look at each other. Then he looks at the man next to me. The theater has turned into a living room.
“This is the front hallway. This is the bathroom. This is the bedroom.” I say these things in a fragile voice.
The couple lingers at the door of my bedroom. “Would you like to go in?” I ask.
“Yes,” the man answers.
They asked if they could visit me and now they are here. I freeze in front of my bed, a statue in my own rooms.
“We don’t mean to frighten you,” the woman says.
“I’m often frightened.”
“Why?” the man asks.
“Life is frightening.” I sigh. “But it is also tender.”
“It is,” the woman says. “And sometimes it becomes new.”
“Should I change into something more comfortable?” I ask.
“Oh, yes,” she says.
I take off my clothes, enjoying the feeling of being naked in front of the couple. I think they are finally scared. I pull the robe around me, closing it with its silk belt. Now nobody knows what to do. I kiss the woman and then I kiss the man. Then we stand there, terrified.
At school, I try to be present for my students. We make turkeys out of paper plates and construction paper, and after the children have drawn all over them in colors like pink and light green that are nothing like the colors of turkeys, they take off around the room, running with their new birds, sometimes slipping on them.
“Be careful, be careful,” I yell.
On my walks I whisper to myself, “This couple, this couple, this couple.”
“You’re different than the others,” the woman tells me.
“I’m different from myself,” I say cheerfully, patting her hands with mine. The man is lying in my bed, waiting for me.
“Can I give you something?” she asks.
“I don’t deserve anything.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
She takes out a black velvet jewelry box. Inside the box is a delicate gold bracelet made for someone with much finer wrists than mine, someone with noble blood.
“It’s pretty.”
“Will you wear it?”
She puts the bracelet around my wrist and it shines in the lamplight. The gold is both yellow and white.
“But what does it mean? Are you asking me to be in a relationship with you?”
The man comes out of the bedroom and stands in the hallway.
“Yes, we would like to stay with you forever.”
I’m very warm now, especially around my wrist. I don’t think I’ve ever been this warm before.
I wear the bracelet every day. I sleep with it, and I leave it on my wrist when I am taking a bath. I have told the couple that forever is a long time, and they don’t seem to mind my lack of commitment.
“I am so much in the present,” the woman says, “that it doesn’t bother me to let go of the future.”
“The future,” I repeat dreamily. “I guess I wouldn’t mind if it were an extension of this. It’s just that I never imagined I would be in a long-term relationship with a married couple.”
“We never thought of it either,” the man says. He’s wearing a wintery sweater. Everything is wintery now.
When I go to the grocery store I see the bracelet when I reach for things on the shelves. I see my whole arm. Even the children are drawn to its delicate nature, and one of them stares at it when he is supposed to be taking a spelling test. After the test is over the students go home and I stay behind to catch up on my grading. It is dark outside by the time I finish. The turkeys are stapled to a long bulletin board. When the heater kicks on I can hear the air come through the vents.
The school is over 100 years old. Time moves and the building stays still. The first students who went to this school are dead. I look at the turkeys and feel tender toward the children. The children like making things. They like the holidays.
At home, late, the woman calls.
“I just wanted to say good night.”
“Are you going to sleep now?”
“Yes, I’m lying in bed. I’m thinking about you.”
“I’m in my robe,” I say. “I’m thinking about you
“This is the front hallway. This is the bathroom. This is the bedroom.” I say these things in a fragile voice.
The couple lingers at the door of my bedroom. “Would you like to go in?” I ask.
“Yes,” the man answers.
They asked if they could visit me and now they are here. I freeze in front of my bed, a statue in my own rooms.
“We don’t mean to frighten you,” the woman says.
“I’m often frightened.”
“Why?” the man asks.
“Life is frightening.” I sigh. “But it is also tender.”
“It is,” the woman says. “And sometimes it becomes new.”
“Should I change into something more comfortable?” I ask.
“Oh, yes,” she says.
I take off my clothes, enjoying the feeling of being naked in front of the couple. I think they are finally scared. I pull the robe around me, closing it with its silk belt. Now nobody knows what to do. I kiss the woman and then I kiss the man. Then we stand there, terrified.
At school, I try to be present for my students. We make turkeys out of paper plates and construction paper, and after the children have drawn all over them in colors like pink and light green that are nothing like the colors of turkeys, they take off around the room, running with their new birds, sometimes slipping on them.
“Be careful, be careful,” I yell.
On my walks I whisper to myself, “This couple, this couple, this couple.”
“You’re different than the others,” the woman tells me.
“I’m different from myself,” I say cheerfully, patting her hands with mine. The man is lying in my bed, waiting for me.
“Can I give you something?” she asks.
“I don’t deserve anything.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
She takes out a black velvet jewelry box. Inside the box is a delicate gold bracelet made for someone with much finer wrists than mine, someone with noble blood.
“It’s pretty.”
“Will you wear it?”
She puts the bracelet around my wrist and it shines in the lamplight. The gold is both yellow and white.
“But what does it mean? Are you asking me to be in a relationship with you?”
The man comes out of the bedroom and stands in the hallway.
“Yes, we would like to stay with you forever.”
I’m very warm now, especially around my wrist. I don’t think I’ve ever been this warm before.
I wear the bracelet every day. I sleep with it, and I leave it on my wrist when I am taking a bath. I have told the couple that forever is a long time, and they don’t seem to mind my lack of commitment.
“I am so much in the present,” the woman says, “that it doesn’t bother me to let go of the future.”
“The future,” I repeat dreamily. “I guess I wouldn’t mind if it were an extension of this. It’s just that I never imagined I would be in a long-term relationship with a married couple.”
“We never thought of it either,” the man says. He’s wearing a wintery sweater. Everything is wintery now.
When I go to the grocery store I see the bracelet when I reach for things on the shelves. I see my whole arm. Even the children are drawn to its delicate nature, and one of them stares at it when he is supposed to be taking a spelling test. After the test is over the students go home and I stay behind to catch up on my grading. It is dark outside by the time I finish. The turkeys are stapled to a long bulletin board. When the heater kicks on I can hear the air come through the vents.
The school is over 100 years old. Time moves and the building stays still. The first students who went to this school are dead. I look at the turkeys and feel tender toward the children. The children like making things. They like the holidays.
At home, late, the woman calls.
“I just wanted to say good night.”
“Are you going to sleep now?”
“Yes, I’m lying in bed. I’m thinking about you.”
“I’m in my robe,” I say. “I’m thinking about you
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