Into the Valley by Ruth Galm Page A

But he didn’t laugh, only drank more.
    â€œNo, really.”
    â€œOh, c’mon. We’re married. What do married people talk about? You’re obviously not married.”
    She peered into her scotch with a vague irritation. “No.”
    â€œIn fact, now I’m putting it together,” he said, leaning forward, the mellowed face brightening. “Thirty and unmarried. That’s it: you’re on a quest. A midlife journey. Something mystical even.
    â€œI ran away from the East too,” he went on without waiting for corroboration. “Didn’t want all that baggage and dusty claptrap. Not to mention the tenure tracks were for the picking out here—forgive the pun. The days of peace and slumberous calm are fled . . . ”
    â€œI don’t really read poetry,” B. said.
    â€œMost people don’t.” He got up to refill their drinks and then sat down beside her on the couch. He stretched an arm out behind her shoulder. She found she didn’t mind.
    â€œHow old is your wife?” It was the scotch, she realized. The scotch was making her open, calm.
    â€œYou’re awfully interested in my wife.”
    â€œYou asked my age.”
    â€œLook, let’s get to this. What are you, pregnant? A dyke? Wanted by J. Edgar Hoover?”
    â€œI just think it will help.” She was suddenly aggravated. “To get away from the city for a while. It’s really none of your business anyway.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” he said. His face filled with what looked like true remorse. “That was wrong of me.” He drank down the rest of his glass. “I like a few drinks, honestly. I get uncivilized sometimes. It’s why my wife is out east at the moment.”
    They sat silent.
    â€œHey, do you know the one about the blonde and the drunk professor? Hilarious. Just wait a few days and I’ll remember the punch line.”
    She smiled.
    He stood up, slightly swaying. “We need a bit of dancing, I think.” He held out his hand.
    She hesitated. But it was all nice, the talking, the drinking, the dimness. She rose and took his hand. They began to shuffle together back and forth clumsily, she on the side of her foot. His smell was richer in the dark. The room swirled around her as they rocked, the books and the objets d’art taunting with their French titles and hanging breasts, the burning cities and Jayne Mansfield’s decapitated head in the newspapers at their feet.
    He murmured in her ear. “Take me with you. Sounds like a good time. I’ll be your helmsman.” He kissed her wrist.
    She thought in a part of her mind that she should not let a married man kiss her. But she liked him breathing in her ear, she liked a handsome professor trying to figure her out.
    They danced cheek to cheek (he was not much taller than she when they stood together), his skin salty, cologned. She felt the swaying had to do with the room, not their own bodies, it rocked her into a kind of trance. The carsickness was buried underneath the layers of scotch. She should drink more often, she thought.
    â€œI played with paper dolls when I was younger,” she whispered into his ear. The image appeared to her as they danced: a dozen ladies’ punch-out outfits with tabs on her bedroom floor, flouncy chartreuses and roses and tangerines. “It was always the point to see her in something different. One dress grew tiring and you tried another, and it was pretty for a while, and then again it was tiring.” She paused. “I didn’t have any thoughts about this when I was a girl.” He brought her forearm to his mouth and sucked on it for a moment, his dry lips and rough tongue spurring on the memory of the dolls. “But now it seems so disturbing to me. That I would think of the doll with no care or concern but what new different dress to wear. What did she do all day? I never thought about it. I never thought about what her days