golden zeros. At the same time, something was happening to the part of her body farthest from Danny, who was crouched inside her knees. It felt like two oversized palms—one on her forehead and the other at the nape of her neck—supporting her head.
After she came, he plunged into her like a javelin, practically making an arc with his small body as he leaped up from the foot of the bed. They were almost exactly the same size, Carmen often thought: like two matching toys designed to be locked together. No wonder this had always worked so well.
Little had changed since Jobe’s death, at least on the surface of their meetings. Danny still held to the same schedule: every other week, on Tuesday, from one to four. How he’d worked this out with the library, she never knew, though he had a relationship with the director that led Carmen to believe they’d slept together at least once. She imagined the woman with her proper suits and tight hair getting a little tipsy after a party—something to celebrate the digital conversionof the card catalog perhaps—making out with Danny in some dark corner, tomes about botany sitting dustily on the shelves around them, taking him back to her office where there likely was a comfortable couch. The woman was married, and an indiscretion would have given Danny leverage, leeway. It was a small price to pay for freedom. This, Carmen understood.
One thing did feel different, however. It was something that Carmen had trouble naming. The sex was just as good, and Danny’s manner with her was, if anything, even more accommodating. That could be because she had insisted on paying all three times for the hotel, putting a stop to that odd moment at the front desk where they usually negotiated quickly whose turn it was, feeling guilty about the $5 million insurance check, which had arrived and sat in her bank account like a phantom that had taken up residence. Despite Jobe’s parents’ wealth, they’d never lived like anything but a professor’s family: comfortable and scruffy. Now, her return to work had become a choice, a diversion. And this affair somehow no longer was.
It reminded Carmen vaguely of unloading the dishwasher, taking bundles of forks out and setting them in a drawer. Not unpleasant, by any means, and satisfying in its way. Her relationship with Danny still seemed necessary, but more in the way of an everyday task. The daring otherness of it had evaporated. No longer was this the secret that gave dimension to her unfulfilling home life. These days, with Jobe gone, it felt simply like three recreational hours in a cheap hotel.
She scissored up to sit in bed, using her abdominal muscles the way she’d been taught in Pilates class. It wasn’t like Carmen to beg but she was desperate to shake Jobe from her thoughts. “What I need is a change of scenery,” she said to Danny, who had turned the other way and was reaching down for his boxers. “I know you can’t get
away
. But let’s do something, I don’t know, different. Maybe a museum in D.C.? It’s not like Mega has spies. We could get a room at the Monaco; have dinner somewhere really nice. I have some extra cash right …”
Danny made the motions of putting two legs through the holes of his shorts then turned to look at her, his face set and mournful in a way it never was.
“Carmen,” he said, putting one hand on her sheeted leg and staring at her exposed breasts, rather than her face.
“Don’t worry, I’m not asking you to leave your wife.” She inhaled, defiantly jutting her chest out. “All I want is some room service, a little champagne. C’mon. I’m a little rattled, frankly. I don’t think this is too much to ask.”
“It’s not that.” Danny shook his head and when he raised it, his face was sad. Carmen never thought of him as Indian, but seated there with a stony expression and his broad bare chest he reminded her of the photos she’d seen of warriors, sitting atop horses, feathered
After she came, he plunged into her like a javelin, practically making an arc with his small body as he leaped up from the foot of the bed. They were almost exactly the same size, Carmen often thought: like two matching toys designed to be locked together. No wonder this had always worked so well.
Little had changed since Jobe’s death, at least on the surface of their meetings. Danny still held to the same schedule: every other week, on Tuesday, from one to four. How he’d worked this out with the library, she never knew, though he had a relationship with the director that led Carmen to believe they’d slept together at least once. She imagined the woman with her proper suits and tight hair getting a little tipsy after a party—something to celebrate the digital conversionof the card catalog perhaps—making out with Danny in some dark corner, tomes about botany sitting dustily on the shelves around them, taking him back to her office where there likely was a comfortable couch. The woman was married, and an indiscretion would have given Danny leverage, leeway. It was a small price to pay for freedom. This, Carmen understood.
One thing did feel different, however. It was something that Carmen had trouble naming. The sex was just as good, and Danny’s manner with her was, if anything, even more accommodating. That could be because she had insisted on paying all three times for the hotel, putting a stop to that odd moment at the front desk where they usually negotiated quickly whose turn it was, feeling guilty about the $5 million insurance check, which had arrived and sat in her bank account like a phantom that had taken up residence. Despite Jobe’s parents’ wealth, they’d never lived like anything but a professor’s family: comfortable and scruffy. Now, her return to work had become a choice, a diversion. And this affair somehow no longer was.
It reminded Carmen vaguely of unloading the dishwasher, taking bundles of forks out and setting them in a drawer. Not unpleasant, by any means, and satisfying in its way. Her relationship with Danny still seemed necessary, but more in the way of an everyday task. The daring otherness of it had evaporated. No longer was this the secret that gave dimension to her unfulfilling home life. These days, with Jobe gone, it felt simply like three recreational hours in a cheap hotel.
She scissored up to sit in bed, using her abdominal muscles the way she’d been taught in Pilates class. It wasn’t like Carmen to beg but she was desperate to shake Jobe from her thoughts. “What I need is a change of scenery,” she said to Danny, who had turned the other way and was reaching down for his boxers. “I know you can’t get
away
. But let’s do something, I don’t know, different. Maybe a museum in D.C.? It’s not like Mega has spies. We could get a room at the Monaco; have dinner somewhere really nice. I have some extra cash right …”
Danny made the motions of putting two legs through the holes of his shorts then turned to look at her, his face set and mournful in a way it never was.
“Carmen,” he said, putting one hand on her sheeted leg and staring at her exposed breasts, rather than her face.
“Don’t worry, I’m not asking you to leave your wife.” She inhaled, defiantly jutting her chest out. “All I want is some room service, a little champagne. C’mon. I’m a little rattled, frankly. I don’t think this is too much to ask.”
“It’s not that.” Danny shook his head and when he raised it, his face was sad. Carmen never thought of him as Indian, but seated there with a stony expression and his broad bare chest he reminded her of the photos she’d seen of warriors, sitting atop horses, feathered
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