That had happened.
He raised his head at last, rubbed his neck.
And saw her, there on the other side of the bed.
She lay with eyes closed, hands at her sides, fingers clutching the bedspread.
He didn't want to disturb her. He modulated his voice, cupping the mouthpiece with his hand.
He told the maddeningly cheerful voice on the phone—it reminded him of a Nichiren Shoshu recruiter who had buttonholed him on the street once—to cancel one reservation. His wife was not ready, would not be ready on time.
Yes. Only one. That's right. Thank you.
He hung up.
He lifted the phone and replaced it on the nightstand. On the bed, where the phone had been, was an envelope. He picked it up. It was empty.
There was a sheet of paper on the floor, where Shelley had crumpled and thrown it. That was right, wasn't it?
He smoothed it out on his knee.
It was written in a very careful, painstaking longhand, much more legible than his own. He started to read it.
At the end of the first stanza he paused.
Yes, it was something Shelley had found—no, she had had it all along, saved (hidden?) in her drawer in the nightstand. She had taken it out earlier this morning, or perhaps it had been last night, and had shown it to him, and one of them had become angry and crumpled it onto the floor. That was how it had started.
He read it again, this time to the end.
(1)
brown hair
curling smile
shadowed eyes
the line of your lips . . .
hair tangled
over me
(2)
warm skin
tender breasts
your mouth and
sweet throat . . .
hair moist
under me
(3)
there will be more
my eyes tell your eyes
than love of touch
face lost in my face . . .
do you know what lives
between our breathing palms?
(4)
twisted hair seashell ear soft sounds
stopped by my chest . . .
dark eyes sleep
while I speak to your heart
He turned to his wife.
It was true; she was beautiful. Whoever had written those words had loved her. He studied her intently until he began to feel an odd sense of dislocation, as if he were seeing her for the first time.
He looked again at the paper.
At the bottom of the page, following the last stanza, there was a name. It was his own.
And in the corner, a date: almost fifteen years ago.
Quietly, almost imperceptibly, he began to cry.
For so much had changed over the years, much more than handwriting. He did not love her now, not in any traditional sense; instead, he thought, there was merely a sense of loving that seemed to exist somewhere between her and his mind.
As he sat there, he forced his eyes to trace the lines of her body, her face: the shrug of her shoulders, the sweep of her long, slender neck, the surprisingly full jaw and yet the almost weak point of the chin, the slight lips, the sad curve at the corners of her mouth, the smooth, even shade of her skin, the narrow nose, the nearly parallel lines that formed the sides of her small face, the close-set eyes, the thin and almond-shaped lids and delicately sketched lashes, the worried cast of her forehead and the baby-fine wisps at the hairline, the soft down that grew near her temples, the fuller curls that filled out a nimbus around her head, the hair bunched behind her neck, the ends hard and stiff now where the dried brown web had trickled out, just a spot at first but soon spreading onto the pillow after he had lain her down so gently. He had not meant it. He had not meant anything like it. He did not even remember what he had meant, and that was the truth. He had tried to tell her that, practically at the moment it had happened, but then it was too late. And it was too late now. It would always be too late.
He lowered his head.
When he opened his eyes again, he was looking at the paper. At the top of the page, perfectly centered, was the title. It said:
YOU CAN GO NOW.
TODAY'S SPECIAL
"How about some nice bottom round steak?" asked Avratin the butcher. "Is today's special."
"No round steak."
"Ah. Well, Mrs.
He raised his head at last, rubbed his neck.
And saw her, there on the other side of the bed.
She lay with eyes closed, hands at her sides, fingers clutching the bedspread.
He didn't want to disturb her. He modulated his voice, cupping the mouthpiece with his hand.
He told the maddeningly cheerful voice on the phone—it reminded him of a Nichiren Shoshu recruiter who had buttonholed him on the street once—to cancel one reservation. His wife was not ready, would not be ready on time.
Yes. Only one. That's right. Thank you.
He hung up.
He lifted the phone and replaced it on the nightstand. On the bed, where the phone had been, was an envelope. He picked it up. It was empty.
There was a sheet of paper on the floor, where Shelley had crumpled and thrown it. That was right, wasn't it?
He smoothed it out on his knee.
It was written in a very careful, painstaking longhand, much more legible than his own. He started to read it.
At the end of the first stanza he paused.
Yes, it was something Shelley had found—no, she had had it all along, saved (hidden?) in her drawer in the nightstand. She had taken it out earlier this morning, or perhaps it had been last night, and had shown it to him, and one of them had become angry and crumpled it onto the floor. That was how it had started.
He read it again, this time to the end.
(1)
brown hair
curling smile
shadowed eyes
the line of your lips . . .
hair tangled
over me
(2)
warm skin
tender breasts
your mouth and
sweet throat . . .
hair moist
under me
(3)
there will be more
my eyes tell your eyes
than love of touch
face lost in my face . . .
do you know what lives
between our breathing palms?
(4)
twisted hair seashell ear soft sounds
stopped by my chest . . .
dark eyes sleep
while I speak to your heart
He turned to his wife.
It was true; she was beautiful. Whoever had written those words had loved her. He studied her intently until he began to feel an odd sense of dislocation, as if he were seeing her for the first time.
He looked again at the paper.
At the bottom of the page, following the last stanza, there was a name. It was his own.
And in the corner, a date: almost fifteen years ago.
Quietly, almost imperceptibly, he began to cry.
For so much had changed over the years, much more than handwriting. He did not love her now, not in any traditional sense; instead, he thought, there was merely a sense of loving that seemed to exist somewhere between her and his mind.
As he sat there, he forced his eyes to trace the lines of her body, her face: the shrug of her shoulders, the sweep of her long, slender neck, the surprisingly full jaw and yet the almost weak point of the chin, the slight lips, the sad curve at the corners of her mouth, the smooth, even shade of her skin, the narrow nose, the nearly parallel lines that formed the sides of her small face, the close-set eyes, the thin and almond-shaped lids and delicately sketched lashes, the worried cast of her forehead and the baby-fine wisps at the hairline, the soft down that grew near her temples, the fuller curls that filled out a nimbus around her head, the hair bunched behind her neck, the ends hard and stiff now where the dried brown web had trickled out, just a spot at first but soon spreading onto the pillow after he had lain her down so gently. He had not meant it. He had not meant anything like it. He did not even remember what he had meant, and that was the truth. He had tried to tell her that, practically at the moment it had happened, but then it was too late. And it was too late now. It would always be too late.
He lowered his head.
When he opened his eyes again, he was looking at the paper. At the top of the page, perfectly centered, was the title. It said:
YOU CAN GO NOW.
TODAY'S SPECIAL
"How about some nice bottom round steak?" asked Avratin the butcher. "Is today's special."
"No round steak."
"Ah. Well, Mrs.
Similar Books
