Issue 3 - Columbia: A Journal of Literature and Art

In bed, on the verge of sleep, she rehearsed in her
mind the various possibilities. First of all, there was
always the chance that he might not appear at the Coffee
Cantata again. Or he appeared, but with someone, a
woman of his own age, a man her husband's. He was,
she imagined, the kind of man her husband would find
attractive. Well, and why not? She could win him over
though, even if it meant, at first, letting him use her as a
diversion, a means to make a rival jealous. She would
be kind, tolerant. If he were "strange," and she was
rather certain that he was, why then she would nourish
his strangeness. In the end—but she would not invent
an ending. Only say that she will be infinitely patient,
eager to forgive.
The following Saturday he was not there. She left
the Coffee Cantata, strains of a Beethoven Quartet, the
"Serioso," throbbing in her head. How shocking to see
that the sun still shone! It was really very strange, this
feeling, as though having been frustrated in this desire
she now was freed from all desire and could, ironically
enough, look around her and enjoy the smaller
beauties, the sight of a pair of well-formed hands, the
spring in a child's step, the warmth of the sunshine, the
fleeting sensual lilt of voices overheard. Then she
looked up and saw him. He was looking at her from a
window in a turret high above the street, his face very
pale, long, distorted surely by the curving glass, but his
face—and this time the stare was absolutely steady.
She opened the door. A short, slender man with a
very short haircut and large thick-lensed glasses smiled
at her, then stepped inside, briskly, and went directly to
the armchair. Closing the door, she said, "I'm afraid if
you're looking for—he just this minute stepped out. I'm
surprised you didn't run into him on the stairs."
"And who are you?" the man asked, sitting down.
She stepped away from the door.
"I might ask the same of you."
The man was looking at her as if he knew her well
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enough after all. He had large, rough-looking hands
which he let lie still on his lap, the fingers outstretched,
long and thick like breadsticks. His hair was a light,
reddish brown, very fine, close-cropped, the bald spot
at the top clean and shining, surrounded by short, soft,
tendril-like hairs.
"He told me he never goes out," the man said,
"and that he never has visitors."
The bathroom door was closed and, she hoped,
locked.
I was good at it. I knew I was good. And yet when
it came to this, this sharing (her word for it), I was almost
overcome with doubt. I questioned my sanity.
What next? If I were so good at it, would it not be
conceivable that I might wish to "do it" all the time?
But when we faced each other that first time, I saw
that I had nothing to fear. She smiled, extended her
hand, and I had the sensation of being welcomed into a
secret society. Christ, how happy I was at that moment!
What had she done? In the hallway she hesitated.
She should go back. She knew she should. But in the
next instant she was hurrying down the stairway, remembering
the hands, the thick fingers, and the eyes so
glassy and assured. After all, who knew what their relationship
was? He had never mentioned a man, but was
it so unimaginable? Mightn't he in fact want a man—to
complete the tableau? No, she had done what she had
to do, what anyone would do.
She walked quickly up Union Street to her parking
garage. It was cool inside her car and the sweet smell
was her own scent.
Ted's house is spotless. The two poodles yelp,
jump, snap at you until Gary steps in to box their ears
with a rolled-up newspaper. Gary prepares a splendid
meal, but the conversation is bland. You realize how
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