I walked closer to a large pencil drawing of a pinecone. “How long have you been at this?”
“Oh, you know. Forever. In one way and another. I had an aunt who gave me my first microscope when I was small. Nine or ten. She was appalled by the fluff of my upbringing. All princess pink and ballet class. My mum constantly telling me not to speak so much, as boys disliked it. The microscope got me interested in biology, or maybe in observing, as you say. The drawings followed quite naturally from that. In many ways, my life has been a chaotic one. These …” She indicated the pictures. “These have always been the calm at the center of the storm.”
I told her that surprised me, her description of a chaotic self. She seemed so pulled together to me, so orderly.
She laughed. “Well, you know those people who are better at living other people’s lives than their own? Wise about everyone else’s problems? But then a bit suspect about how they go about things themselves? I think I’m one of those. The tidiness is deceptive covering.”
“I guess that makes the rest of us the lucky ones.” I still wanted to talk about work, probe the depths to which we could talk about our respective processes. “I don’t know if this happens to you,” Isaid, “but there are moments when I’m so … I don’t know, so excited by a project, not that it’s going to be genius or even great, but just that it has me so by the scruff of my neck. I’m almost too excited to do it then. I can’t sit still. I have to calm down first.”
She seemed to think that over. “No, I’m not sure I’ve ever had that exactly. As I said, my work is … not the exciting part of my life. More of a centering activity. But really just a hobby.”
“So you keep insisting,” I said. “But I’m sure there’s more to it than that.”
“I’m afraid it’s really true. I’m a dabbler. I just … I just do it. I don’t much think it through.”
“Well, we’re all different,” I said. “I have certainly been accused of overthinking it. And Owen is …” Saying his name out loud, I felt a wave of sadness; then of anger; distinctly both. “Owen is in a very rough patch now,” I said. “With work, I mean. But when he’s working well, he isn’t manic at all. Just calm. And happy. All smiles. Not me, I’m like a windup toy that’s been over-wound. Of course, I haven’t seen that mood of his in a very long time.”
She asked me why, and I told her more about Owen’s bad months, about the muse that had abandoned him, the ways I had to tiptoe around his fragility, the stress of that, the tension. I could feel myself abandoning my intention to speak to Alison about work, and creeping further into an area in which I might share secrets about my marriage instead; and as I crept there, I felt accompanying twinges of guilt and of entitlement. But Owen had left me bereft of meaningful conversation, and in the presence of that vacuum entitlement won out.
“D o you think Alison is very beautiful?” I asked him over dinner, a juicy spit-roasted chicken he had picked up in town.
His face was unreadable. “Have we already established that she’s beautiful?” he asked. “So you’re only asking about the very?”
I rolled my eyes. “I think she’s very beautiful,” I said. “I was just wondering if you do too.”
He waited a moment before speaking. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I do too.”
“It’s her eyes, isn’t it?”
He shrugged. “She has nice eyes,” he said. “There are an awful lot of very beautiful women in the world, Gus.”
And if I had wanted to marry one …
He didn’t say it, but I said it to myself.
“She wears lipstick when she’s home, by herself. I think that may mean she and I are of different species.”
“But you like her.” It wasn’t a question.
“I suppose.” I wiped my mouth with my napkin. “Don’t you?”
“I’m getting used to the fact of her. I’m not sure I like
that
, but
“Oh, you know. Forever. In one way and another. I had an aunt who gave me my first microscope when I was small. Nine or ten. She was appalled by the fluff of my upbringing. All princess pink and ballet class. My mum constantly telling me not to speak so much, as boys disliked it. The microscope got me interested in biology, or maybe in observing, as you say. The drawings followed quite naturally from that. In many ways, my life has been a chaotic one. These …” She indicated the pictures. “These have always been the calm at the center of the storm.”
I told her that surprised me, her description of a chaotic self. She seemed so pulled together to me, so orderly.
She laughed. “Well, you know those people who are better at living other people’s lives than their own? Wise about everyone else’s problems? But then a bit suspect about how they go about things themselves? I think I’m one of those. The tidiness is deceptive covering.”
“I guess that makes the rest of us the lucky ones.” I still wanted to talk about work, probe the depths to which we could talk about our respective processes. “I don’t know if this happens to you,” Isaid, “but there are moments when I’m so … I don’t know, so excited by a project, not that it’s going to be genius or even great, but just that it has me so by the scruff of my neck. I’m almost too excited to do it then. I can’t sit still. I have to calm down first.”
She seemed to think that over. “No, I’m not sure I’ve ever had that exactly. As I said, my work is … not the exciting part of my life. More of a centering activity. But really just a hobby.”
“So you keep insisting,” I said. “But I’m sure there’s more to it than that.”
“I’m afraid it’s really true. I’m a dabbler. I just … I just do it. I don’t much think it through.”
“Well, we’re all different,” I said. “I have certainly been accused of overthinking it. And Owen is …” Saying his name out loud, I felt a wave of sadness; then of anger; distinctly both. “Owen is in a very rough patch now,” I said. “With work, I mean. But when he’s working well, he isn’t manic at all. Just calm. And happy. All smiles. Not me, I’m like a windup toy that’s been over-wound. Of course, I haven’t seen that mood of his in a very long time.”
She asked me why, and I told her more about Owen’s bad months, about the muse that had abandoned him, the ways I had to tiptoe around his fragility, the stress of that, the tension. I could feel myself abandoning my intention to speak to Alison about work, and creeping further into an area in which I might share secrets about my marriage instead; and as I crept there, I felt accompanying twinges of guilt and of entitlement. But Owen had left me bereft of meaningful conversation, and in the presence of that vacuum entitlement won out.
“D o you think Alison is very beautiful?” I asked him over dinner, a juicy spit-roasted chicken he had picked up in town.
His face was unreadable. “Have we already established that she’s beautiful?” he asked. “So you’re only asking about the very?”
I rolled my eyes. “I think she’s very beautiful,” I said. “I was just wondering if you do too.”
He waited a moment before speaking. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I do too.”
“It’s her eyes, isn’t it?”
He shrugged. “She has nice eyes,” he said. “There are an awful lot of very beautiful women in the world, Gus.”
And if I had wanted to marry one …
He didn’t say it, but I said it to myself.
“She wears lipstick when she’s home, by herself. I think that may mean she and I are of different species.”
“But you like her.” It wasn’t a question.
“I suppose.” I wiped my mouth with my napkin. “Don’t you?”
“I’m getting used to the fact of her. I’m not sure I like
that
, but
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