Coe Review

lanket across her torso to keep her warm, and brush hair away from her
forehead. Pouring a small amount of oil onto my palm, I rub my hands
together and lay them on her left thigh, just below the line of her underwear.
Fine dark hairs succumb to the weight of the oil, and my fingertips leave
trails of red. I reach her knee and surround it with my fingers, smoothing the
oil onto both sides of her kneecap. I then caress her calves and work my way
to her ankle, before massaging each and every toe. When I've finished with
this leg, I pour out more oil and move to the other side of the bed. Annie
lies in silence with her eyes fixed on the ceiling. I sneak a look at the puff of
pubic hair pushing out from her underwear, and briefly visualize what lies
beneath.
When the massage is complete, I pull the blanket over her legs, and
then go to the bathroom to wash my hands. The small tiled room is filled
with sculptural containers of soaps, creams and shampoos, and I linger, not
wanting to leave. I return to say goodbye and find Annie asleep. Kissing her
forehead, I let myself out and leave.
Rebecca is reading on the sofa when I come home at six o'clock. I say
hello from the doorway, pretending to scratch my nose. The scent of oil
still remains on my hands, so I go the kitchen sink and scrub them with the
powdered soap we use in our dishwasher. My hands now reek of lemons,
something more familiar.
I return to the living room. "So what's for dinner?"
"I thought we might go out. I'm craving seafood."
Rebecca is wearing a new black blouse, revealing a gaudy gold necklace
and a noticeable amount of cleavage. She dresses provocatively when she
wants to have sex and likes to draw attention to her breasts. Over the years I've
become bored with them and prefer women with smaller builds. Although,
I do give her credit for going to her aerobics class—she does not look fortynine.
Glancing at a potted plant, I think of Annie and her sweatshirt. She
hides the shape of her slight frame, as though she's embarrassed by it. One
afternoon she told me her husband left when the arthritis became severe. He
never wanted a "disabled wife" who couldn't ride a simple bike or go crosscountry
skiing. I listened to this and thought, no—he was disappointed with
the changes in your body.
"Seafood sounds good," I move across the room and drop into our new
leather recliner. "I had a late lunch but I could go for a piece of swordfish."
Rebecca rises from the sofa and walks over to me. Her smell is a
mixture of sweat and the flowery perfume she favors, an odor I've learned to
associate with my wife. Her dyed blond hair is beginning to reveal its graying
roots, but it's still neat and stylish pulled behind her ears. She's put on fresh
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