vaguely noble beauty. Peterson was hurt, physically hurt, by the possiblity of losing her. The only person he wanted even more to hold onto was Melanie. And if he lost Cheryl …
Cheryl poured herself another cup of coffee, drank it standing up as she began to gather the dishes. She drank more and more coffee lately, black coffee, as if to maintain a state of nervous superalertness.
Peterson gave up waiting for her to answer him, sat and watched her as he smoked a cigarette. Contrasting her quick, sure movements refined by time and thousands of tables cleared after thousands of meals, her face was tranquil and unreadable, the face of a woman who masked things.
It all made Peterson wonder what had gone wrong. He was still not a bad-looking guy, with most of his hair and the same clean-cut, squarish features; gone a little to overweight, but who the hell hadn’t? He was faithful, reliable, and had given Cheryl more than she had a right to expect. And until recently their sex life had been more than satisfactory—at least he’d thought so. He still was, in most respects, the same man Cheryl had chosen to marry.
It occurred to him that maybe that was the problem; she had changed and he hadn’t. He snubbed out his half-smoked cigarette in the saucer she’d left him for an ashtray, listening to the dying ember hiss briefly in the muddy brown residue of coffee.
Damn it, she hadn’t changed! Not gradually, anyway. Not until the last few months, when words between them became forced, and her features had taken on the cast of a stranger’s.
Stranger though she’d become, Cheryl was candid with Peterson. She had told him about Carl Bauer, even though he hadn’t remotely suspected anything was going on behind his back. Carl Bauer, his ex-drinking partner, ex-fishing buddy, ex-friend. They had more than ever in common now. It disturbed Peterson that he couldn’t work up the proper fury toward Bauer. He knew that was because he believed Cheryl when she’d told him she had initiated the affair. Carl was a few years younger than Peterson, divorced, ruggedly handsome and an unabashed fun-lover. No surprise that a bored woman would choose him, and that he wouldn’t resist that choice. If it weren’t with me, it would be with someone else, was the old rationale. There was truth to it.
Carl was basically a shallow person, unstable, not Cheryl’s type. Eventually the infatuation would pass, Peterson knew, and Cheryl would be his again, maybe more firmly than ever. The pain was in the waiting.
“Where’s Melanie?” Cheryl asked when the dishes were cleared and the chugging, watery labor of the dishwasher sounded faintly from the kitchen.
“She’s swimming,” Peterson answered.
He touched his lighter flame to another cigarette, got up from the table and moved toward the family room, aware that Cheryl was following him. He no longer felt like arguing, wanted only to settle into his recliner chair and read the newspaper, read about other people’s problems. The newspaper was becoming an increasingly frequent escape for him.
“I’ve decided to go away with Carl,” Cheryl said.
How simply and matter-of-factly she spoke the words that drove the breath from Peterson. There was no quaver of uncertainty in her voice, making the blow all the more lethal. Peterson didn’t answer her right away, couldn’t. He settled into the vinyl recliner chair quickly because he had to.
“It’s what I want,” Cheryl said.
“It’s what you think you want.” His own voice was high, choked, but he drew a deep breath, swallowed and knew he’d regained control at least of his vocal cords. “It’s not unusual for a woman, an attractive woman like you who’s been married a long time, to think the grass might be greener somewhere else. It’s an infatuation, a temporary infatuation that will pass within months …”
She shook her head slowly; there was anguish in her mascaraed eyes. “It’s not only an infatuation, Bill, it’s
Cheryl poured herself another cup of coffee, drank it standing up as she began to gather the dishes. She drank more and more coffee lately, black coffee, as if to maintain a state of nervous superalertness.
Peterson gave up waiting for her to answer him, sat and watched her as he smoked a cigarette. Contrasting her quick, sure movements refined by time and thousands of tables cleared after thousands of meals, her face was tranquil and unreadable, the face of a woman who masked things.
It all made Peterson wonder what had gone wrong. He was still not a bad-looking guy, with most of his hair and the same clean-cut, squarish features; gone a little to overweight, but who the hell hadn’t? He was faithful, reliable, and had given Cheryl more than she had a right to expect. And until recently their sex life had been more than satisfactory—at least he’d thought so. He still was, in most respects, the same man Cheryl had chosen to marry.
It occurred to him that maybe that was the problem; she had changed and he hadn’t. He snubbed out his half-smoked cigarette in the saucer she’d left him for an ashtray, listening to the dying ember hiss briefly in the muddy brown residue of coffee.
Damn it, she hadn’t changed! Not gradually, anyway. Not until the last few months, when words between them became forced, and her features had taken on the cast of a stranger’s.
Stranger though she’d become, Cheryl was candid with Peterson. She had told him about Carl Bauer, even though he hadn’t remotely suspected anything was going on behind his back. Carl Bauer, his ex-drinking partner, ex-fishing buddy, ex-friend. They had more than ever in common now. It disturbed Peterson that he couldn’t work up the proper fury toward Bauer. He knew that was because he believed Cheryl when she’d told him she had initiated the affair. Carl was a few years younger than Peterson, divorced, ruggedly handsome and an unabashed fun-lover. No surprise that a bored woman would choose him, and that he wouldn’t resist that choice. If it weren’t with me, it would be with someone else, was the old rationale. There was truth to it.
Carl was basically a shallow person, unstable, not Cheryl’s type. Eventually the infatuation would pass, Peterson knew, and Cheryl would be his again, maybe more firmly than ever. The pain was in the waiting.
“Where’s Melanie?” Cheryl asked when the dishes were cleared and the chugging, watery labor of the dishwasher sounded faintly from the kitchen.
“She’s swimming,” Peterson answered.
He touched his lighter flame to another cigarette, got up from the table and moved toward the family room, aware that Cheryl was following him. He no longer felt like arguing, wanted only to settle into his recliner chair and read the newspaper, read about other people’s problems. The newspaper was becoming an increasingly frequent escape for him.
“I’ve decided to go away with Carl,” Cheryl said.
How simply and matter-of-factly she spoke the words that drove the breath from Peterson. There was no quaver of uncertainty in her voice, making the blow all the more lethal. Peterson didn’t answer her right away, couldn’t. He settled into the vinyl recliner chair quickly because he had to.
“It’s what I want,” Cheryl said.
“It’s what you think you want.” His own voice was high, choked, but he drew a deep breath, swallowed and knew he’d regained control at least of his vocal cords. “It’s not unusual for a woman, an attractive woman like you who’s been married a long time, to think the grass might be greener somewhere else. It’s an infatuation, a temporary infatuation that will pass within months …”
She shook her head slowly; there was anguish in her mascaraed eyes. “It’s not only an infatuation, Bill, it’s
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