could quell my deep anger for her.
She blew her chance.
As she locked the door, controlling it and the entire world beyond by turning three throw-bolts and setting the New York T-bar that braced the door, she asked, “Are you okay?”
“For now.”
“You look okay.”
A long moment as I took off my jacket and dropped my bag carefully, so as to not make a clatter. The silence stood by intrusively, counting the seconds of its own duration.
She blurted, “Do you want coffee?” As soon as she asked, I saw the same flash of regret that darted behind her eyes when she asked me one night to light the red candle she liked lit when making love. As I struck the match, I saw that the candle had been melted down much farther than it had been two nights before, when I’d last been to her place. I felt her gaze on my back as I lit the candle, wondering whom she’d fucked the night before. I
felt
her hunger to start a fight or to slight me, so she could control the moment and deflect any chance of discussion. I heard the flap of her turning down the sheets. She said matter-of-factly, while I stared at the new flame cupped in the diminished candle: “
Barbara thinks I should break up with you.
”
Though how
coffee
could inspire the same flash of regret in her gaze, I couldn’t fathom.
“Tea’s fine.”
She spun and walked her nervous springing step through the realm of her possessions and the two-decades-old “elegance” she treasured to the kitchen, past the uncomfortable couch where she made me wait on so many occasions. She’d lost weight since I’d last seen her. She looked like a ghost, or a fault in the negative of the lifeless catalogue photo her home resembled. Her hatred of her body had grown more passionate.
I rested my book-bag by the fortified door, opened the top zipper a fraction of an inch, followed her to the kitchen as I heard the faucet shut off.
“I wanted to call you earlier,” she said as she set the kettle on the stove.
“Why?” I asked, when what I wanted to ask was, “
Why didn’t you? And why bring it up, now?
”
“I wanted to see if you wanted dinner tonight.”
“I have to watch what I eat.”
“Oh.”
A pause of a second or two as I smelled fresh coffee, turned and saw the lone espresso she’d made for herself, the still-life with demitasse, book, and lemon rind she’d placed on her fine table to
show
me that I was not worthy of her making a second cup. I glanced to her espresso maker. It had been cleaned and wiped and shoved into the corner by the fridge where she stored it; the coffee grinder was not to be seen, and the counter was still damp and streaked from the sponge that had erased any trace of spilled grounds. Even the paring knife used to cut the lemon rind rested washed and shiny in the drainer by the sink. Her offer of coffee had been a mistake, a loss of her sacred control to fill the silence by the entryway, just as her asking me to light the candle had been a blurted loss of control. I stared at the espresso, at the demitasse that bore no mark of her lip on the rim, the perfect twist of rind that would be the envy of any barista, the book that had been so carefully placed. I felt Catherine’s eyes on me, touching my back as they had while I stared at the melted red candle.
I waited for her slight.
“I crossed out your number in my book. That’s why I couldn’t call.”
“I’m
listed
, Catherine.”
“Oh, yeah.”
I turned as she laughed a pretty little laugh, her almost translucent hand covering her mouth like a geisha’s. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
Before, this coffee tableau and verbal exchange would have set my teeth grinding and flurried my guts into self-digestion. Her little attack, her reduction of me to nothing more than an inky smear in her address book . . . a new and living ink, changing color as the red cells within lost oxygen, would be a justified blot to give in return.
We spoke blithering small talk a few moments as
She blew her chance.
As she locked the door, controlling it and the entire world beyond by turning three throw-bolts and setting the New York T-bar that braced the door, she asked, “Are you okay?”
“For now.”
“You look okay.”
A long moment as I took off my jacket and dropped my bag carefully, so as to not make a clatter. The silence stood by intrusively, counting the seconds of its own duration.
She blurted, “Do you want coffee?” As soon as she asked, I saw the same flash of regret that darted behind her eyes when she asked me one night to light the red candle she liked lit when making love. As I struck the match, I saw that the candle had been melted down much farther than it had been two nights before, when I’d last been to her place. I felt her gaze on my back as I lit the candle, wondering whom she’d fucked the night before. I
felt
her hunger to start a fight or to slight me, so she could control the moment and deflect any chance of discussion. I heard the flap of her turning down the sheets. She said matter-of-factly, while I stared at the new flame cupped in the diminished candle: “
Barbara thinks I should break up with you.
”
Though how
coffee
could inspire the same flash of regret in her gaze, I couldn’t fathom.
“Tea’s fine.”
She spun and walked her nervous springing step through the realm of her possessions and the two-decades-old “elegance” she treasured to the kitchen, past the uncomfortable couch where she made me wait on so many occasions. She’d lost weight since I’d last seen her. She looked like a ghost, or a fault in the negative of the lifeless catalogue photo her home resembled. Her hatred of her body had grown more passionate.
I rested my book-bag by the fortified door, opened the top zipper a fraction of an inch, followed her to the kitchen as I heard the faucet shut off.
“I wanted to call you earlier,” she said as she set the kettle on the stove.
“Why?” I asked, when what I wanted to ask was, “
Why didn’t you? And why bring it up, now?
”
“I wanted to see if you wanted dinner tonight.”
“I have to watch what I eat.”
“Oh.”
A pause of a second or two as I smelled fresh coffee, turned and saw the lone espresso she’d made for herself, the still-life with demitasse, book, and lemon rind she’d placed on her fine table to
show
me that I was not worthy of her making a second cup. I glanced to her espresso maker. It had been cleaned and wiped and shoved into the corner by the fridge where she stored it; the coffee grinder was not to be seen, and the counter was still damp and streaked from the sponge that had erased any trace of spilled grounds. Even the paring knife used to cut the lemon rind rested washed and shiny in the drainer by the sink. Her offer of coffee had been a mistake, a loss of her sacred control to fill the silence by the entryway, just as her asking me to light the candle had been a blurted loss of control. I stared at the espresso, at the demitasse that bore no mark of her lip on the rim, the perfect twist of rind that would be the envy of any barista, the book that had been so carefully placed. I felt Catherine’s eyes on me, touching my back as they had while I stared at the melted red candle.
I waited for her slight.
“I crossed out your number in my book. That’s why I couldn’t call.”
“I’m
listed
, Catherine.”
“Oh, yeah.”
I turned as she laughed a pretty little laugh, her almost translucent hand covering her mouth like a geisha’s. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
Before, this coffee tableau and verbal exchange would have set my teeth grinding and flurried my guts into self-digestion. Her little attack, her reduction of me to nothing more than an inky smear in her address book . . . a new and living ink, changing color as the red cells within lost oxygen, would be a justified blot to give in return.
We spoke blithering small talk a few moments as
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