Her demand falls flat, cold. She looks at him meaningfully. Although he is aware of this, he can not decipher the meaning. She plays with the long, delicate stem of her wine glass, almost takes it between her fingers, but then opts for water instead.
She brings the clear, full glass to her lips and drinks. He thinks she will stop after one mouthful, but she goes on. She raises the glass higher as she drinks, throws back her head so he can see her small, hard Adam's apple bobbing up and down as she swallows. He is troubled by this — the mechanics and pipes of her body, the things she can not hide with makeup or jewelry or clothing. The things that make her function, hold her alive. He feels as if it is something he shouldn't be seeing, but revels in being able to stare at it: the pale, taunt skin of the neck, the blue veins and bulging tendons.
She places the empty glass back on the table.
"I know this story already," she says. "I know it too well. It has a sad ending —"
"It doesn't have to have a sad ending."
"Yes, it does."
Pause.
"Tell me a story with a happy ending," she asks.
"I'm not good at that kind of story."
"What kind of writer are you, then?"
He hopes she didn't mean to put so much venom in her tone, but the fact that she did certainly means there was an intention to hurt. He wouldn't admit it to anyone, but he is hurt. She wounds him deeply with her sharp, careless words. He goes on asking for them, like some masochist.
"I'm a tragic writer, I suppose." He attempts sarcasm. "Both my life and work are tragedies."
"How unfortunate," she says neutrally.
He looks at the table, averting her stare.
"You haven't touched your wine."
"I don't like Italians."
"That's new."
"A lot of things have changed," she says. For a moment he thinks he hears her chocking back a sob. "You have no idea."
No comments:
Post a Comment