Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the apartment, just the DVDs. There's no profit except writing practice being made here. Nor do I own the film You've Got Mail.
"Farewells can be shattering, but returns are surely worse. Solid flesh can never live up to the bright shadow cast by its absence. Time and distance blur the edges; then suddenly the beloved has arrived, and it's noon with its merciless light, and every spot and pore and wrinkle and bristle stands clear."
― Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin
Chandler was pushing their trolley around the supermarket with his forearms. He was hunched over the trolley completely casually. Sometimes, the two of them grabbed a trolley each or, if they went early in the morning, Chandler would goof off and try his hand at pushing two carts at the same time, one for each of them. But this morning they didn't have that many items on the list for each of their households so they could share.
Monica inhaled the tomatoes in her hand while Chandler grabbed a handful of plastic produce bags. These sorts of outings were so natural to the pair of them that Monica didn't even need to instruct Chandler to do so.
"Please tell me you remembered to bring those net bag things with you," Chandler asked.
Phoebe had recently teamed up with Ross to convince them that they shouldn't be using the plastic bags that she shops gave out for free because they were bad for the environment. Years ago, Monica and Chandler had discovered that paper bags were impossible to carry the ten blocks with all their groceries in them. So instead, Monica had invested in some reusable ones. She had a handful of canvas bags with the supermarket logo printed on them, and a couple of similar ones in Ross's university colours collected from open days as swag bags. But Rachel claimed a different style, like a fishing net made out of ropes of hessian, was the latest trend. They were nifty little things and definitely folded up nearer and tighter than the bigger canvas bags, which Monica liked for putting in the pantry and her purse on days when she wanted to shop. But items often slipped out of them, or the fear of things falling out of them terrified her.
Monica tested the weight of a different tomato in her hand and then added it to the bowl atop the scales to see how much they weighed. She shouldered her handbag open and peered inside before closing the leather and tapping it twice. "Got 'em."
"Alright, what's on the list?" Chandler asked, holding open one of the plastic bags so Monica could drop the tomatoes into it. He twisted the bag just like Monica liked, and then put them on top of the bag of carrots.
Monica hooked two fingers onto the steel of the trolley as though she was helping Chandler steer and the two of them rounded the corner. She opened the list in her hand and read off a couple of ingredients. They'd been coming here for years and Monica had organised her shopping list by aisle so that the whole process of shopping could be executed with military precision and exactitude.
"We've got to be out of here by two," Monica told him. "I'm heading over to Ross's at three and babysitting Ben."
Chandler stilled, like a full body flinch and he turned rigid for half a beat before relaxing. "Okay. Do we need this aisle?"
Monica hummed. "Dairy. Yes."
Chandler lifted a couple of things into their trolley without double checking with her if they were on the list. Things that were staples in their menu. Monica watched carefully to see what he picked up so she could cross the items off her list, the paper braced against her palm.
They were a well-oiled machine, the two of them. A clock that always kept perfect time.
"Can I get your opinion on something?" she asked.
"About your online guy?" Chandler asked.
"Yeah," she nodded. "Oh look, the strawberry yoghurt's on sale."
"Do we need yoghurt?" Chandler asked.
"No," Monica admitted, picking up the four-pack of individual servings. "But they'd be good snacks."
Diplomatic stick-in-the-mud Chandler was so predictable. He was always finding ways to be money-conscious. Monica might coupon-clip and thrift like Phoebe had taught her, but she had a rent-controlled apartment. Chandler didn't have that luxury. He also didn't have a roommate who was reliable when it came to paying his bills, although Joey had taken that part-time job as a sales assistant at a perfume counter, so he was definitely making an effort to be better about it. Monica had never figured out if Chandler had berated Joey into taking that job or Joey's guilt made him drop in his resume but she expected it was a cleverly subtle mix of both that encouraged Joey to job hunt; leaving a bill around for his roommate to find and pointing out a flyer, saying that it was a good way to method act and completely immerse himself in a character. Even without Joey's input, Chandler could have afforded the apartment, Monica assumed. He had a good job and a recent promotion at it, he was higher up in the company than he admitted, trying to be classy about the position while the rest of his friends scrambled. He was at least making as much money as Ross, not that she'd ever ask, it wasn't her business, but he was getting promotions all the time and she'd seen the view from his office. A view like that was for executives and wooing expensive clients. But still, Chandler was clever about finding bargains and packing lunch instead of buy it.
