The Terminal Experiment - Robert J. Sawyer Page 0,13

not brushed, falling in black bunches around her shoulders. Glasses instead of contacts.

Another small sigh. She looked so much better without the thick lenses balancing on her nose, but he couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn her contacts.

They hadn’t made love for six weeks.

The national average was 2.1 times each week. Said so right here in Time.

Of course, Time was an American magazine. Maybe the average was different here in Canada.

Maybe.

This year would be their thirteenth wedding anniversary.

And they hadn’t made love in six fucking weeks. Six fuckless weeks.

He glanced up again. There she stood, on the third stair up, dressed like some god-damn tomboy.

She was forty-one now; her birthday had been last month. She still had her figure—not that Peter saw it much anymore. These sweatshirts and too-big sweaters and long skirts—these bags she’d taken to wearing—hid just about everything.

Peter stabbed the PgDn button. He tipped his head down, went back to his reading. They used to make love a lot on Saturday afternoons. But, Christ, if she was going to dress like that …

He’d read the first three paragraphs of the article in front of him, and realized that he hadn’t a clue as to what it had said, hadn’t absorbed a single word.

He glanced up once more. Cathy was still on the third step, looking down at him. She met his eyes for an instant, but then dropped her gaze, and, hand on the wooden banister, stepped down into the living room.

Focusing on the magazine, Peter said, “What would you like for dinner?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

I don’t know. The national anthem of Cathyland. Christ, he was sick of hearing that. What would you like to do tonight? What would you like for dinner? Want to take a vacation?

I don’t know.

I don’t know.

I don’t know.

Fuck it.

“I’d like fish, myself,” said Peter, and again he stabbed the PgDn button.

“Whatever would make you happy,” she said.

It would make me happy if you’d talk to me, thought Peter. It would make me happy if you’d didn’t fucking dress down all the time.

“Maybe we should just order in,” said Peter. “Maybe a pizza, or some Chinese.”

“Whatever.”

He turned pages again, new words filling his screen.

Thirteen years of marriage.

“Maybe I’ll give Sarkar a call,” he said, testing the waters. “Go out and grab a bite with him.”

“If you like.”

Peter shut the reader off. “Dammit, it’s not just what I’d like. What would you like?”

“I don’t know.”

It had been building for weeks, he knew, festering within him, pressure increasing, an explosion imminent, his sighs never releasing enough of what was pent up, what was ready to blow. “Maybe I should go out with Sarkar and not come back.”

She stood motionless across the room from him. The staircase rose up behind her. It looked as though her lower lip was trembling a little. Her voice was small. “If that would make you happy.”

It’s falling apart, thought Peter. It’s falling apart right now.

Peter turned the magazine reader back on but immediately flicked it off again. “It’s over, isn’t it?” he said.

Thirteen years …

He should get up from the couch now, get up and leave.

Thirteen years …

“Jesus Christ,” said Peter, into the silence.

He closed his eyes.

“Peter …”

Eyes still closed.

“Peter,” said Cathy, “I slept with Hans Larsen.”

He looked at her, mouth open, heart pounding. She didn’t meet his gaze.

Cathy moved hesitantly into the center of the living room. There was quiet between them for several minutes. Peter’s stomach hurt. At last, his voice raspy, raw, as though the wind had been knocked out of him, he said, “I want to know the details.”

Cathy spoke softly. She didn’t look at him. “Does it matter?”

“Yes, it matters. Of course it matters. How long has this …” he paused “… this affair been going on?” Christ, he’d never expected to use that word in this context.

Her lower lip was trembling again. She took a step toward him, as if she meant to sit beside him on the couch, but she hesitated when she saw the expression on his face. Instead, she moved slowly to take a chair. She sat down, weary, as if the tiny walk down to the living room had been the longest of her life. She carefully placed her hands in her lap and looked down at them. “It wasn’t an affair,” she said softly.

“What the hell would you call it?” said Peter. The words were angry, but his tone wasn’t. It was drained, lifeless.

“It was … it wasn’t a relationship,” she said. “Not really. It just