going to be the loser you run away from at parties.” The toothbrush was dangling from the side of her mouth, and she shifted it. “Imagining where you’ll hang out, where you’ll buy coffee, where you’ll do whatever. And everybody’s in the same situation, basically: we’re all finding our separate ways, together.”
“That does sound like college,” Dexter said. “But that’s not my life. I spend my days staring at a screen, alone.” He cupped a handful of water to wash away his toothpaste-foam; he was a neat and clean man, a considerate roommate. “Not chatting up new friends.”
Kate too spit, rinsed.
“Do you know that today,” Dexter continued, “I literally did not talk to anyone? Except to order my sandwich at a bakery. Un petit pain jambon-fromage, merci . That’s what I said.” He repeated the sentence, ticking off with his fingers. “Ten syllables. To a stranger.”
Kate too was still friendless. She knew the names of people, but she wouldn’t call any of them a legitimate friend. Now that Dexter had laid his superior loneliness on the table, though, she’d feel ridiculous to do the same. “I had lunch with a woman today,” she said. “Julia. We kind of got set up, on a blind date.”
Kate returned the tube of under-eye moisturizer to the cabinet, next to a purely decorative crystal bottle of perfume. The last time she’d worn a scent had been in college, a tiny bottle given by an aspiring boyfriend as a Valentine’s present. But perfumes were habitually eschewed in her line of work; they were noticeable, identifiable, memorable, traceable. All the things you didn’t want to be.
“Get this: she’s from Chicago.”
Dexter caught Kate’s eye in the mirror. “Are you sure you can be friends with her, Kat?” He never passed up an opportunity with this joke, though this time he didn’t seem to be taking his customary glee in it. The joke, like most of his kisses, had become perfunctory.
“I’ll give it my best.” She sniffed the perfume bottle—this one a Valentine’s Day present from a husband. Maybe she’d start wearing this, now that she could. “But Dexter?”
“Mmm?”
“Could you please stop calling me Kat? Or Katherine? I want to be Kate, here.”
“Sorry, I keep forgetting.” He kissed her lips, minty clean. “It’s going to take me some time to get used to my new wife.”
But this kiss was not perfunctory. He dropped his hand to her waist, the elastic band of her underpants. “Chicago, huh?” He chuckled, then moved his lips to her neck, and his hand to her thigh.
Much later, Kate realized that Chicago should have been her first clue.
WHY HAD SHE never admitted the truth to Dexter?
At the beginning of their relationship, obviously, it would have been ridiculous to tell him anything. It wouldn’t have made any sense at least until they were married. But then?
She looked over at him, a book in his lap, as ever. Dexter was a voracious reader—technical magazines and banking journals and serious nonfiction and, bewilderingly, a type of quiet English mystery novel that Kate thought of as women’s fiction. There was always a tall pile at his bedside, his only mess in an otherwise neat, orderly existence.
What was the thing that made her maintain this secret? After they were married, after they had kids? Even after she stopped being an operations officer?
It couldn’t have been solely protocol, although protocol wasn’t completely dismissible. Could it have been as simple as not wanting to admitthat she’d been a liar for so very long? The longer she’d gone without admitting the truth, the worse it became when she contemplated the conversation. “Dexter,” she’d say, “I have something to tell you.” God, it would be horrible.
Also, she didn’t want to admit to Dexter the things she’d done, the types of acts she’d been—still was—capable of. If she couldn’t tell him the whole truth, she was loath to tell any of it. That seemed
“That does sound like college,” Dexter said. “But that’s not my life. I spend my days staring at a screen, alone.” He cupped a handful of water to wash away his toothpaste-foam; he was a neat and clean man, a considerate roommate. “Not chatting up new friends.”
Kate too spit, rinsed.
“Do you know that today,” Dexter continued, “I literally did not talk to anyone? Except to order my sandwich at a bakery. Un petit pain jambon-fromage, merci . That’s what I said.” He repeated the sentence, ticking off with his fingers. “Ten syllables. To a stranger.”
Kate too was still friendless. She knew the names of people, but she wouldn’t call any of them a legitimate friend. Now that Dexter had laid his superior loneliness on the table, though, she’d feel ridiculous to do the same. “I had lunch with a woman today,” she said. “Julia. We kind of got set up, on a blind date.”
Kate returned the tube of under-eye moisturizer to the cabinet, next to a purely decorative crystal bottle of perfume. The last time she’d worn a scent had been in college, a tiny bottle given by an aspiring boyfriend as a Valentine’s present. But perfumes were habitually eschewed in her line of work; they were noticeable, identifiable, memorable, traceable. All the things you didn’t want to be.
“Get this: she’s from Chicago.”
Dexter caught Kate’s eye in the mirror. “Are you sure you can be friends with her, Kat?” He never passed up an opportunity with this joke, though this time he didn’t seem to be taking his customary glee in it. The joke, like most of his kisses, had become perfunctory.
“I’ll give it my best.” She sniffed the perfume bottle—this one a Valentine’s Day present from a husband. Maybe she’d start wearing this, now that she could. “But Dexter?”
“Mmm?”
“Could you please stop calling me Kat? Or Katherine? I want to be Kate, here.”
“Sorry, I keep forgetting.” He kissed her lips, minty clean. “It’s going to take me some time to get used to my new wife.”
But this kiss was not perfunctory. He dropped his hand to her waist, the elastic band of her underpants. “Chicago, huh?” He chuckled, then moved his lips to her neck, and his hand to her thigh.
Much later, Kate realized that Chicago should have been her first clue.
WHY HAD SHE never admitted the truth to Dexter?
At the beginning of their relationship, obviously, it would have been ridiculous to tell him anything. It wouldn’t have made any sense at least until they were married. But then?
She looked over at him, a book in his lap, as ever. Dexter was a voracious reader—technical magazines and banking journals and serious nonfiction and, bewilderingly, a type of quiet English mystery novel that Kate thought of as women’s fiction. There was always a tall pile at his bedside, his only mess in an otherwise neat, orderly existence.
What was the thing that made her maintain this secret? After they were married, after they had kids? Even after she stopped being an operations officer?
It couldn’t have been solely protocol, although protocol wasn’t completely dismissible. Could it have been as simple as not wanting to admitthat she’d been a liar for so very long? The longer she’d gone without admitting the truth, the worse it became when she contemplated the conversation. “Dexter,” she’d say, “I have something to tell you.” God, it would be horrible.
Also, she didn’t want to admit to Dexter the things she’d done, the types of acts she’d been—still was—capable of. If she couldn’t tell him the whole truth, she was loath to tell any of it. That seemed
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