Dating : Comfort Behind The Couch

Your wife’s pacing before the window. She’s on the phone. She hasn’t detected you yet, she’s so engrossed in the details streaming through the receiver. You drop your bag on the couch, which you never do.

She looks up. Her face terrifies you.

She says, Hold on a second, and clutches the phone against her breast. It’s your mother, she says to you.

She inhales. Her eyes water.

Your sister just bought a house.

What? you say.

It’s all you can say.

Your sister just bought a house.

Your legs give. You could fall into the black of space. No object would catch you.

You land behind the couch. You begin to shake and cry. A second passes, a lifetime passes.

Your wife tells your mother that she’ll call her back. The living room goes silent. A car passes on the street outside.

Your wife’s hand comes to your neck, another to your cheek. She presses her forehead to your temple. Her wet cheeks meet yours.

Thirty years? you manage.

She nods.

Fixed?

Yes, she says. 3.4 percent.

You wince.

I know, she says.

Where? you ask. The question takes a life of its own.

You begin thrashing your legs.

Where?

Your wife holds you tighter.

No! you shout.

You leap to your feet.

Tell me where!

She twists her lips. She sees the state you’re in.

Tell me!

Seacliff, she says quietly.

Your body convulses.

Overlooking the water?

She stares at a space near your feet. Yes.

Windows or balcony? you demand.

Balcony, she says, With stairs to the water.

You bite your fist.

All new kitchen?

Yes.

Christ! How did this happen? you cry.

I don’t know, she says quietly.

You tent your fingertips on the couch. My mother had no idea?

No, your wife says. But I need to call her back. They’re already planning the housewarming.