Come and Join the Dance by Joyce Johnson

someone shouted down the black tube of the courtyard, “Hey! What’s going on down there!” and she saw the smashed pane in the kitchen window, the jagged wound in the glass that had not been there a moment ago. Was the window really broken? But if you thought about things like that, you would begin to fall—slowly, as if you had been dropped out of an airplane in a nightmare. It was strange, too, that the night was a slightly different color where there wasn’t any glass, and strange the way Anthony kept looking down at his bleeding hands and then at the window as if it were the window that had hurt him.
    â€œWow!” he whispered, strangling the word. Was he afraid she would find him ridiculous for talking to himself? Should she offer to help him sweep up the glass, say, “Don’t worry about it”—what was expected of her? She remembered the softness of his hair suddenly, the way he had clutched her when they had been in bed, and felt a peculiar hollow ache in her armpits. There was so much loneliness about the way he stood, all alone in the middle of the kitchen, not even angry but as vacant as she was, watching the ice cubes melt on the floor.
    She wanted to put her arms around Anthony, let him close his eyes, but he might not understand. He might push her away or begin to kiss her—that would be frightening, humiliating. She folded her arms and pressed them against her body as if she were cold. She would think about it. There was still a little time—Anthony hadn’t moved.
    The doorbell rang, unreal in the silence, rang again. Without even a final look at her, Anthony rushed out of the room. But how could he go when she had almost decided to touch him? Now he was opening a door, shouting to someone. “I’ll pay for everything!” Then the door slammed and she thought she heard him running down the hall to the elevator. There was someone moving around in the living room, but it wasn’t Anthony—he was gone. Her arms still folded, Susan confronted only the kitchen’s emptiness, the little square of linoleum where Anthony had stood.
    â€œSusan?” She looked up and saw Peter standing in the doorway. “Hello,” he said uncertainly.
    â€œThe window’s broken,” she said after a long while.
    He walked into the kitchen and looked at the window without saying anything, peered down at the glass on the floor. Then his eyes were on her again. “Are you all right?” he asked, half as if he cared, half as if he were just curious.
    â€œYes,” she whispered, “but the window … ” He was standing exactly where Anthony had stood. A painful lump was forming in her throat.
    â€œSit down,” Peter said. “Come on.”
    â€œOh, I’m really all right.”
    â€œSit.” Peter dragged a chair across the kitchen floor and gently pushed her down on it. He took off his jacket, tossed it into her lap, and knelt down to pick up the glass.
    â€œI’ll help you.”
    â€œJust sit there.” Methodically, one by one, he was picking up the splinters and dropping them into the garbage can. He placed the ice tray carefully on the kitchen table.
    â€œAnthony threw it—but it was my fault.”
    Kneeling among the pieces of glass, Peter had an odd, secret smile. “Well, it let some air in.” He stood up and walked to the window and thrust his arm through the hole in the pane. “It’s a very respectable broken window.” The way he said that reminded her of the careless way he crossed streets, the way he drove his car.
    â€œYou don’t care.” Her arms had slipped into her lap. She stared down at them wearily, a little surprised.
    â€œNot particularly,” she heard him say. “It’s almost summer.”
    For a moment she felt a funny abstract hatred for him. “Why don’t you break your own windows?”
    â€œWhy don’t you cry?” Peter