Monica had always been fascinated by that. Chandler had money, his family had money, and he didn't need to skimp or slum. Yet Chandler still looked for sales. He never blew all his money on expensive items like a bigger television or nice new lounge seats for him and Joey. He didn't splurge. It was a funny disparity to remember that Chandler probably came from a wealthier family than Rachel, especially given that he was an only child. But he had no interest in showing off that wealth, unlike Rachel. He wanted to distance himself from it, and simply live his life like the average Joe Blow, the regular guy next door. Phoebe was quite similar but opposite. She'd never had money, and once she'd got her full-time position at the spa, or when she was screwed over by the bank, she had rejected the status the money had provided and just existed as was necessary; not the bare minimum but nothing extravagant either.
As predicted, Chandler touched Monica's wrist and pushed the yoghurt down. "Joey's not going to eat that and Rachel doesn't like artificial strawberries."
His hand was warm against her skin and his action made her laugh, like he thought he needed to physically restrain her for her to listen to his words. Monica liked that he didn't feel the need to refrain from touching her like other men might, afraid the touch was unwelcome. Monica couldn't remember Chandler ever being anything but an extended hand or open arms when it came to her. She'd have to ask her roommate if he was the same with her. It was definitely something she liked, the confidence of his touch and the comfort of it.
Monica twisted her arm out from under Chandler's touch. She lifted the packet to read the ingredients label, finding that they were real strawberry chunks, not a flavouring and that it was made of yoghurt cultures rather than cream. That was a good deal.
"I won't buy pretzels," she reasoned.
Appeased, Chandler let her put the snack in the trolley.
"He's great, Chandler," Monica gushed. She found that the conversation returned to NY1990 easily and that she barely had to think when she told Chandler about him. Although, Monica wasn't certain whether that was a comment on how much she liked NY1990 or how much she trusted her best friend. Either way, she found herself opening up to Chandler about her anonymous friend. "He ticks all the boxes, too."
"Do we have to talk about this?" Chandler winced, one side of his face scrunching up. he'd straightened up, pushing the cart with his hands. Monica couldn't help but noticed the tension in his wrists and the bloodlessness of his knuckles like he was gripping the handle tightly.
"You're a captive audience," Monica told him.
"Alright," Chandler pulled a face and picked up his pace, elongating his stance to walk a little way in front of her. "We're going our separate ways. It's more efficient."
"Uh uh," Monica laughed, chasing after her friend. "You're not getting away from me that easily. Let me tell you about him."
It was clear that Chandler was still hesitant, so Monica played on his ego a little. "I could use a guy's opinion on him, see what you think he's thinking."
Chandler shook his head drastically, hair flicking everywhere for a moment and then settling all mussed and very suggestively fussed.
"You were right, earlier," Monica bumped her shoulder with Chandler's, "when you said that not knowing him in person is a bit of a problem. But I know enough about him to know that the two of you would get along. I know we don't normally talk about my dates, but can I at least tell you a little bit about him and you can tell me if I'm nuts for still wanting to know who he is."
Reluctantly, Chandler agreed.
"He works in an office with a nice view," Monica said. "So he's reliable and hardworking and mature. That ticks a couple of important boxes for providing for a family as well."
Chandler tutted. "Mon, you haven't even met him. Don't start planning a future yet. He might not be ready for that. Even if you do meet him and he's exactly what you wanted, that sort of stuff takes time. You don't just meet someone and marry them. Or say I love you and immediately start having children. Life's not a fairytale."
Monica nodded. Chandler was always saying things like that, promoting the opposite ideals that his mother wrote about. He was always talking about building up to something with another person, patience and planning and learning how to tolerate and accept his girlfriends. He'd never managed to get that far, but he insisted that was what dating was all about. That these things took time. Chandler said that, her father said it, Gunther said it but he was pining for Rachel and was assuaging his who, NY1990 said it. Clearly, men had a different opinion on romance and commitment and love, if they believed in it at all. Women weren't taught that. Women were taught about biological clocks and gravity taking it's toll and that make up and anti-aging creams should be used from about age fifteen so you looked desirable for suitors.
Even if Monica avoided her mother telling her that she should watch for wrinkles and Rachel gossiping about who had their face done so they didn't wrinkle, everyone trying to race the clock for superficial gains, Monica had princesses and romcoms and girly magazines as her guide for how all this romance stuff worked. All of them agreed that you met someone, fell in love, got married, had kids and lived happily ever after. Chandler was being too practical in thinking that there were in-between moments. He was just being cynical in thinking that those in-betweens consisted of conflict and challenges and compromise, that the ending wasn't an ending but each of those milestones were new beginnings, with their own sorts of problems to solve.
