Lily and the Octopus

called The Apache in the first place? (Fifty-cent drinks.) There was plenty of time for it to come up before I found him on the couch looking confused.
Trent taps me on my arm and I look up. The restaurant is busy tonight, busier than usual.
“You drifted,” Trent says. The Valium must be kicking in. “How is it like mine?”
“Well, not exactly like yours, because you couldn’t see yours, but Lily’s is just sitting on top of her head for all to see.”
“Her . . . octopus.”
“Yes.”
“I never had an octopus.”
“Yes, you did! And if you didn’t I’d like to know what the hell they took out of you at Cedars when they cut open your skull.”
“They took out a t—” he starts, before stopping.
“What the hell do you think we’re talking about?”
“I thought we were talking about an octopus.”
“Exactly.”
Our martinis arrive. Three olives each. We sip our drinks in silence. The vodka is a cold salve on my throat and a welcome way to wash the powdery aftertaste from under my tongue. It burns as I swish it around my mouth.
“Do you want to get the deviled eggs?” I don’t know why he’s asking me this, because I always want to get the deviled eggs. He flags down a waitress and puts in an order. I don’t even have to say yes. “Did you call the vet?”
I nod. “They can’t see her until Monday.”
“When did you first notice the . . .”
“. . . octopus? Last night. It just showed up. If it was there before, I didn’t notice. It’s weird, though. It doesn’t really move, it just sits there with its arms hanging down the side of her face. I think it’s . . . sleeping.”
Trent muddles two of his olives into his martini with his fingers and I pull one of mine off the toothpick with my teeth. I can see him doing math in his head.
“How old is Lily again?”
“No.”
“What?”
“No.” I am firm. “I can see what you’re doing, weighing the probative value of my options here. One, I haven’t been to the veterinarian yet, and I don’t know what’s involved in removing an octopus that’s clinging to her head.”
Octopusectomy.
“Two, I am not letting that thing have her. I won’t allow it.” In my twenties, I had another terrible therapist (therapists!) who concluded that since my mother never says “I love you” (at least not in the same way that other mothers do), there was going to be a limit to my ability to feel love. Love for someone, loved by someone. I was limited. And then on the very last night of my twenties, when I held my new puppy in my arms, I broke down in tears. Because I had fallen in love. Not somewhat in love. Not partly in love. Not in a limited amount. I fell fully in love with a creature I had known for all of nine hours.
I remember Lily licking the tears from my face.
THIS! EYE! RAIN! YOU! MAKE! IS! FANTASTIC! I! LOVE! THE! SALTY! TASTE! YOU! SHOULD! MAKE! THIS! EVERY! DAY!
The realization was overwhelming—there was nothing wrong with me! There were no limits to what I could feel!
And just as Trent had predicted, with only moments left to go on the clock, it all happened for me when I was twenty-nine.
I slam my fists on the table and the silverware jumps and the vodka sloshes to the very rim of our glasses and I grit my teeth and glare. “It cannot have her.”
A chill runs down Trent’s spine. I know this, because a chill runs down my own. He puts his hands over mine to calm me. He has a dog, a bulldog named Weezie. He loves her like I love Lily. He knows my heart. He understands. He would fight this fight.
The waitress comes with our deviled eggs and with two freshly chilled glasses and transfers the rest of our martinis. She smiles at us awkwardly and disappears.
I watch as ice sluices down the side of my new glass in slow motion.
It.
Cannot.
Have.
Her.

Friday Night
Friday nights are my favorite nights. You wouldn’t think a twelve-year-old dachshund would be good at Monopoly, but you’d be wrong there. She can stack up hotels along one side of the board like nobody’s business and usually does so with little commiseration for others who might not be able to afford her upscale rents. Me, on the other hand, I like the first side of the board. The one with the deep purple and light blue properties with vaguely racist names like Oriental Avenue. Something about the color palette on that side of the board calms me. Lily is colorblind; she doesn’t undertake any such considerations when buying property. Also, I never feel too aggressive building hotels on those properties if I’m lucky enough to get the monopoly. The rents are reasonable and people are usually flush from having just passed Go. I guess I just don’t have the killer instinct.
Lily always makes fun of me when I want to be the wheelbarrow or the shoe. She considers these the game pieces of weak, feckless players. She always wants to be the cannon or the battleship or the “shot glass.” (I haven’t had the heart to tell her she’s been playing that piece upside down and it’s actually a thimble. She would be furious if she ever found out.)
Tonight our hearts aren’t really in it, but it’s what we do on Friday nights, so we go through the motions. I might have suggested we just skip it and do something less involved, like watch a movie (although Saturday nights are usually Movie Night), but I’m feeling some guilt from having left earlier today for therapy and dinner with Trent. As always, I have to roll the dice, move her game piece, conduct the transactions, buy her houses and hotels, and be