, a seven-point-five on a good day. She feels lucky as she looks over at Brett’s bare chest. She’s not exactly sure how she managed to swing this one, but man, is she proud that she did.