just … I’m trying to cut down on that stuff a little. You know.”
“Oh. Sure.” He had half a glass of wine to my three, too. I put the plates in the dishwasher. I should have made chicken. Fish. No. I should have made something brand-new, oh God, of course I should have.
“Dessert?” I ask.
“Aw, Sam. I have to pass. But God knows Travis will finish it.” Travis had taken a huge piece of lemon meringue pie up to his room, then come down for another.
“Coffee?” My voice is thin, taut. “Want coffee at least?”
If he refuses that, I’ll tell him to leave.
“Sure,” he says. “But let me go and say good night to Travis. Then we can talk.”
About what? I think. After Travis left the table, we went over money, what days were whose with our son. Then there was an awkward silence that lasted so long I had a strange impulse to burst out laughing. David was looking down and chewing at his lip, an old nervous habit, and it was no longer my job to remind him not to do it. He moved his spoon left, right. Left. I wanted to snatch it from his hand and say, “Look at me!” but I didn’t know what I’d say after that.
“Be right back,” he says.
I watch him walk toward the stairs. I have always loved how he looks from behind. The bit of hair over his collar. His broad shoulders, a good butt, even Rita always admitted that. I hear the stairs at the top of the landing creak in their familiar way. A father, going upstairs to say good night to his son. What has happened here? How have I lost this? I pour two mugs of coffee, bring them into the family room and set them on the coffee table. I sit at the end of the sofa, then move to the middle. I use my finger to quickly check the corners of my eyes for chunks of mascara, ruffle my hair to make it look fuller.
When he comes back downstairs, David says, “He’s asleep already!”
“Yeah. He’s been doing that.”
He looks at his watch. “Eight-thirty?”
“He’s been getting up earlier lately.”
David takes his mug of coffee, sits at the edge of his recliner. He looks like he has a body-wide itch he can’t scratch. He doesn’t really want to talk, not about anything. He was just being polite, he feels sorry for me. “Where’s your roommate?” he asks.
“Spending the night at her boyfriend’s. Sometimes she does that.”
“Really!”
“Yes.”
“Well.” David clears his throat, sets his coffee down no good? and then there is silence except for a slight humming sound from one of the lamps. Quiet! I want to tell it. Can’t you let me think? Can’t you see I’m trying to do something here?
“Sam …” David finally says, and as soon as he does, I am up and moving toward him. Come back, come back, please come back, is at the back of my throat.
I kneel at his feet, put my arms around his waist, hold my breath to keep from sobbing. I am horrified; somewhere over my head, a miniature version of myself looks down in disgust, hands on hips, head shaking. But there, there is the feel of his hand on the back of my head, his voice saying my name again, but softer. I close my eyes. And now his fingers are on my neck, so warm. I push my face harder into him. He cradles my head, wordless and still, and I open my eyes and see his belt buckle. Which I know. Here he is.
I close my eyes again, begins to kiss gently around the area of his zipper. The fabric smells warm, ironed, clean. I start to unzip his pants, hear him pull in his breath sharply. I stop, wait.
Nothing.
I finish unzipping, reach inside his underwear. Let me. I am aware of my own wetness, the sweet, specific ache of desire. Oh, let me, let me. He is flaccid. I rub, gently. Nothing. I pull my hair back, take him into my mouth. “Sam,” he says. “Don’t.” But he does not push me away, and so I continue. In a minute, he will respond. And then I will say I heard you, I heard everything you said at dinner but you don’t mean it, you see? You can’t mean it, we just need time, we just need to change a few things about the way we were together. You don’t really want