cheek, and then he leaned down and kissed me, and everyone just stood there clapping. Molly sat back down and I watched Martin taking it in, and after a few moments of smiling, his face tired and he dropped it, and then the three of us remained there, waiting for it all to end.
Back at the house, we tossed our coats over the back of the brown couch and Martin went straight to the back door, murmuring, Back in a minute. Molly turned to me, surprised, but I’d learned to smile inwardly at these abrupt withdrawals. It was one of the things we fought about, but I’d learned to stash my frustration with this behaviour in the Unchosen Battles part of my mind. Sometimes he told me what was on his mind at these times, or he just didn’t; I learned to live with this spectacle of concealment. I always imagined that from it emerged the things that I loved, the general peace of the rest of our lives together, his art, his self. I waved off Molly’s expression of confusion and said, He’ll be just a second. She shrugged and joined me in the kitchen. It was dusk now, that light that presses distances together and makes the world look like a charcoal drawing. I poured us both some of the sherry Molly had brought — we were already a bit drunk, but a little more wasn’t going to hurt. The light in Martin’s shed blinked on, and we could see his shadow behind the high smoky window. A misty fog coming off the river was drifting through the yard and the light from the window hung in it like something solid.
Trouble in Paradise? Molly said.
No … it’s just. This is actually normal.
Normal.
Well, I’m used to it, I said.
She looked back out toward the shed. It’s funny what we can get used to.
It’s not a big deal. I put my hand on hers. Don’t be insulted. It gives us a few minutes to catch up, see? I led her into the front room and we sat on the couch. It really has been a long time, I said. Molly sipped from her sherry, distracted.
You know, she said, looking over the tops of her glasses at me. I haven’t seen you in about two years, but I haven’t seen him in five.
Well, you never —
Exactly. I didn’t wait five years to meet Martin only to have him go have a sulk on me.
He’ll be back in two secs, I said, but she’d already gotten up.
I have my ways, she said, smiling sweetly, and she put her drink down with a faint clink on the glass table in front of us. Before I could say anything, she went out where Martin had gone out just minutes before and started crossing the grass. I rushed to the door and stood on the verge, watching her stride across the now-dark lawn toward the faint yellow light at the back of the property. I was trying to get past the stunned feeling so I could find the thing to say that would stop her in her tracks, but before I could manage it, she reached the door and simply opened it. Then went in and closed it behind her. I stood frozen to the spot, feeling the bite of the cool misted air, my mouth stuck open.
Shortly, across the small expanse separating me from the shed, I heard soft voices. Calm, quiet voices, floating in the air between there and here. Never mind frog-marching her out of there, he was actually talking to her. He didn’t
mind
that she had invaded that silence I had always, so assiduously, honoured. This was a different silence than my father’s, and maybe I had misread it. I stood in the doorway separating me from these two people I loved and it felt like my heart would just stop beating.
My father’s silence had sunk my childhood house in impenetrable gloom; it was a silence I disturbed at my peril, not because my father was prone to violent reactions of any sort but because if roused, he was capable of starting off on terrifying tangents. He might ask if I thought the couches in the house ought to be recovered, or if there were any churches I wished to join (and it seemed to him the more the better, saturated, as he must have thought I was, with my mother’s
Back at the house, we tossed our coats over the back of the brown couch and Martin went straight to the back door, murmuring, Back in a minute. Molly turned to me, surprised, but I’d learned to smile inwardly at these abrupt withdrawals. It was one of the things we fought about, but I’d learned to stash my frustration with this behaviour in the Unchosen Battles part of my mind. Sometimes he told me what was on his mind at these times, or he just didn’t; I learned to live with this spectacle of concealment. I always imagined that from it emerged the things that I loved, the general peace of the rest of our lives together, his art, his self. I waved off Molly’s expression of confusion and said, He’ll be just a second. She shrugged and joined me in the kitchen. It was dusk now, that light that presses distances together and makes the world look like a charcoal drawing. I poured us both some of the sherry Molly had brought — we were already a bit drunk, but a little more wasn’t going to hurt. The light in Martin’s shed blinked on, and we could see his shadow behind the high smoky window. A misty fog coming off the river was drifting through the yard and the light from the window hung in it like something solid.
Trouble in Paradise? Molly said.
No … it’s just. This is actually normal.
Normal.
Well, I’m used to it, I said.
She looked back out toward the shed. It’s funny what we can get used to.
It’s not a big deal. I put my hand on hers. Don’t be insulted. It gives us a few minutes to catch up, see? I led her into the front room and we sat on the couch. It really has been a long time, I said. Molly sipped from her sherry, distracted.
You know, she said, looking over the tops of her glasses at me. I haven’t seen you in about two years, but I haven’t seen him in five.
Well, you never —
Exactly. I didn’t wait five years to meet Martin only to have him go have a sulk on me.
He’ll be back in two secs, I said, but she’d already gotten up.
I have my ways, she said, smiling sweetly, and she put her drink down with a faint clink on the glass table in front of us. Before I could say anything, she went out where Martin had gone out just minutes before and started crossing the grass. I rushed to the door and stood on the verge, watching her stride across the now-dark lawn toward the faint yellow light at the back of the property. I was trying to get past the stunned feeling so I could find the thing to say that would stop her in her tracks, but before I could manage it, she reached the door and simply opened it. Then went in and closed it behind her. I stood frozen to the spot, feeling the bite of the cool misted air, my mouth stuck open.
Shortly, across the small expanse separating me from the shed, I heard soft voices. Calm, quiet voices, floating in the air between there and here. Never mind frog-marching her out of there, he was actually talking to her. He didn’t
mind
that she had invaded that silence I had always, so assiduously, honoured. This was a different silence than my father’s, and maybe I had misread it. I stood in the doorway separating me from these two people I loved and it felt like my heart would just stop beating.
My father’s silence had sunk my childhood house in impenetrable gloom; it was a silence I disturbed at my peril, not because my father was prone to violent reactions of any sort but because if roused, he was capable of starting off on terrifying tangents. He might ask if I thought the couches in the house ought to be recovered, or if there were any churches I wished to join (and it seemed to him the more the better, saturated, as he must have thought I was, with my mother’s
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