fingers were mottled blue.
âWhat are you doing here, Bill?â Reed said, stepping from the cart.
âChrist,â Hoffman said. âWait a minute. I havenât run that far since high school.â
âBill?â Reed said.
âWhat?â Hoffman said. âWhat, goddamnit?â
He glanced up at Reed and their eyes met, just briefly, just long enough for Reed to notice that Hoffmanâs eyes were startlingly blue. Pool water blue. April must have told him everything. He doesnât know what else to do, Reed thought. He knew that feeling, desperate and weak and helpless with loss. They cut the look short at the exact same moment and both of them blushed, faces going hot, each of them having seen something private in the otherâs eyes.
âYou donât have to go through with this,â Reed said.
âYou slept with my wife,â Hoffman said, still breathing hard. Then to the others, pointing with his cast, âThis man slept with my wife.â
They were absolutely still, frozen like awkward bronze monuments.
âLook, Bill, Iâm not going to do this. I wonât fight you,â Reed said.
Right then, Hoffman straightened and hit Reed in the temple with his cast. From the ground, Reed could see Hoffman, doubled over in pain, clutching his injured arm to his chest and he could see the sky behind him, pale, brushed occasionally with clouds. He had been about to say, it was an accident, we hadnât planned anything, it meant nothing, though all of those things, he knew, were just things you said at a time like that, even if they were true. He had beenabout to say, I know how you feel, Iâm sorry. He didnât hurt as much as he would have expected, was just sort of dreamy and light. The man was waving his arms, the woman shouting wildly for help. Reed got to his feet, shakily, not knowing what else to do, and kicked Bill Hoffman in the groin. In the process, he lost his balance and fell on top of Hoffman and they began beating each other as best they could in such close quarters, Hoffman with his cast, pulling Reedâs hair with his good hand. Reed held Hoffman in tight so he couldnât use the cast effectively and butted with his head, used his knees and elbows. They fought halfheartedly, dutifully, almost sadly, doing no less damage to each other for their lack of passion, rolling down a subtle incline, picking up fallen leaves and twigs in their hair and on their clothes, until they fell apart exhausted. The two of them lay on the grass, side by side, Hoffmanâs arm, the one with the cast, draped across Reedâs chest, rising and falling to the rhythm of his breathing. Reed wanted to ask Hoffman if, now that he knew, he was still in love with his wife, but he didnât say anything. After a few minutes, Bill Hoffman pushed himself up and left without another word.
Reed drove to Maggieâs house and let himself in the back door with the key she kept beneath an empty red clay flowerpot. He lay down on the couch in the living room and waited for her to come home. With his eyes closed, he took stock of his injuries. He must have somehow bitten his tongue, because it was swollen and felt heavy in his mouth, and by pressing it against the insides of his cheeks, he discovered a loose tooth. His face burned, as if someone had held him by the hair and dragged it back and forth across thick carpet. There was a throbbing, slow and even and only a little painful, in his temple. He could picture the bruise, a vivid discoloration, spreading back into his hairline, like a tattoo. Reed hadnât minded the horrified stares that strangers in other cars had given him on his way home. He believed, as surely as he had ever believed anything, that he deserved them. He thought of Joan Bishop, living alone in that house since her husband died. Of the morning she hadcalled him and Maggie into her yard to tell them what Hi John had done. The roses drooping heavily
âWhat are you doing here, Bill?â Reed said, stepping from the cart.
âChrist,â Hoffman said. âWait a minute. I havenât run that far since high school.â
âBill?â Reed said.
âWhat?â Hoffman said. âWhat, goddamnit?â
He glanced up at Reed and their eyes met, just briefly, just long enough for Reed to notice that Hoffmanâs eyes were startlingly blue. Pool water blue. April must have told him everything. He doesnât know what else to do, Reed thought. He knew that feeling, desperate and weak and helpless with loss. They cut the look short at the exact same moment and both of them blushed, faces going hot, each of them having seen something private in the otherâs eyes.
âYou donât have to go through with this,â Reed said.
âYou slept with my wife,â Hoffman said, still breathing hard. Then to the others, pointing with his cast, âThis man slept with my wife.â
They were absolutely still, frozen like awkward bronze monuments.
âLook, Bill, Iâm not going to do this. I wonât fight you,â Reed said.
Right then, Hoffman straightened and hit Reed in the temple with his cast. From the ground, Reed could see Hoffman, doubled over in pain, clutching his injured arm to his chest and he could see the sky behind him, pale, brushed occasionally with clouds. He had been about to say, it was an accident, we hadnât planned anything, it meant nothing, though all of those things, he knew, were just things you said at a time like that, even if they were true. He had beenabout to say, I know how you feel, Iâm sorry. He didnât hurt as much as he would have expected, was just sort of dreamy and light. The man was waving his arms, the woman shouting wildly for help. Reed got to his feet, shakily, not knowing what else to do, and kicked Bill Hoffman in the groin. In the process, he lost his balance and fell on top of Hoffman and they began beating each other as best they could in such close quarters, Hoffman with his cast, pulling Reedâs hair with his good hand. Reed held Hoffman in tight so he couldnât use the cast effectively and butted with his head, used his knees and elbows. They fought halfheartedly, dutifully, almost sadly, doing no less damage to each other for their lack of passion, rolling down a subtle incline, picking up fallen leaves and twigs in their hair and on their clothes, until they fell apart exhausted. The two of them lay on the grass, side by side, Hoffmanâs arm, the one with the cast, draped across Reedâs chest, rising and falling to the rhythm of his breathing. Reed wanted to ask Hoffman if, now that he knew, he was still in love with his wife, but he didnât say anything. After a few minutes, Bill Hoffman pushed himself up and left without another word.
Reed drove to Maggieâs house and let himself in the back door with the key she kept beneath an empty red clay flowerpot. He lay down on the couch in the living room and waited for her to come home. With his eyes closed, he took stock of his injuries. He must have somehow bitten his tongue, because it was swollen and felt heavy in his mouth, and by pressing it against the insides of his cheeks, he discovered a loose tooth. His face burned, as if someone had held him by the hair and dragged it back and forth across thick carpet. There was a throbbing, slow and even and only a little painful, in his temple. He could picture the bruise, a vivid discoloration, spreading back into his hairline, like a tattoo. Reed hadnât minded the horrified stares that strangers in other cars had given him on his way home. He believed, as surely as he had ever believed anything, that he deserved them. He thought of Joan Bishop, living alone in that house since her husband died. Of the morning she hadcalled him and Maggie into her yard to tell them what Hi John had done. The roses drooping heavily
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