She hurried-positively raced, he thought-into the hallway, and went upstairs. He heard her moving about heavily; she was never light-footed. Water was running in the bathroom. The toilet flushed. He wandered through from the kitchen into the back room. It smelled of old cigarettes, and the ashtray balanced on the arm of the new sofa was brimming. He stood in the doorway and stared at the objects in the room rather as he had at the dirty washing, searching for something familiar. There was very little. The clock on the wall was a wedding present, and still in the same place. The stereo in the corner was new, a flashy model that Terry had probably acquired for her. Judging by the dust on the lid it was seldom used, and the collection of records haphazardly stacked alongside was as small as ever. Among those records was there still a copy of Buddy Holly singing “True Love Ways”? They’d played that so often it must have been worn thin; they’d danced to it together in this very room-not danced exactly, but used the music as an excuse to hold each other, as if excuses were needed. It was one of those love songs that made him feel romantic and unhappy simultaneously-as though every phrase of it was charged with loss of the very love it celebrated. Those were the best kind of love songs, and the truest.
Unable to bear the room any longer, he went upstairs.
She was still in the bathroom. There was no lock on the door; she’d been locked in a bathroom as a small child, and had such a terror of the same thing happening again she’d always insisted there be no locks on any of the internal doors in the house. You had to whistle on the toilet if you wanted to stop people walking in on you. He pushed the door open. She was dressed only in her panties; arm raised, shaving her armpit. She caught his eye in the mirror, then went back to what she was doing.
“I didn’t want any more coffee,” he said lamely.
“Got used to the expensive stuff, have you?” she said.
Her body was a few feet from him, and he felt the pull of it. He knew every mole on her back, knew the places a touch would make her laugh. Such familiarity was a kind of ownership, he felt; she owned him for the same reasons if she would just exercise her right. He crossed to her and put his fingertips on her lower back, and ran them up her spine.
“Charmaine.”
She looked at him in the mirror again-the first unswerving look she’d granted him since he’d arrived at the house-and he knew that any hope of physicality between them was a lost cause.
“I’m not available, Marty,” she said plainly.
“We’re still married.”
“I don’t want you to stay. I’m sorry.”
That’s how she’d begun this meeting: with “I’m sorry.” Now she wanted to finish it in the same way; no genuine apology intended, just a polite brush-off.
“I’ve thought about this so often,” he said.
“So have I,” she replied. “But I stopped thinking about it five years ago. It won’t do any good; you know that as well as I do.”
His fingers were now on her shoulder. He was sure there was a charge in their contact, a buzz of excitement exchanged between her flesh and his. Her nipples had hardened; perhaps the draft from the landing, perhaps his touch.
“I’d like you to go,” she said very quietly, looking down into the sink. There was a tremor in her voice that could easily become tears. He wanted tears from her, shameful as it was. If she wept he’d kiss her to console her, and his consolation would harden as she softened, and they’d finish up in bed; he knew it. That was why she was fighting so hard to show nothing, knowing the scenario as well as he did, and determined not to leave herself open to his affection.
“Please,” she said again, with indisputable finality. His hand dropped from her shoulder. There was no spark between them; it was all in his mind. All ancient history.