Absolutely

She turned away from me, like it was her failing, while I lay on my back. It was also me who got up first, collecting my singlet and briefs from the floor on my way to the bathroom. The light, the room’s whiteness, was merciless as ever.

When I returned, she was gone, clattering around with something or other in, would you believe it, the kitchen. I turned the bedside lamp on and opened a book. Ah yes, the combination of the new and the familiar – the story took me quickly. As I read, I wondered about the irrational fear of an army man worrying that they’re a ‘bad soldier’ – what makes a ‘good soldier’? Something fell in the kitchen and I shut the book to listen.

Any sexual desire I had was gone, absolutely. What remained was, as usual, a distance. We couldn’t speak, or look at each other. There’d be no hint of what happened, just what remained. What had happened was almost unimportant, I would say nothing of it and she would not ask, like we could ignore the shit if it wasn’t for the smell.

I don’t think she would bring up the old days. I would laugh if she did, if she started comparing this body to the one I had all those years ago, however many it had been. It wouldn’t offend me – this thing already betrays me, like a bitter child, like I am not my body’s master. I fear it is already rotting.

But sometimes I think she thinks about days past. I can see in her eyes that she thinks to herself that indigestion, the heat, a late dinner, a night of drinking or an evening coffee would not have stopped me before. Now a semi-decent book will. The humidity will strangle my mood. A recent failing will make me not want to even try.

I was still reading when she came back in, reading deeply, almost to the point where I forgot anything was wrong at all. She folded some clothes and put them in their respective drawers and she fussed at the dresser, like she did when we about to go out to dinner with friends. She sighed and mumbled something.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, before quickly adding, “What have you lost?”

“Just my…” she said, mumbling the rest then sighing and leaving again.

There was something ugly about it – ugly and guilt-ridden and wrong. When it was like tonight, it was. Dirty, unclean in more ways than one. I felt, irrationally, like I’d sinned, in the way I felt like I’d sinned when I was a teenager. I imagine she felt similar and scraping the life out of dinner plates I had already scraped clean was just her way of dealing with it. But maybe not, I admit I don’t, even now, especially now, understand her.

The bathroom light illuminated the hallway. I heard her open and close the cabinets. I marked my page and put the book down.

“What have you lost?” I asked again, louder this time and not only because she was in the next room.

“Nothing,” she said back, innocence wrapping her voice like a warm blanket. “It’s OK. I found it.”

I swallowed hard then took up my book again. I stared at the words. We both knew this particular ritual was bullshit and pointless and just widened a growing gap, yet we silently agreed to do it – again.

The desire – or need – to throw my book at the wall filled me. The instinct to want to correct something with a show of force still surprises me and always, always catches me off guard.

The bathroom light went off.  She came into our room and was soon back in bed, next to me. I think I put my book away and slipped down under the sheets first. Whichever of us it was, I fell asleep with my head in her hands.

LI

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