by Amity Gaige
And there he was. Fixing his tie. Trying to get the ends even. He stood before the tall, tilted mirror. The mirror was tilted but his image was straight. Sun broke recklessly through the window, upon the wood floor, the unmade bed. She pushed the door open all the way, but still he did not yet see her. He was completely absorbed in tying his tie, his face twisted in consternation, chin up, lips pursed. His hair had thinned enough at the top to reveal his scalp under the golden strands—now, with a slight, disapproving grunt, he licked his hand and smoothed the hair down.
How stunning, sometimes, the accidental, strange-making glimpse of the husband. She pictured him during his day, out in the world, at a staff meeting or a luncheon counter, this stubborn, stray hair drying and becoming happily erect, revealing him as the sort of person—just that sort of person—who made other people feel that in the final analysis, everything was going to be all right. He stepped back, appraising himself in the mirror. If she said something now, he would be startled. He would be startled, and then he would smile and say How long have you been there? And she would say, Years. Years, my love. He swore softly; now the tie would not lie flat. If she said something, he would be flustered. He would have to start all over.
On the other hand, if she didn’t say anything, she could keep watching. Just like this. She could have one more moment like this, watching him without his knowing.
The ray of sunlight, thick with dust, lit him and made his dress shirt and his blue eyes glow. If she did not say anything, she could hover there like an angel who spies upon those he loves. For one moment longer, she could love him as an angel loves, without hunger, without injury, without ambition, without self. She could love him impossibly, as if she herself were not even present. And he could be only exactly what he was—one man: human, divine, lonely, courageous, and engrossed by small puzzles. She rested her head against the doorway. All she really wanted was one more moment to love him like this. One more moment, and then she would speak.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Contents
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Epilogue