Thank You for the Music by Jane Mccafferty Page A

in a red hat jumping rope, were slightly muted.
    â€œAre you on the pill?” he whispered, and I told him I was, but he should use a condom anyway—diseases, I whispered. I hadn’t been on the pill for years, and the truth was, it had been two years since I’d needed to worry about any of it. The change, as they called it, was something I’d walked through as if it were a simple doorway. What change? I’d wanted to ask someone.
    I did not like his kissing—too pointed, almost mock-aggressive. I kept turning my face. But soon after, when he entered me, speaking to me gently, saying, “It’s okay, it’s okay,” and I whispered back, “I know it’s okay,” I did not expect to be weeping with the odd shock of joy that was simply intense sexual pleasure. I clung to him with misplaced emotion, as if he were someone I’d fallen in love with. And since no real love was anywhere in that room, save for in the face of that jump-roping little girl on the dresser, the pleasure ended in embarrassment for me.
    For Abraham, I’m not sure. He may have been used to these things. He ran down to the luncheonette and brought me up a Coke and a plate of fries. We ate them together in silence, and I kept my eyes wide on the window, and listened to the sound of my own chewing as if it could protect me from thinking things like Here I am, a middle-aged slut!
    As I sat there dipping fries into ketchup, Jude’s face, Jude’s voice, broke through like a light. I was gratified to feel I missed him. Missed my husband, whoever he was.
    I had four more late afternoons just like this one, and put an end to them because I understood how quickly they would put an end to themselves. Abraham’s last words to me were so ironic they provoke my laughter even now. “You’re wild,” he’d said. How unknown I felt, but not as foolish as you might imagine.
    I saw Abraham only one other time—two months later, driving through a blue day in his truck, with a dog, and a young woman, whose yellow hair streamed out the window. I honked my horn and waved, in spite of myself, and then he was gone.
    â€œJude,” I said one night in the dark. It was raining, and we’d just watched a bad movie on television, both of us enduring insomnia. “I had an affair, you know.”
    â€œNo, I didn’t know.”
    â€œHe was very young. He worked on Noreen’s yard. It ended up meaning very little to me, but I thought I’d tell you. You’ve always been open with me.”
    â€œHave I?”
    â€œAs I recall, a girl you loved once ate dinner with us. She loved my cooking.”
    â€œTrue. True enough.”
    â€œJude, where are you? I can’t feel your reaction.”
    â€œI can’t either.”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œMaybe I’m relieved.”
    â€œRelieved?”
    â€œThat you’re outside the shell of this marriage when I’ve been outside it for years.”
    He sat up and put his head in his hands. I felt that he wanted to weep, but had no tears.
    â€œJude?” My face was red; why had I told him?
    â€œJust don’t say you’re sorry.”
    â€œI won’t.”
    â€œBecause I’ve been terribly unfaithful. More than once, you know. More than twice. You probably know this. Do you know this?” I didn’t say a word, but felt alone now, when I had imagined I’d already been alone. Does loneliness have floors like an endless skyscraper, and you keep descending?
    â€œFour times. Four affairs. The last one ended last year. I’ve been dying to tell you.”
    â€œReally? Why don’t we go downstairs and have us a drink, Jude. And you can tell me the story of our lives. You know, the one you forgot to tell me for the past twenty years or so. I’m such a good listener but you’ll need to give me some details.” I was on this new cold floor in the same old skyscraper and it