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cheek.<br />
I squeeze her. "It's all right. I'm here."<br />
Sobs displace the silence in the bedroom, and I think about the last time<br />
I saw Annie cry when her knees were swollen. I picture her pale, bony legs<br />
and see myself running my hands along her thighs, trying to offer relief. I<br />
ask myself if our connection would be lost if her pain were gone and she<br />
didn't need me. I answer yes—her poor health is what keeps us together. My<br />
thoughts shift to Rebecca. I search my mind and try to define my connection<br />
to the woman lying next to me. I find nothing and rub my face with a free<br />
hand.<br />
I wake with my arm across Rebecca's chest. She stirs, and I tell her to go<br />
back to sleep. She releases a soft moan, a flutter of helplessness, and I kiss<br />
her shoulder. Her skin is salty, and perfume dulled by pheromones lingers<br />
in the folds of flesh between us. I pull my moist arm away from the bed<br />
of her breasts and lie on my back. The empty expanse of our white ceiling<br />
stretches above me, and I grapple with the future that might lie ahead: doctor<br />
appointments and lab tests, maybe some kind of biopsy, Rebecca getting<br />
chemo and losing thirty pounds. She was sick with the flu three months ago,<br />
the last time she took time off work. She lay in bed for days with a fever, and<br />
her voice became hoarse and masculine. I'd leave Annie's, and rush home to<br />
bring her ginger ale and ice cream. We'd then watch TV in bed and she'd lay<br />
her head on my shoulder.<br />
This was the last time I felt love for my wife.<br />
I sneak off to the kitchen, still naked, and call the office, telling our<br />
receptionist I'll be taking a sick day. I consider calling Annie too, but it's<br />
only 7:45—she usually wakes at 8:30. Staring into the kitchen sink, I bite<br />
my knuckle, not knowing what to do next. I don't want the fuss of making<br />
a pot of coffee, or even toast, and go back to the bedroom and stand in the<br />
doorway. The bed sits regally across the room; a spotless stretch of wool<br />
carpet leads up to its sturdy wooden legs. Rebecca lies on her side, cradled<br />
above the floor, sleeping with her hands clasped under her cheek like a child.<br />
I want to go to her, but in the moment the desert between us is more than<br />
I can travel. Lowering myself, I lean against the wall and sit with my arms<br />
around my knees, waiting for something to change.<br />
Thomas Boulan 65
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