come to enjoy even in its repetition, the charming indie-rock soundtrack and the way, at the end, the princess decides that she wants to be an ogre, too, just like her rescuer. She imagined that this must be significant to him.
Usually, though, there was no prelude or small talk. They would move toward the bedroom almost as soon as they’d eaten their dinner, wordlessly undressing and falling onto the bed, grappling and kissing and moving against each other, not even making eye contact.
He was a better lover, as a brain-damaged person, than he usedto be—less self-conscious, less likely to come up with pronouncements like “I understand the importance of the clitoris,” which he said to her once when they first began to sleep together and then he went down on her politely for about eight minutes—whereas now, it was kind of like having sex with a monkey, and sometimes, okay, she found herself getting a little rough with him, digging her fingernails into his back or biting his nipple or gripping his etc. hard until he emitted a small yelp that, okay, really turned her on—and she thought,
Oh my God I’m a monster—no one must ever know about this …
And then afterward they stood outside her house and waited for the bus that would take him back to the group home, and he’d sigh, and shift his backpack from shoulder to shoulder: not much to say.
When he was gone, she sometimes felt as if she’d landed back in the first years of their marriage. That late-night feeling, that insomnia, that floating sense of having lost herself. She would remember what it had been like after Robin was born and she realized how permanent a choice she had made.
Back then, she found herself waking in the middle of the night. Even though the baby had been sleeping until morning for quite some time, she still found herself wide awake, listening for something she couldn’t identify. The baby was not crying, though for a minute she could almost hear it, vague, distant, melting away into other sounds—a plane’s metallic yawning overhead, the soft breath of her pulse in her ears, the assorted implacable clicks and hums of the house settling.
Once she was up, she felt better. She turned on The WeatherChannel soft and studied the temperatures of distant places; she looked through her old books from college, the earnest notes made in the margins by the teenage girl she had once been; she stood at the window in her nightgown and brushed her long hair.
Always, always, a few minutes after she woke, a bus would stop in front of their house. Often, she’d be standing at the window looking out. Presently, the empty bus slid down the street.
Who rode it? she wondered. She imagined people on their way to factories or hospitals, or on their way home from bars. She saw, or imagined herself—just a solitary silhouette alongside the street sign: a woman working a double shift? Or on her way to a tryst? A drunk, the lit end of her cigarette the same size and color as taillights passing in the distance? Another life? Another life?
After the bus passed, everything was still. She even walked down to the sidewalk sometimes, and there were only the shadows of trees and bushes crisscrossed on the asphalt, rows of streetlights stretching down to where the streetlight blinked yellow. There weren’t even any cars on the road.
It had actually been her idea to have a baby. Some of her friends had them by that time, and she’d been stunned by a longing the moment she’d touched them, their soft skin and beautiful, half-blind gaze, downy hair along their ears and neck. One night after she and Jeffrey had talked about it, he went out to a movie—a Kurosawa double feature—and when he came back, he said he had come to a decision. “Yes. I’ve thought it through. I think we can manage it,” he said, and her heart quickened. They lay down together, no birth control, and he began his strategic kissing of her body, his hands fluid and considerate along the
Usually, though, there was no prelude or small talk. They would move toward the bedroom almost as soon as they’d eaten their dinner, wordlessly undressing and falling onto the bed, grappling and kissing and moving against each other, not even making eye contact.
He was a better lover, as a brain-damaged person, than he usedto be—less self-conscious, less likely to come up with pronouncements like “I understand the importance of the clitoris,” which he said to her once when they first began to sleep together and then he went down on her politely for about eight minutes—whereas now, it was kind of like having sex with a monkey, and sometimes, okay, she found herself getting a little rough with him, digging her fingernails into his back or biting his nipple or gripping his etc. hard until he emitted a small yelp that, okay, really turned her on—and she thought,
Oh my God I’m a monster—no one must ever know about this …
And then afterward they stood outside her house and waited for the bus that would take him back to the group home, and he’d sigh, and shift his backpack from shoulder to shoulder: not much to say.
When he was gone, she sometimes felt as if she’d landed back in the first years of their marriage. That late-night feeling, that insomnia, that floating sense of having lost herself. She would remember what it had been like after Robin was born and she realized how permanent a choice she had made.
Back then, she found herself waking in the middle of the night. Even though the baby had been sleeping until morning for quite some time, she still found herself wide awake, listening for something she couldn’t identify. The baby was not crying, though for a minute she could almost hear it, vague, distant, melting away into other sounds—a plane’s metallic yawning overhead, the soft breath of her pulse in her ears, the assorted implacable clicks and hums of the house settling.
Once she was up, she felt better. She turned on The WeatherChannel soft and studied the temperatures of distant places; she looked through her old books from college, the earnest notes made in the margins by the teenage girl she had once been; she stood at the window in her nightgown and brushed her long hair.
Always, always, a few minutes after she woke, a bus would stop in front of their house. Often, she’d be standing at the window looking out. Presently, the empty bus slid down the street.
Who rode it? she wondered. She imagined people on their way to factories or hospitals, or on their way home from bars. She saw, or imagined herself—just a solitary silhouette alongside the street sign: a woman working a double shift? Or on her way to a tryst? A drunk, the lit end of her cigarette the same size and color as taillights passing in the distance? Another life? Another life?
After the bus passed, everything was still. She even walked down to the sidewalk sometimes, and there were only the shadows of trees and bushes crisscrossed on the asphalt, rows of streetlights stretching down to where the streetlight blinked yellow. There weren’t even any cars on the road.
It had actually been her idea to have a baby. Some of her friends had them by that time, and she’d been stunned by a longing the moment she’d touched them, their soft skin and beautiful, half-blind gaze, downy hair along their ears and neck. One night after she and Jeffrey had talked about it, he went out to a movie—a Kurosawa double feature—and when he came back, he said he had come to a decision. “Yes. I’ve thought it through. I think we can manage it,” he said, and her heart quickened. They lay down together, no birth control, and he began his strategic kissing of her body, his hands fluid and considerate along the
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