The weight of water - Anita Shreve [11]
I slipped into the bed and lay beside him. He turned onto his side, facing me. It was dark in the room, but I could see his face. I could feel his breath on my skin.
“You brought me home,” he said.
“Yes.”
“I don’t remember.”
“No, I know you don’t.”
“I drink too much.”
“I know.” I brought my hand up, as though I might touch him, but I didn’t. I laid my hand between our faces.
“Where are you from?” he asked me.
“Indiana.”
“A farm girl.”
“Yes.”
“Seriously?”
“I’ve been in Boston since I was seventeen.”
“School.”
“And after.”
“The after sounds interesting.”
“Not very.”
“You don’t miss Indiana?”
“Some. My parents are dead. I miss them more.”
“How did they die?”
“Cancer. They were older. My mother was forty-eight when I was born. Why are you asking me these questions?”
“You’re a woman in my bed. You’re an attractive woman in my bed. Why did you stay here tonight?”
“I was worried about you,” I said. “What about your parents?”
“They live in Hull. I grew up in Hull. I have a brother.”
“How did you get this?” I reached up and touched the scar on his face.
He flinched, and he turned onto his back, away from me.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“No, it’s all right. It’s just…”
“You don’t have to tell me. It’s none of my business.”
“No.” He brought an arm up and covered his eyes. He was so still for so long that I thought he had fallen asleep.
I shifted slightly in the bed with the intention of getting up and leaving. Thomas, feeling the shift, quickly lifted his arm from his eyes and looked at me. He grabbed my arm. “Don’t go,” he said.
When he rolled toward me, he unfastened one button of my shirt, as though by that gesture he would prevent me from leaving. He kissed the bare space he had made. “Are you with anyone?”
“No,” I said. I put my fingers on his face, but I was careful not to touch the scar.
He unfastened all the buttons. He opened my shirt and laid the white cloth against my arms. He kissed me from my neck to my stomach. Dry lips. Light kisses. He rolled me away from him, pulling my shirt down below my shoulders. He lay behind me, encircling me, pressing his palms into my stomach. My arms were pinned beneath his, and I felt his breath on the nape of my neck. He pushed himself hard against my thigh. I bent my head slightly forward, letting go, letting this happen to me, to us, and I felt his body stretch with mine. I felt his tongue at the top of my spine.
Sometime later that night, I was awakened by a ragged moan. Thomas, naked, was sitting at the edge of the bed, the heels of his hands digging angrily into his eye sockets. I tried to pull his hands away before he injured himself. He fell back onto the bed. I turned on a light.
“What is it?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing,” he whispered. “It’ll pass.”
His jaw was clenched, and his face had gone a sickly white. It couldn’t simply be a hangover, I thought. He must be ill.
He raised his head off the pillow and looked at me. He seemed not to be able to see me. There was something wrong with his right eye. “This will pass,” he said. “It’s just a headache.”
“What can I do for you?” I asked.
“Don’t go,” he whispered. “Promise me you won’t go.” He reached for my hand, catching my wrist. He gripped me so tightly, he raised welts on my skin.
I prepared him an ice pack in the tiny kitchen of his apartment and lay down next to him. I, too, was naked. It’s possible I slept while he waited out the pain. Some hours later, he rolled over, facing me, and took my hand. He placed my fingers on the scar. His color had returned, and I could see that the headache was gone. I traced the long bumpy curve on his face, as I was meant to do.
“There’s something I want to tell you,” he said.
In the morning, after our long night together, after the migraine, the first of dozens I would eventually witness, I persuaded him to get up and take me out to breakfast. I made him pose for a photograph at the front door of the apartment house. At the diner, he told me more about