conviction whatsoever. “Sure I can.”
“What does Jason think?”
“I haven’t told him yet.”
“Elisa . . .”
“I know. But can you imagine what he’d be like if he knew I was pregnant? He’d have me on bed rest by now.”
“He did just sneak into town for an EpiPen.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Okay,” Blue said. “Let me get this straight: You’ve stopped drinking and smoking, which leads me to believe you’re keeping it. But you’re not telling your husband, who, yes, would be irritating and yet obviously supportive and a complete prince. So instead you’re being freaky and passive-aggressively angry at him, even though he’s really done nothing wrong.”
“That pretty much covers it.”
“And you wonder why I won’t settle down.”
“If you had settled down with me, things would be different. For both of us.” She reached out her hand. He took it, traced her palm with his thumb, her heart line, the life line, fate. “We used to have a great time together, didn’t we?”
“We still do,” he replied. “Always.”
“Maybe you’re right,” she said, and withdrew her hand, let it fall beneath the surface of the water with a splash. “What you said that first morning? Maybe we should live here forever. Just stay. And leave everything behind.”
“We could do that.” He pulled the cashier’s check from his pocket. “We could go anywhere.”
“What’s that?”
“The proceeds from the house sale. It’s about enough to cover my debts, but fuck it, maybe we should skip town and never look back. Head off to Newfoundland. Or Greenland.”
“Or outer space.” She laughed. “What? It’s just as likely.”
Something rattled and clanged downstairs: the saucepan lid as it slipped off and clattered to the floor. “I shall return,” Blue said, and tucked the check back into his pocket as he leaned down to kiss the crown of her head.
There was a dryness in the air, a barometric shift as he exited the room that made his brain ache for hydration, if not a stiff drink. A tightness pulled at the corners of his cracked lips. Elisa was right, of course. They could never be together, not now, not without the both of them feeling as if they were usurping what was not theirs to take, or give. It would remain a fantasy.
Blue skipped down the stairs to the kitchen and turned the heat off the range, retrieved the fallen lid from the floor where it sat in a ruddy pool of boiled-over tomato sauce. He put thelid down on the counter, turned on the cold water valve, and bowed to drink straight from the faucet, his thirst boundless. Just drink , he thought. Drink and eat and most of all sleep. And when you wake up, everything will be normal again. No worries, no pain. Tomorrow, you’re out of here.
He turned off the tap, went to put the lid back on the pan, and froze. The sight of the sauce, bubbling gory red and pulped, brought him back to the basement and the boiling water that had burned him, the bloodied gristle mess of his small hands as they clung to the bars of the cage.
He placed the lid on the counter and, without another thought, plunged his hand into the scorching sauce.
He saw white with pain and shut his eyes, nearly blacking out. But only for a moment: just as quickly as it hit him, the pain began to recede. A tiny dark spot formed in his mind’s eye, and he focused upon it; the spot began to grow, until what was once the size of a pencil point became the black mouth of a tunnel through which his consciousness climbed, the hurt already memory. He lifted an eyelid to find his hand still pressed inside the pan, the sauce a stormy red sea around his wrist. There was no pain, not anymore; it had been an illusion.
He stood there for some time before he yanked his hand free, and in doing so toppled an open bag of flour from the counter. The powder rushed down his legs like an avalanche, hit the floor, and rose up again in a mushroom cloud of white fallout. The smell of seared
“What does Jason think?”
“I haven’t told him yet.”
“Elisa . . .”
“I know. But can you imagine what he’d be like if he knew I was pregnant? He’d have me on bed rest by now.”
“He did just sneak into town for an EpiPen.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Okay,” Blue said. “Let me get this straight: You’ve stopped drinking and smoking, which leads me to believe you’re keeping it. But you’re not telling your husband, who, yes, would be irritating and yet obviously supportive and a complete prince. So instead you’re being freaky and passive-aggressively angry at him, even though he’s really done nothing wrong.”
“That pretty much covers it.”
“And you wonder why I won’t settle down.”
“If you had settled down with me, things would be different. For both of us.” She reached out her hand. He took it, traced her palm with his thumb, her heart line, the life line, fate. “We used to have a great time together, didn’t we?”
“We still do,” he replied. “Always.”
“Maybe you’re right,” she said, and withdrew her hand, let it fall beneath the surface of the water with a splash. “What you said that first morning? Maybe we should live here forever. Just stay. And leave everything behind.”
“We could do that.” He pulled the cashier’s check from his pocket. “We could go anywhere.”
“What’s that?”
“The proceeds from the house sale. It’s about enough to cover my debts, but fuck it, maybe we should skip town and never look back. Head off to Newfoundland. Or Greenland.”
“Or outer space.” She laughed. “What? It’s just as likely.”
Something rattled and clanged downstairs: the saucepan lid as it slipped off and clattered to the floor. “I shall return,” Blue said, and tucked the check back into his pocket as he leaned down to kiss the crown of her head.
There was a dryness in the air, a barometric shift as he exited the room that made his brain ache for hydration, if not a stiff drink. A tightness pulled at the corners of his cracked lips. Elisa was right, of course. They could never be together, not now, not without the both of them feeling as if they were usurping what was not theirs to take, or give. It would remain a fantasy.
Blue skipped down the stairs to the kitchen and turned the heat off the range, retrieved the fallen lid from the floor where it sat in a ruddy pool of boiled-over tomato sauce. He put thelid down on the counter, turned on the cold water valve, and bowed to drink straight from the faucet, his thirst boundless. Just drink , he thought. Drink and eat and most of all sleep. And when you wake up, everything will be normal again. No worries, no pain. Tomorrow, you’re out of here.
He turned off the tap, went to put the lid back on the pan, and froze. The sight of the sauce, bubbling gory red and pulped, brought him back to the basement and the boiling water that had burned him, the bloodied gristle mess of his small hands as they clung to the bars of the cage.
He placed the lid on the counter and, without another thought, plunged his hand into the scorching sauce.
He saw white with pain and shut his eyes, nearly blacking out. But only for a moment: just as quickly as it hit him, the pain began to recede. A tiny dark spot formed in his mind’s eye, and he focused upon it; the spot began to grow, until what was once the size of a pencil point became the black mouth of a tunnel through which his consciousness climbed, the hurt already memory. He lifted an eyelid to find his hand still pressed inside the pan, the sauce a stormy red sea around his wrist. There was no pain, not anymore; it had been an illusion.
He stood there for some time before he yanked his hand free, and in doing so toppled an open bag of flour from the counter. The powder rushed down his legs like an avalanche, hit the floor, and rose up again in a mushroom cloud of white fallout. The smell of seared
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