them in the sink.
A rosary hangs on the wall over the faucet, on a nail, and next to that, a photograph of his grandfather beside his MiG, smiling with his wide mouth so that his tan, leathery forehead crinkles up even further. Sunglasses hide his eyes.
Gabriel turns away and comes back to the couch. Sessina still lies there, her mouth half-open, her breaths shallow, the top two buttons of her wrinkled white blouse unbuttoned.
When they married, Sessina had aspirations of a modeling career. Now she dresses up the mannequins that decorate the window displays of Garcia’s Department Store. In the bustle and fatigue of day-to-day living, the dream had slipped away from her, fragment by fragment, until she must have forgotten, or believed she had never dreamt of such a thing.
And does she, Gabriel asks himself, stare into my eyes and think the same thoughts, and there we both are, caught in moments that trickle away endlessly, lost in the repetition of doing the same things over and over?
Looking down at Sessina, her beauty remote from him, a movie image, not flesh and blood, Gabriel knows he still loves her — a sudden intake of breath when he sees her at night, a palpitation of his heart, the sense that even caught in the morass of daily life she makes it worthwhile. Yet there is such distance, as if, were he to reach out and touch her, he would find that she is really miles away.
D’Souza, pressed up against the bars of his prison cell. Might Sessina have met his wife in Garcia’s shopping for clothes or perfume? How difficult would it be to simply whisper, “Your husband is in prison.”
Gabriel gathers Sessina up, a feather weight in his arms, and she locks her arms around his neck and, half-asleep, nuzzles up against him. Not bothering to turn on the light, Gabriel takes her into their bedroom, past the chest of drawers with the photographs of her mother and father, Pedro, and Gabriel’s mother; another of his grandfather, months before his death. He lays Sessina on the bed and undresses her. Instead of turning the covers down, he slips out of his shoes, sheds his trousers and unbuttons three buttons on his shirt. He pulls it over his head and drops it onto the floor to join the pants.
Sessina has curled up on her side and so he slowly gets into bed opposite her, slowly makes his body fit the contours of her body. He puts a hand on her breasts and kisses her freckled back. Her skin feels warm to his touch. She makes a purring sound and reaches out with one hand to stroke his hair. He runs a hand along the side of her hips and she arches her back until his thighs come to rest against her buttocks. She is very hot; he wonders if she is a fallen angel, come streaking down from the sky, to be so hot. Such a beautiful stranger in his bed.
As he is about to fall asleep, Gabriel hears the sudden whisper of rain, and then an echo, and then a thousand voices, a speechless, rumbling patter. The storm will come in the morning, he knows, and he cocks his head to one side, as if listening beyond the sound of falling water for some other sound entirely.
Waking to the patter of rain against the roof, Gabriel looks groggily at the clock, which blinks “1:04 P.M.” Sessina left for her job at the department store hours ago. The bedroom window has fogged over and he smells the rising sweetness of orchids laden with moisture, bromeliads nearly choked with it. Drains gurgle with water.
Gabriel rises with a half-groan, half-yawn, his neck muscles aching. His mouth is dry; he feels parched, weak. Eyes blurry with sleep, he trudges out to the communal bathroom to take a shower, then dresses and eats a quick lunch. At three o’clock he leaves the house, hurrying to the car under the shelter of a tattered gray umbrella. His shoes are soaked by the time he closes the VW’s door. The engine starts reluctantly when he turns the key, then growls, as if the rain has done it good.
The drive to the prison takes no time at all under
A rosary hangs on the wall over the faucet, on a nail, and next to that, a photograph of his grandfather beside his MiG, smiling with his wide mouth so that his tan, leathery forehead crinkles up even further. Sunglasses hide his eyes.
Gabriel turns away and comes back to the couch. Sessina still lies there, her mouth half-open, her breaths shallow, the top two buttons of her wrinkled white blouse unbuttoned.
When they married, Sessina had aspirations of a modeling career. Now she dresses up the mannequins that decorate the window displays of Garcia’s Department Store. In the bustle and fatigue of day-to-day living, the dream had slipped away from her, fragment by fragment, until she must have forgotten, or believed she had never dreamt of such a thing.
And does she, Gabriel asks himself, stare into my eyes and think the same thoughts, and there we both are, caught in moments that trickle away endlessly, lost in the repetition of doing the same things over and over?
Looking down at Sessina, her beauty remote from him, a movie image, not flesh and blood, Gabriel knows he still loves her — a sudden intake of breath when he sees her at night, a palpitation of his heart, the sense that even caught in the morass of daily life she makes it worthwhile. Yet there is such distance, as if, were he to reach out and touch her, he would find that she is really miles away.
D’Souza, pressed up against the bars of his prison cell. Might Sessina have met his wife in Garcia’s shopping for clothes or perfume? How difficult would it be to simply whisper, “Your husband is in prison.”
Gabriel gathers Sessina up, a feather weight in his arms, and she locks her arms around his neck and, half-asleep, nuzzles up against him. Not bothering to turn on the light, Gabriel takes her into their bedroom, past the chest of drawers with the photographs of her mother and father, Pedro, and Gabriel’s mother; another of his grandfather, months before his death. He lays Sessina on the bed and undresses her. Instead of turning the covers down, he slips out of his shoes, sheds his trousers and unbuttons three buttons on his shirt. He pulls it over his head and drops it onto the floor to join the pants.
Sessina has curled up on her side and so he slowly gets into bed opposite her, slowly makes his body fit the contours of her body. He puts a hand on her breasts and kisses her freckled back. Her skin feels warm to his touch. She makes a purring sound and reaches out with one hand to stroke his hair. He runs a hand along the side of her hips and she arches her back until his thighs come to rest against her buttocks. She is very hot; he wonders if she is a fallen angel, come streaking down from the sky, to be so hot. Such a beautiful stranger in his bed.
As he is about to fall asleep, Gabriel hears the sudden whisper of rain, and then an echo, and then a thousand voices, a speechless, rumbling patter. The storm will come in the morning, he knows, and he cocks his head to one side, as if listening beyond the sound of falling water for some other sound entirely.
Waking to the patter of rain against the roof, Gabriel looks groggily at the clock, which blinks “1:04 P.M.” Sessina left for her job at the department store hours ago. The bedroom window has fogged over and he smells the rising sweetness of orchids laden with moisture, bromeliads nearly choked with it. Drains gurgle with water.
Gabriel rises with a half-groan, half-yawn, his neck muscles aching. His mouth is dry; he feels parched, weak. Eyes blurry with sleep, he trudges out to the communal bathroom to take a shower, then dresses and eats a quick lunch. At three o’clock he leaves the house, hurrying to the car under the shelter of a tattered gray umbrella. His shoes are soaked by the time he closes the VW’s door. The engine starts reluctantly when he turns the key, then growls, as if the rain has done it good.
The drive to the prison takes no time at all under
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