Read Online Still Life with Husband by Lauren Fox - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lauren Fox
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flower arranging, too.”
“Not many guys can say that.”
“What’s your sign? What’re your interior decorating inclinations?”
“I’m a Leo, and actually this really fits. We’re supposed to be all about bright colors and creative decorating.” I have a vision of Kevin’s and my bedroom, of the abstract print I bought at the museum last year, all splashy purples and greens. Hanging above our bed, our bed that is covered with a sunny yellow quilt. “It’s true,” I mumble. “I really go for bright colors.”
“I had an aunt who was an astrologer,” David says. “I used to spend summers with her. Until she started baking birthday cakes for her plants. But, before that, she was really into all of it, astrology and tarot, and she made it seem very legitimate. Almost scientific, in a weird way. Or, prescientific, but somehow valid.”
“That’s funny. I have an aunt who always says, ‘I don’t believe in astrology, but I’m a Sagittarius, and we’re very skeptical.’”
David looks at me and laughs again and all of a sudden I know, if I had any doubts before: the deal is sealed. He’s gazing at me like I’m the cleverest person he’s ever met, like I’m a jewel he’s discovered buried in the sand. I see it in his eyes, and it turns me into liquid. Whatever this is, I’m going to have to face it.
“How did you get into this racket?” I ask him, a traffic cop of conversation. Yield! Avoid intimacy!
“My degree was in journalism. After college, while my friends were becoming Internet zillionaires, I decided to go the really lucrative route and write a novel,” he says, still not dropping his eyes from mine. “It was a comedy about three unlucky mercenary soldiers in Central America. I wrote a hundred-fifty pages of it before I realized I knew nothing about mercenary soldiers or Central America. Although I had been to El Salvador for a week in high school. But…oh, and I called it, Soldiers of Misfortune. I could actually see it on the New York Times best-seller list. That was how I’d lull myself to sleep at night, visualizing it. Number one, three weeks running. Sometimes it was number two, if I didn’t want to seem greedy. Anyway, I was having these vivid fantasies about my success, but I was living on ramen noodles. I woke up one morning and realized it was time to call it quits.”
“And then what?” I ask, enthralled. David’s career search mirrors mine, and makes me feel legitimate. In spite of himself, the example set by Kevin—disciplined, rigorous, career-oriented Kevin—has always made it seem like you either have what it takes or you don’t. No in-betweens.
“I got a job at a suburban paper in Chicago. I was living in the city, and it was a ninety-minute commute. And I sat through more school board meetings in three years than most school board members did. But then this came along five years ago, so I moved here.”
“Do you ever wish you’d stuck it out with the novel?”
“Sure. Sort of.” He sips his coffee, which must be cold by now; mine is. It doesn’t seem like he cares. “I wish I’d been able to persist and write a good novel. Soldiers of Misfortune wasn’t. But, I figure, I’m young. There’s still time.”
If you walked into White’s Bookstore/Café on this particular chilly Friday morning and you saw us, David Keller and me, sitting at the table in the corner near the window, both of us occasionally sipping from big green mugs, talking, laughing, our bodies leaning forward, dark heads close together, you would see a small solar system, closed, impenetrable; you would see two people on a date—possibly, you would muse, a first date; undoubtedly, you would think, an excellent date. Unless you knew me, of course. Then you’d think, What’s Emily doing with that guy who’s not her husband?
We talk for two hours that feel like ten minutes. We divulge silly, intimate things to each other. David blushingly admits that his favorite thing to do
“Not many guys can say that.”
“What’s your sign? What’re your interior decorating inclinations?”
“I’m a Leo, and actually this really fits. We’re supposed to be all about bright colors and creative decorating.” I have a vision of Kevin’s and my bedroom, of the abstract print I bought at the museum last year, all splashy purples and greens. Hanging above our bed, our bed that is covered with a sunny yellow quilt. “It’s true,” I mumble. “I really go for bright colors.”
“I had an aunt who was an astrologer,” David says. “I used to spend summers with her. Until she started baking birthday cakes for her plants. But, before that, she was really into all of it, astrology and tarot, and she made it seem very legitimate. Almost scientific, in a weird way. Or, prescientific, but somehow valid.”
“That’s funny. I have an aunt who always says, ‘I don’t believe in astrology, but I’m a Sagittarius, and we’re very skeptical.’”
David looks at me and laughs again and all of a sudden I know, if I had any doubts before: the deal is sealed. He’s gazing at me like I’m the cleverest person he’s ever met, like I’m a jewel he’s discovered buried in the sand. I see it in his eyes, and it turns me into liquid. Whatever this is, I’m going to have to face it.
“How did you get into this racket?” I ask him, a traffic cop of conversation. Yield! Avoid intimacy!
“My degree was in journalism. After college, while my friends were becoming Internet zillionaires, I decided to go the really lucrative route and write a novel,” he says, still not dropping his eyes from mine. “It was a comedy about three unlucky mercenary soldiers in Central America. I wrote a hundred-fifty pages of it before I realized I knew nothing about mercenary soldiers or Central America. Although I had been to El Salvador for a week in high school. But…oh, and I called it, Soldiers of Misfortune. I could actually see it on the New York Times best-seller list. That was how I’d lull myself to sleep at night, visualizing it. Number one, three weeks running. Sometimes it was number two, if I didn’t want to seem greedy. Anyway, I was having these vivid fantasies about my success, but I was living on ramen noodles. I woke up one morning and realized it was time to call it quits.”
“And then what?” I ask, enthralled. David’s career search mirrors mine, and makes me feel legitimate. In spite of himself, the example set by Kevin—disciplined, rigorous, career-oriented Kevin—has always made it seem like you either have what it takes or you don’t. No in-betweens.
“I got a job at a suburban paper in Chicago. I was living in the city, and it was a ninety-minute commute. And I sat through more school board meetings in three years than most school board members did. But then this came along five years ago, so I moved here.”
“Do you ever wish you’d stuck it out with the novel?”
“Sure. Sort of.” He sips his coffee, which must be cold by now; mine is. It doesn’t seem like he cares. “I wish I’d been able to persist and write a good novel. Soldiers of Misfortune wasn’t. But, I figure, I’m young. There’s still time.”
If you walked into White’s Bookstore/Café on this particular chilly Friday morning and you saw us, David Keller and me, sitting at the table in the corner near the window, both of us occasionally sipping from big green mugs, talking, laughing, our bodies leaning forward, dark heads close together, you would see a small solar system, closed, impenetrable; you would see two people on a date—possibly, you would muse, a first date; undoubtedly, you would think, an excellent date. Unless you knew me, of course. Then you’d think, What’s Emily doing with that guy who’s not her husband?
We talk for two hours that feel like ten minutes. We divulge silly, intimate things to each other. David blushingly admits that his favorite thing to do
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