Her mood was a little off when I arrived. Or, not off (who was I to judge?), just unfamiliar. She took a long time hanging up my coat.
“Are you okay?”
But she didn’t do well with direct questions like that.
As per our ritual we immediately went grocery shopping—provisions—so we could hole up. In the store I pointed out special treats—chocolate? mango sorbet?—and she just shrugged, like I should get whatever I wanted, she didn’t care. Walking home from the store, silently carrying too many bags, she wouldn’t even meet my eye. I stared glassily at the people we passed, businesswomen, groups of teenage girls laughing and screaming Vanessa! Vanessa!
I started doing several different breathing exercises at once that all canceled each other out.
We didn’t even put the groceries away, we just sat down—not side by side, not me in her lap, but opposite each other. She hung her head and after a long time she said, I feel hopeless about us. We’re not compatible.
I almost laughed.
I mean: what? In what reality was this true?
Her reality. By way of example, she mentioned a time that I hadn’t wanted her to kiss me because I was wearing fresh lipstick.
My mom was like that, she said.
I felt heartened—if this was the problem then there was no problem: I wanted to kiss her! I loved kissing her. I said this, but it seemed to have no effect.
Are you breaking up with me? I said, kidding.
She said nothing. Just looked at the floor.
I began shaking uncontrollably. Keep it together, I told myself. Hold her. Just hold her. I put my arms around her and she immediately began crying. Thank fucking God. Next she would say what was really going on; it would be a long night, but we were on the road now. We’d be home by dawn.
“Maybe we should take some time apart and talk in the morning,” she mumbled into my shoulder.
I dropped my arms and reared back.
“You want me to leave? I just got here. Where would I go?”
“Sharon’s.”
The Bay Area friend I’d mentioned once. She’d thought this all through.
I jumped up like lightning, grabbed my purse, pulled up the handle on my wheelie bag—click-click. My ears were popping; my brain and muscles were flooded with thin fluid. She watched as I took off the gold buckle ring. It was the worst thing I could think of to do. Surely she would snap out of it and understand what was happening—she was losing me! But she just watched as I struggled, twisting it, then dropped it on the floor and rolled out the door. I walked a block, listening for the sound of her footsteps—would they be running steps or just fast walking? Would she grab me from behind and say Wait or would she walk alongside me for a long time until I finally stopped.
I sat down on the sidewalk; it would be easier for her to find me if I wasn’t too far away.
After a while I walked back to the shingled cottage.
I knocked, then pounded.
She swung the door open and looked at me like a stranger—Yes?
She had showered and changed. In the time I had been waiting she had done these things. She was about to go out.
I staggered backward, apologizing for the intrusion.
