John Rawski
“Good morning, Joyce,” he says as he comes into the kitchen.
Morning! Damn him. It’s past noon.
“I lied for you. Again,” I said.
I am in my bathrobe. Since dawn I have been thinking of changing everything. While he slept, I selected words. While listening to footsteps upstairs, I practiced saying them. While water surged through the pipes as he washed away spilled alcohol and another woman’s perfume and the dried smudges of her makeup and his semen—I was ready.
But I didn’t say them.
He is dressed for his work, which demands appearance, poise, and confidence. He has all three. Now. But not before I made him. At the discount store, he was the manager. But it still was a discount store. He wanted more. But was lost. I took his hand. I helped him into graduate school. I supported him. I wrote his papers. I taught him to impress teachers and recruiters. And from the very beginning—I pushed. The more I pushed, the more he slid away.
“On Fridays you have morning meetings. I called your boss with another excuse.”
“I make money for him. Money is all he cares about. Just like you.”
“You promised me that you’d be home early.”
“I only said I’d try.”
“You were drunk. I don’t know how you made it home.”
He prepares coffee. “I only had one or two drinks.
“And women? One or two?”
“Some clients are women. Women who do more than shop for clothes and jewelry.”
“Like that one you were with last week at midnight when you wrecked your car?”
“I only bumped a guardrail. We had business. She’s an attorney.”
“A partner in an esquire service.”
Long sour silence follows. The coffee-maker hisses. Bitterness brews in the silent space. I think of saying my selected words. But he speaks first.
“Joyce.” He sighs. “Thanks. I’ll try to get home early.”
I feel the sourness drifting away. I try to hold it, so I can bring myself to say the words I had practiced. I’ve a feeling of déjà vu.
“You’re good to me, Joyce. Too good.”
“When I called your boss, I said that you might not come in. Stay.” My hand reaches to touch his. “Please.”
These two words fill the silent space.
“Go upstairs, Joyce.” His voice is flat. “I’ll be there.” He kisses my forehead. A peck.
Upstairs he has left our bed unmade. Only his side has been slept in. I smooth the sheets. I wonder how much time he’ll spend with me. How much time will he spend making love to me as he watches the clock with one eye.
I remove my bathrobe. I see my reflection in the dresser mirror. I avoid looking into my own eyes. Underneath I had worn a short nightgown of black lace. His favorite. I get into the bed to wait for him. And I pull up the covers to hide me from myself.