Gardenia Excerpt
Posted on April 1, 2008
Filed Under marriage, fiction, writing |
She talks to herself in the bathroom mirror. Her lips damp with rum, her cheeks glowing with drink. He is only sharing the truth with someone, anyone. There is no harm in this. She manipulates her shirt back into the waistline of her jeans, she smoothes her hair and purses her lips. She stares at herself long enough to discern the slight difference between her two eyes, one just a hair smaller than the other. And she returns to the kitchen where Ted offers her another full drink that he has busied himself with in her absence.
He brings it to her, setting it and himself close again at the island counter. He touches the side of her face, which, to Kate, feels like a minor triumph, his saying he finds her adequate and attractive. Then his mouth covers hers, like the hand before on the counter, completely, confidently, as if he does this often, seduce married women in empty houses.
And when he clears away the glasses to the far end of the countertop to make room for their groping, she is relieved that at least they can do it here, in the kitchen, without the protracted migration to the bedroom where there is sure to be photographs of grown children in their likeness to Marilyn, perhaps a photo of Ted and Astrid, their lighter lustier selves. She would feel criminal in front of that sad audience. She needs no witness to the culmination of this thing that she has been working towards for months.
He is an efficient lover and it is a brief but satisfying coupling, free of promises or possessions, that allows her plenty of time to collect herself on the ride to parent pick up.
He does not hold her in a long embrace, he does not kiss the top of her head with marked tenderness, he does not whisper anything profound that elicits a torrent of great relief. She thinks of Amy, she thinks of God, she still misses the idea of him.
Despite the fact that she will not shower off their damp, salt sex until the following morning, she feels less an adulterer than just one of two people working through their own separate but equally pressing needs to feel someplace other. She feels ordinary and slightly defeated. She begins to sleep again. She can feel herself returning to the present.
It is over as quickly as it began. And for a time, she is less curt, given to sudden bouts of laughter and warmth, like a schoolgirl with a secret. She suspects that, in his own way, the way that would rather see forward than back, Paul had already forgiven her this trespass.
Kate returns to 61 Alfonso Court one more time. She chooses a day when Ted’s car is not in the driveway. She sets to restoring order to the garden, gently trimming the spathiphyllum and the begonias, coaxing the Gardenias at the front door to remain deliciously fragrant conveyors of sweet southern gentility until the property is sold.
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you know, i really like how you write. this line in particular: She thinks of Amy, she thinks of God, she still misses the idea of him.
The him could mean him or God, yes? anyways, i like it.