I got home before midnight. An early night. I felt virtuous.
Melissa was still up. She was on the sofa, reading, reclining, legs curled beneath her. Black hair. Green eyes. She was beautiful. After eighteen years, I was still startled by it.
She had a smile for me that night. I basked in it.
What’s up, love?
Nothing, she said. Just reading.
What?
Oh, nothing.
She was embarrassed. It was something about feng shui. Or pressure points. Anti-carcinogenic foot massage. She knew I’d laugh. Yes, darling, my liver feels so much better, now that you’ve squeezed my pinkie just so. Others have squeezed my pinkie before. But not in just that way.
She wouldn’t find it funny.
She was fragile.
I sat next to her. I took her hand. Her fingers were long, patrician. Her skin was dry. There were small, eloquent lines at the corners of her eyes.
She was not so young anymore.
It bothered her.
I met a kind of interesting guy tonight, I said.
Really? she replied.
She sat up a little straighter. An unusual concession.
I was encouraged.
He seemed like a nice enough guy, I continued.
Oh?
I told her a bit about him. The carpentry thing.
‘But don’t get me wrong,’ I quoted him, ‘I’m good. I know what I’m doing.’
She laughed at that. A brittle sort of laugh.
I thought maybe I could get him to do a bookshelf. For the bedroom.
Sure, she said.
I’ll invite him over.
Sure.
Her eyes returned to her book.
The audience was over.
I trudged upstairs.