Being well-laid brings with it a suffusing, constant accompaniment of joy rather like a happy tune unregretfully stuck in one’s head. The garish buzz of the divorce faded in concert. Not even the harsh wolves, on this day and that, of claims and counterclaims, nor the obstinate out-of-temper horn-blow of my boss could not be cheerfully whistled over. There was scarcely any fade, nor forgetfulness of notes, when Kelly called me to have dinner with them once more.
We had spoken two days after, speaking like children who had just discovered ten new uses for their broken toys. Even jealous and quiet about them, and giggling in good fortune. I think that she was happiest to hear my spirits much improved; as for me, tingles of worry about her own marriage were salved by the sureness of her voice.
It was almost a week before we spoke again. She said that she had an offer for a new job. I told her how glad for her I was. But while she clearly revelled in my claims of relief at her quickly reanimating her career, I detected something additional. Mostly in the way she charged her sentences with increased energy the closer their end came—and how, at full-stop, the end was abrupt, and almost filled with the backdraft of the swiftness of her leaving-off. It was mischief. Gleaming-eye mischief.
“Keenan and I would love to have you back for dinner,” she finally said. If she had been holding back, I felt the spurt of feeling now jet across the phone.
“Dinner? Great! Yeah I’d love to.” And—just how long should it have taken me to mull over that request? It quickly occurred to me, as we exchanged dates, how big a deal this was. You can try anything once, and be excused, or excuse yourself anyway, on account of the wine, the times, the light, or being momentarily out of one’s wits. You cannot excuse wilfull repetition.
The past week had been remarkable. When I hurt at work the most was early afternoons—with paper inconceivably strewn, and the thought of one’s only comfort swaddled in ice cubes in a dirty tumbler in your quiet efficiency darkening the glinty edge of the bright sun out your window. The companion bequeathed me by our earlier dinner date sat next to me, knee to knee, forehead to forehead, and spoke to me in soft cooing tones which assuaged the bitterness of sun, scotch, and suite. This cure was too sweet, too pure—so I told myself—to contain a drop of any poison.
“I cannot wait to see you again,” I said.
“We’ll be expecting you,” she finished.
And in bed in the dark I did not fear to be alone with myself. Sleep came gentle as well every night thereafter until I walked upon the shifty pavers once more.
I had washed and shaved and still felt, especially in the wearable summer air, that I was under my clothes rather than in them. I heard the footsteps and masked my nervousness by examining the label on the wine bottle which I had to hold close by to the diffuse glow from the bay window curtains.
The door opened and I stood forward to smile and embrace. Except there was goofy Keenan, face like one scavenged, though skillfully, from a pile, eyes deep-set and projector-peering, and uncertain grin. “Ho. Hello,” I said to him. I fumbled with the wine to free my right hand for a shake. Although, could a handshake really be appropriate? I certainly would not hug him or kiss him on the cheek; yet to refuse at least a clasp of hands seemed like coshering.
He took my hand while saying nothing. “Well how are things?” I asked. Suddenly it seemed as if we were shaking hands for a very long time, and all the while I stood still on the short porch, not even my fingers having broken the threshold. “Anton!” I heard from inside. “Come in here, quick, dinner is ready.”
At that Keenan turned so slightly, so that if he were a valve-vane the water would be imperceptibly more speedily rushing through. But in so doing he broke my gaze on his goofy phiz, and let it stream right past into the golden rectangle of the door. Passing through which, some fifteen feet in, were two stacked curves of sublime proportions, swaying in a simple but entrancing rhythm. The last bit to leave was a flip of Kelly’s bare foot. “Well I suppose we should get to the feast,” I recall saying. I used Keenan’s grip as a handle to move him with me, as if he were a piece of freight on lubed wheels. Come on in, let’s put you where you belong.
Kelly was seated at table. I felt as if I were being wound up tight on a spool just beneath my skin. She wore a smile that was wide, generous, and tonic. Her arms coursed down her front, pressing in the borders of her breasts, and held her hands about her loins, hidden beneath the table.
I sat down across from her. “I wasn’t expecting something so sweet for dinner.”
“Becalm yourself,” she said, watching me with full force the entire time. “You must clean your plate before you can have dessert.” She breathed just a bit fast. She looked fast into my eyes and her smile never flagged. The audaciousness of it—it made my heart beat faster itself. As I wound tighter it got hotter and hotter. I was numb to the feel of the upholstered chair, the hardwood under my feet, even the distant porcelain chatter of Keenan, spooning us our portions.
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