« Dogs | Main | dogs revisited »

Tue | May 16, 2006

The Bedroom Scale

One morning in spring, Dora began to fear that she would marry Chris. The thought had crossed her mind before, like a black cat, but it seemed new every time it occurred. It invoked a sense of forboding.

She lay in his bed. His bed was a mattress on the floor-- not even a mattress with firm springs, but one made of foam. She felt a dull sensation at the small of her back, and also his warm skin against her own. She moved both of these feelings into the core of her mind, where they took the form of two gaseous spheres, and she gauged them each, trying to figure out if one was bigger or denser-- and if either was even tangible.

He never called, and worse, never returned her calls. I don't call anyone in general, he had explained. But his cell phone showed plenty of recent calls. He didn't cover his nose or mouth when he sneezed or coughed-- he would sooner get someone sick than lift his hand. He played whatever music he liked without regard to her preferences. He made fun of Evan for reciting a line of poetry.

The previous night, he had eaten all the baby carrots and forgotten to buy orange juice. For dinner she had oreos and string cheese. Then she crawled onto the foam mattress and resolved to get out before the real talk began.

But out there was emptiness, and here was a comforting, solid presence beside her. The resolution to detach caved in like melted candle wax.

All was forgotten, but not gone. In the morning the mass of discontent materialized in its usual place. She didn't know whether to throw away what seemed to be inseparably a reassurance and a burden.

In the daze of half-sleep, his body seemed like nothing but warmth. She drifted back to slumber.

« Previous | Posted by Lily in sketches | on May 16, 2006 11:53 AM | Next »