presentation to the Japanese today. A child. The mirror stares at my stupidity. The Japanese wonât order, I know it, feel it in my water. The mattress moans with her shift.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
We are having dinner. She is eating salad noisily. It was when I had begun to drink and had noticed it. Not so much that I noticed it but that she had stopped drinking. It was her way of telling me, of drawing attention to it. She had begun to know me, knew the way my temper flared with the breeze of her perceptiveness and so she said no, she would have no wine. For a while I cut back but then I weakened to opening a bottle at the end of the meal, then would rouse myself just before we started the salad. Finally I was reduced to glassfuls while we finished eating. During that dinner itâs obvious the marriage is slipping. Itâs like the L on her typewriter that canât bring itself to strike paper hard enough to make an impression. The harder the key is struck the fainter its outline. I wash back the anger; it swims in my ears. I stare out the window at the tarmac drive that runs up to the edge of the window. Itâs always a shock to see the neighbour cut through the garden, her frail feet passing by at eye level. I breathe deeply and imagine her eating becoming sweet music. She must have always eaten that way. I get up abruptly from the table and leave the room to steady myself. She shouts after me. Do I want tea. Her voice eddies on the waves of anger I leave behind. The air is a favourite cup, broken. I come in after an hourâs walk and there is a mug of tea on the table with a saucer over it to keep it warm.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
The smell of our sweat lost its passion. She no longer liked my smell about her nostrils. It all slipped between our hands. It was a long time happening (weeks, months, years?) but now it seems as fast as losing sight of a fish flipping in a river.
August: Summer trying to break out of a wet July. We are tiling in the bathroom upstairs. The telephone rings, we look at each other, at our hands covered in tiling cement. Itâs Friday evening. Invariably the paper rings on Friday evening. Looking for her to go to Leopardstown to cover a race meeting. She must have been first on the list; the freelancer who drops her life in the sink to ask rich men stupid questions.
âLeave it.
She is wiping her hands clean.
âIt might be the office.
âThe office is why I donât want you to pick it up.
The answering machine clicks on downstairs. Isobelaâs voice. I make a U on the back of the tile and wipe it clean. The Italian voice is a fired gun to my ears. Ursula looks at me for an instant and I see suspicion coming into her eyes. She goes into the study next door, picks up the extension, and says hello and calmly, so calmly it startles me, Isobela says hello and asks if she may speak to her friend, Stephen. Stee-pen. I sit in the bath, staring at the half-finished wall listening to their voices echo up the stairs from the machine. Ursula puts the phone down and comes back in. I talk out of nervousness.
âPut the lid on the cement or itâll harden.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
I pick up the phone and my hello is the voice of the accused.
âHi, Lover.
Isobelaâs voice is a warm crumpled bed sheet. Life is falling away. I tell her I am busy doing the bathroom and make a joke about her voice echoing around the house as we speak. Guilt stiffens me. She talks about going back to Italy soonâI interrupt and tell her Iâm going to New York. Her voice is assured and friendly. She brings the conversation to a silky end. Women are better liars. I put the phone down and wipe a smudge of cement off it. The courts are full now with Friday evening tennis players, ready to bash the week out of their minds. Lover.
Ursula is washing herself at the bathroom sink, naked except for white knickers and flat black shoes. Her overalls lie on the
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
We are having dinner. She is eating salad noisily. It was when I had begun to drink and had noticed it. Not so much that I noticed it but that she had stopped drinking. It was her way of telling me, of drawing attention to it. She had begun to know me, knew the way my temper flared with the breeze of her perceptiveness and so she said no, she would have no wine. For a while I cut back but then I weakened to opening a bottle at the end of the meal, then would rouse myself just before we started the salad. Finally I was reduced to glassfuls while we finished eating. During that dinner itâs obvious the marriage is slipping. Itâs like the L on her typewriter that canât bring itself to strike paper hard enough to make an impression. The harder the key is struck the fainter its outline. I wash back the anger; it swims in my ears. I stare out the window at the tarmac drive that runs up to the edge of the window. Itâs always a shock to see the neighbour cut through the garden, her frail feet passing by at eye level. I breathe deeply and imagine her eating becoming sweet music. She must have always eaten that way. I get up abruptly from the table and leave the room to steady myself. She shouts after me. Do I want tea. Her voice eddies on the waves of anger I leave behind. The air is a favourite cup, broken. I come in after an hourâs walk and there is a mug of tea on the table with a saucer over it to keep it warm.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
The smell of our sweat lost its passion. She no longer liked my smell about her nostrils. It all slipped between our hands. It was a long time happening (weeks, months, years?) but now it seems as fast as losing sight of a fish flipping in a river.
August: Summer trying to break out of a wet July. We are tiling in the bathroom upstairs. The telephone rings, we look at each other, at our hands covered in tiling cement. Itâs Friday evening. Invariably the paper rings on Friday evening. Looking for her to go to Leopardstown to cover a race meeting. She must have been first on the list; the freelancer who drops her life in the sink to ask rich men stupid questions.
âLeave it.
She is wiping her hands clean.
âIt might be the office.
âThe office is why I donât want you to pick it up.
The answering machine clicks on downstairs. Isobelaâs voice. I make a U on the back of the tile and wipe it clean. The Italian voice is a fired gun to my ears. Ursula looks at me for an instant and I see suspicion coming into her eyes. She goes into the study next door, picks up the extension, and says hello and calmly, so calmly it startles me, Isobela says hello and asks if she may speak to her friend, Stephen. Stee-pen. I sit in the bath, staring at the half-finished wall listening to their voices echo up the stairs from the machine. Ursula puts the phone down and comes back in. I talk out of nervousness.
âPut the lid on the cement or itâll harden.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
I pick up the phone and my hello is the voice of the accused.
âHi, Lover.
Isobelaâs voice is a warm crumpled bed sheet. Life is falling away. I tell her I am busy doing the bathroom and make a joke about her voice echoing around the house as we speak. Guilt stiffens me. She talks about going back to Italy soonâI interrupt and tell her Iâm going to New York. Her voice is assured and friendly. She brings the conversation to a silky end. Women are better liars. I put the phone down and wipe a smudge of cement off it. The courts are full now with Friday evening tennis players, ready to bash the week out of their minds. Lover.
Ursula is washing herself at the bathroom sink, naked except for white knickers and flat black shoes. Her overalls lie on the
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