marking on his breast partly
obscured by one wing, which I think makes it look as though he’s holding a
painter’s palette. Perhaps I’ll name him Gauguin. Gauguin was a Parisian
transient with unsavory diseases too.
I follow Didier into his warm, cozy kitchen and watch as he
checks on the roast.
“Wine?” he asks, his voice still a touch tight from the
journey downstairs.
“Please.”
He pours us each a measure of white. “ Salut .”
I echo the toast and we clink our glasses. “Oh, very nice.”
Clean and sharp.
Didier nods stiffly. He feels…far away tonight. It’s just
from the trip downstairs, I assure myself.
But a week ago I arrived here to find him mired in the
aftermath of a panic attack, triggered by a disastrous solo excursion out in
Paris. He’s nowhere near that upset now, but there’s definitely something going
on. Something that’s stolen the ease from my normally graceful lover’s gestures
and words, and made his steady dark eyes dart nervously.
“So. What did you get up to today?” I ask, hoping I sound
casual.
“Not very much. Tidying up. Reading.”
“That sounds relaxing.”
Another nod.
“How soon ’til dinner?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
“Want to go sit down?”
He gestures for me to lead the way.
I settle on the couch and Didier switches on a second lamp,
lifting some of the shadows. He sits beside me, but he feels so distant he may
as well have stayed in the kitchen.
His anxiety’s nothing new—it’s a cloak I’ve seen him wear
dozens of times, though rarely inside these walls. Usually here, sitting as we
are, it’s only him and me, easy as breathing.
He sips his wine. I sip mine, unsure where to look. I’ve
caught his nerves and there’s a knot forming in my chest. I take deep belly
breaths to try to loosen it.
There’s something undeniably not right with him, and it’s
getting worse by the minute. He’s as stiff and quiet as he gets in the moments
before we leave for the corner café, but we’re not going anywhere tonight. Only
to bed.
Or maybe we aren’t going to bed tonight.
My stomach turns over.
Usually by now he’s flirted with me. Asked about my day. At
least given me that hot little look, the one that makes promises about what
will happen between us later. So far, nothing. Evasiveness or nerves. News he
needs to share…bad news.
I watch him as we drink but his eyes are on the wine, the
floor, his hands, the far side of the room. Everywhere but my face, it feels.
If we’re not going out, then the stress is coming from
inside his head. And now it’s inside me , a black viscosity rising from
my gut, chilling me to the bone.
“Is everything okay?” It hurts to even get the words out, my
throat’s grown so tight.
A long pause. A very long pause, then a deep breath. “I need
to talk to you about something.” His voice is heavy—heavy with dread, not
lust—jumpy gaze watching the wine in his glass.
My heart twists with fear. My feet are heavy, like huge
rocks pinning me to the bottom of a river, cold water rushing by, wrenching my
limbs and filling my mouth.
“Okay,” my lips say, detached from my brain.
Didier swallows, and I know now it’s over.
We’re over.
No one looks like that, so sad and broken and scared and
disappointed, unless someone’s died.
Or some thing . A relationship, if that’s what this
has been.
My chest aches so badly I want to rub it. My lungs shrivel
like pricked balloons, and I can’t seem to gulp enough air to stir them.
Didier leans closer, eyes narrowed at my face. “Are you all
right?”
“Yes, fine.” I drink deeply, gaze glued to the middle
distance beyond his shoulder. “Are you? What did you want to talk about?”
He stands. “I don’t want to tell you here.”
“Here?”
“Not in the flat.”
Pardon? Is this place too sacred, too sensual to be soiled
by a breakup? I set down my glass. “Where, then?”
“Follow me.”
He offers his hand and I take it, numb.
We stop in
obscured by one wing, which I think makes it look as though he’s holding a
painter’s palette. Perhaps I’ll name him Gauguin. Gauguin was a Parisian
transient with unsavory diseases too.
I follow Didier into his warm, cozy kitchen and watch as he
checks on the roast.
“Wine?” he asks, his voice still a touch tight from the
journey downstairs.
“Please.”
He pours us each a measure of white. “ Salut .”
I echo the toast and we clink our glasses. “Oh, very nice.”
Clean and sharp.
Didier nods stiffly. He feels…far away tonight. It’s just
from the trip downstairs, I assure myself.
But a week ago I arrived here to find him mired in the
aftermath of a panic attack, triggered by a disastrous solo excursion out in
Paris. He’s nowhere near that upset now, but there’s definitely something going
on. Something that’s stolen the ease from my normally graceful lover’s gestures
and words, and made his steady dark eyes dart nervously.
“So. What did you get up to today?” I ask, hoping I sound
casual.
“Not very much. Tidying up. Reading.”
“That sounds relaxing.”
Another nod.
“How soon ’til dinner?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
“Want to go sit down?”
He gestures for me to lead the way.
I settle on the couch and Didier switches on a second lamp,
lifting some of the shadows. He sits beside me, but he feels so distant he may
as well have stayed in the kitchen.
His anxiety’s nothing new—it’s a cloak I’ve seen him wear
dozens of times, though rarely inside these walls. Usually here, sitting as we
are, it’s only him and me, easy as breathing.
He sips his wine. I sip mine, unsure where to look. I’ve
caught his nerves and there’s a knot forming in my chest. I take deep belly
breaths to try to loosen it.
There’s something undeniably not right with him, and it’s
getting worse by the minute. He’s as stiff and quiet as he gets in the moments
before we leave for the corner café, but we’re not going anywhere tonight. Only
to bed.
Or maybe we aren’t going to bed tonight.
My stomach turns over.
Usually by now he’s flirted with me. Asked about my day. At
least given me that hot little look, the one that makes promises about what
will happen between us later. So far, nothing. Evasiveness or nerves. News he
needs to share…bad news.
I watch him as we drink but his eyes are on the wine, the
floor, his hands, the far side of the room. Everywhere but my face, it feels.
If we’re not going out, then the stress is coming from
inside his head. And now it’s inside me , a black viscosity rising from
my gut, chilling me to the bone.
“Is everything okay?” It hurts to even get the words out, my
throat’s grown so tight.
A long pause. A very long pause, then a deep breath. “I need
to talk to you about something.” His voice is heavy—heavy with dread, not
lust—jumpy gaze watching the wine in his glass.
My heart twists with fear. My feet are heavy, like huge
rocks pinning me to the bottom of a river, cold water rushing by, wrenching my
limbs and filling my mouth.
“Okay,” my lips say, detached from my brain.
Didier swallows, and I know now it’s over.
We’re over.
No one looks like that, so sad and broken and scared and
disappointed, unless someone’s died.
Or some thing . A relationship, if that’s what this
has been.
My chest aches so badly I want to rub it. My lungs shrivel
like pricked balloons, and I can’t seem to gulp enough air to stir them.
Didier leans closer, eyes narrowed at my face. “Are you all
right?”
“Yes, fine.” I drink deeply, gaze glued to the middle
distance beyond his shoulder. “Are you? What did you want to talk about?”
He stands. “I don’t want to tell you here.”
“Here?”
“Not in the flat.”
Pardon? Is this place too sacred, too sensual to be soiled
by a breakup? I set down my glass. “Where, then?”
“Follow me.”
He offers his hand and I take it, numb.
We stop in
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