While Monica had no evidence that he was correct at all, she didn't know anyone who was happy living in that fairytale life either. Her parents might have been happy but there were definitely complications along the way. Everybody knew Sandra and Leonard put on happy faces to save their reputations and stay together but it was obvious they weren't happy even though they had used to be. and to hear about Chandler's parents, it seemed they had followed the exact schedule Monica had in mind for herself - meet, hide her flaws until she was loved, marry, the end - but that hadn't worked for them. In fact, swap out "flaws" for "true self" and that was exactly true for Nora and Chandler's dad. And Carol and Ross for that matter.
She definitely didn't want that. Perhaps there was a little bit of romance to taking the slow option, after all. Maybe there was beauty in waiting until you were certain about a person, in being true and weird and ugly in front of someone else and having them love you anyway. Maybe it wasn't the challenge and the chase that made a great love story.
Maybe it was the beauty of the domestic and the romance of knowing a person completely.
Monica liked that idea.
"If I ever decide to meet him," Monica smirked at Chandler. He might have won her over for the minute, but he didn't have to know that. "And we somehow make it over whatever this was, I promise I won't bring up marriage and babies first thing."
"Good," he nodded gravely. Monica always found it interesting that Chandler could be so serious and so playful in the same breath. Only now he'd done away with the weekend persona and adopted his serious, logical side.
"I really would like to meet him," Monica admitted.
"I'm sure you will." There was something akin to a promise in Chandler's voice and Monica thought that was so like Chandler to try and make her feel better about herself and hopeful for the future. There was no way he could promise her that, but he tried. He'd probably make an effort to come through on the promise too.
"Thanks, Chandler," Monica continued to discuss why she liked this online persona so much. She barely even notice that Chandler turned sullen, somewhere between the bread and the pasta aisle. his responses were curt and snippy. He'd hunched over the trolley again and even when he was taking one of the shopping bags from her so she wasn't carrying so many, Chandler didn't meet her eyes.
There was a definite shift in Chandler's behaviour from amused to surly, chatty to sullen, and Monica decided to leave him be. He'd bounce back on his own, she decided. He normally would. She would check in on him and offer whatever she could bit she wouldn't push. He'd tell her what was upsetting him when he was ready.
She definitely had not expected the argument they had,and certainly wasn't ready to deal with it, or question it. He was probably just tired. He got quiet when he was tired, cute and nuzzly like he wanted someone to look after him. And of he hasn't slept in a long time, or was jet-lagged after a work conference, then he could get snippy. Monica understood that.
At least he wasn't completely silent on their walk home, asking her about activities she had planned for playing with Ben and if she had found jobs posted in the library. Monica had been happy to go into detail, gladly frittering her time away on a walk in the sunshine with Chandler Bing and their groceries, talking about the colouring in books she'd photocopied so Ben could use them over and over. It was probably one of his business orator tactics, ignoring the thing he disapproved of, that way she didn't rebel and engage with it, nor did he seem like the bad guy.
"How do you have them organised?" Chandler asked. It was clearly a performance for her benefit, proof he didn't really want to talk about himself or her online beau. Yes, he was definitely avoiding the topic in the hopes that her excitement would be redirected by some different shiny bauble. "What have you got, five copies of each in a plastic sleeve? But are they organised by page number or printout?"
"I got Ben to sort them, actually," Monica told him. "He organised them in his order of favourites."
"Did he love doing that?" There was something sarcastic in Chandler's voice.
Monica nodded. "I think he liked the picking his favourite. I don't think he knew what the plastic sleeves were really for."
"Maybe you should mix up the order," Chandler shrugged, teasing. "Test if the kids' really a Geller."
Monica scoffed at the wicked suggestion. She'd teach Ben his different options for sorting things, maybe start with those giant Lego blocks for toddlers or Ross' dinosaur figurines. Ross would claim they needed to be chronologically organised, but Monica would suggest height or length order for Ben. That sort of activity was the sort of thing Monica would have lived for as a kid. Something like that would have been a fun little game of reorganising for her. Ross would throw a fit if the pages were out of order and Ross would have taken the colouring-in sheets to complete his version of them, desperately colouring inside the lines. Monica didn't even get that far, taking Ben into her arms when she arrived and putting him down for a nap not long after.
With a little bit of spare time, Monica sat down at Ross' desk and opened bed email.
There was a little red dot beside a notification and an email had come through.
Monica laughed bitterly. NY1990 had emailed her when she was having breakfast with her friends, or talking to Chandler about their plans for the day. Sorry, she'd had more important things to do.