saying.”
“Consequences?”
“Consequences.”
“I don’t believe in consequences. There’s just what happens and what doesn’t.”
“I’m glad to hear you still sound just like yourself.”
“Did you say that you loved me?”
“No.”
“That you never really loved me?”
“No.”
“That you’d met someone else?”
“Wrong again.”
“That you’re planning to kill me and collect my life insurance payout?”
“It’s crossed my mind,” he said. “But no.”
I felt like beating my head against the wall until my nose was bloody. I asked why we kept trying for so long, why we even came to Paris, if we both knew we never really stood a chance.
“Because that’s what you’re supposed to do,” he said. “You’re supposed to keep working on your marriage.”
It was awful to me, this idea that keeping a marriage together was like laying pipe or digging a ditch. But he was right: it was what people had told us we were supposed to do. We had listened to sentences containing words like “salvage” and “repair” and nodded dumbly, pretending we didn’t know any better. It was an affront to everyone involved.
I leaned against the pillows and the headboard. I breathed in deeply, but when I exhaled, no air seemed to come out, like something inside me had eaten it. “How was the flight out of Paris?”
“Turbulent.”
“Did you miss me?”
“Not as much as I thought I would, to be honest.”
“I don’t miss you that much either.”
I waited for him to say something else. I listened to his breath on the line. For a moment, I thought I was on the brink of profound clarity. I silently counted backward from ten and when I hit zero, I hung up.
I lay on the bed for a while longer, my fingers gripping the black silk of my robe. I blinked behind the mask. All of a sudden, darkness replaced the knife-blade of light that had been visible under the doorway. I went back to the living room, forgetting my empty champagne glass with its miniature acrobat charm on the comforter. The apartment was dark. The music changed to techno, which I hadn’t heard since college. I hadn’t liked it then, but now it sounded okay. Someone activated a strobe light and white beams cut across the room. People were dancing all over the apartment, in their bells and sequins and feathers.
“Henri,” Jean-Paul whispered in my ear. He had appeared behind me, his hands on my shoulders. “He went to the clubs in Monaco one summer and he’s been obsessed with those lights ever since.”
The lights beamed one way, and I saw into the kitchen, where Alain and Dominique were dancing with the woman in the dolphin bathing suit. The glass bowls on the counter looked like they were holding blood. It seemed everyone was smiling. Some of the smiles were painted on, of course, but I wanted to believe that everyone was smiling for real. I saw teeth and gums and tongues, just a glimpse here and a glimpse there, never enough to identify what belonged to who.
“Henri is from America originally,” Jean-Paul continued. “Our favorite American import.”
“I thought I was your favorite American import,” I said, bumping against him. This was the first time I’d tried to flirt with anyone in years.
“But of course!” Jean-Paul said. He draped his arms around my neck. Intersecting white lights shot across the apartment. I put Jean-Paul’s hands on my hips and we danced. We didn’t dance close. We jumped up and down, left and right, knocking into other people. We held hands, and when we let go of each other, it was too dark for me to see if he was dancing with someone else or waiting for me to return, if he too was smiling. I let out a scream and felt a little thrill. I did it again and got the same rush. It was dark and I was masked and no one knew who I was or where I was going next or whether I was losing my mind or finding it.
When the song ended, Jean-Paul took my hand and led me out of the apartment. It was still
“Consequences?”
“Consequences.”
“I don’t believe in consequences. There’s just what happens and what doesn’t.”
“I’m glad to hear you still sound just like yourself.”
“Did you say that you loved me?”
“No.”
“That you never really loved me?”
“No.”
“That you’d met someone else?”
“Wrong again.”
“That you’re planning to kill me and collect my life insurance payout?”
“It’s crossed my mind,” he said. “But no.”
I felt like beating my head against the wall until my nose was bloody. I asked why we kept trying for so long, why we even came to Paris, if we both knew we never really stood a chance.
“Because that’s what you’re supposed to do,” he said. “You’re supposed to keep working on your marriage.”
It was awful to me, this idea that keeping a marriage together was like laying pipe or digging a ditch. But he was right: it was what people had told us we were supposed to do. We had listened to sentences containing words like “salvage” and “repair” and nodded dumbly, pretending we didn’t know any better. It was an affront to everyone involved.
I leaned against the pillows and the headboard. I breathed in deeply, but when I exhaled, no air seemed to come out, like something inside me had eaten it. “How was the flight out of Paris?”
“Turbulent.”
“Did you miss me?”
“Not as much as I thought I would, to be honest.”
“I don’t miss you that much either.”
I waited for him to say something else. I listened to his breath on the line. For a moment, I thought I was on the brink of profound clarity. I silently counted backward from ten and when I hit zero, I hung up.
I lay on the bed for a while longer, my fingers gripping the black silk of my robe. I blinked behind the mask. All of a sudden, darkness replaced the knife-blade of light that had been visible under the doorway. I went back to the living room, forgetting my empty champagne glass with its miniature acrobat charm on the comforter. The apartment was dark. The music changed to techno, which I hadn’t heard since college. I hadn’t liked it then, but now it sounded okay. Someone activated a strobe light and white beams cut across the room. People were dancing all over the apartment, in their bells and sequins and feathers.
“Henri,” Jean-Paul whispered in my ear. He had appeared behind me, his hands on my shoulders. “He went to the clubs in Monaco one summer and he’s been obsessed with those lights ever since.”
The lights beamed one way, and I saw into the kitchen, where Alain and Dominique were dancing with the woman in the dolphin bathing suit. The glass bowls on the counter looked like they were holding blood. It seemed everyone was smiling. Some of the smiles were painted on, of course, but I wanted to believe that everyone was smiling for real. I saw teeth and gums and tongues, just a glimpse here and a glimpse there, never enough to identify what belonged to who.
“Henri is from America originally,” Jean-Paul continued. “Our favorite American import.”
“I thought I was your favorite American import,” I said, bumping against him. This was the first time I’d tried to flirt with anyone in years.
“But of course!” Jean-Paul said. He draped his arms around my neck. Intersecting white lights shot across the apartment. I put Jean-Paul’s hands on my hips and we danced. We didn’t dance close. We jumped up and down, left and right, knocking into other people. We held hands, and when we let go of each other, it was too dark for me to see if he was dancing with someone else or waiting for me to return, if he too was smiling. I let out a scream and felt a little thrill. I did it again and got the same rush. It was dark and I was masked and no one knew who I was or where I was going next or whether I was losing my mind or finding it.
When the song ended, Jean-Paul took my hand and led me out of the apartment. It was still
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