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Awkward conversations about personal subjects: really not my area. John, sitting at the kitchen table, cup of coffee in his hand. In a worn t-shirt and pyjama bottoms; slippers on his feet. John didn’t used to do that; used to be so formal, even first thing in the morning. Shower, dress before he came down the stairs. Damp hair combed, shoes on and tied, creases pressed. (More military habits: the hospital corners remain, and I still disrupt them.) John is more casual now, more relaxed. (Minus his cane, his limp, his constant despair.) His t-shirt is so worn that the next wash will begin to tear it along the hem. I can see a bit of his scar through the fabric; reddish skin, angry, slightly mottled.
(The more of him I can see, the more worn his t-shirts as he sits in the kitchen in the mornings, the more often pushes his feet into his slippers: is that a gauge of his happiness? If so: he appears to be very happy.)
Newspaper spread in front of him. (He always reads the international news first, all of it, even the parts that trickle into the back pages. Has a special focus for Afghanistan (of course) and local crime (naturally). Slowly loses concentration after that. Only skims in the following order: British politics, sport, obituaries. Ignores the rest.)
In the middle of today’s paper he will find another of the articles I have collected for him and scattered around the flat. The various theses of these arguments should express my point precisely without any muddled words on my part, without me starting up an epic row. Found this one in the library, copied it, stapled it together. Underlined key points, made notes in the margins. Treger, “The Influences of Sociosexuality and Attachment Style on Reactions to Emotional Versus Sexual Infidelity,” from the Journal of Sex Research (2010).
When he finishes reading the reports of the latest news, he will turn a page and see it. It will be the fourth article he will have found so far this morning, leading him to the inescapable conclusion that Mary’s infidelity is innate, immutable and inevitable, all without me saying a word.
The first (found at the LSE library, ironically) was sitting on top of the toilet (Ezrar, “Relational Family Therapy Perspective on Adult Detachment,” Journal of Family Psychotherapy (2010): relies too much on nonsense theory and qualitative evidence, but the general thesis will get the point across), another, left on the table next to the armchair (Hawkins, “Defining Intimacy in Diverse Asian Cultures,” Graduate Research (2010): slightly off topic perhaps, but contains some ideas on the subject of intimacy in general that are quite relevant), and finally one next to the microwave, chosen to introduce a bit of levity to these dire affairs and convey a sense of my wry wit and sympathy (Fincham, “Faith and Unfaithfulness: Can praying for your partner reduce infidelity?” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology (2010), obviously trite and not worth the paper it’s printed on, but amusing and underscoring the basic point nonetheless). He will turn the pages, see my notes, and then he will understand.
Sunlight hits the top of his head; his shiny hair. Golden. Bits of it grey. I want to touch it, feel how the blond hair is different from the grey (softer? thinner?), but instead hold my hands still. Palms pressed together. Wait. He will turn the page. He will understand. Tips of my index fingers pressed to my lips. Keeping my mouth shut. He takes a deep breath in; then exhales slowly. Sips from his cup. Watch his eyes zipping back and forth as he reads the tiny columns; down the page, and then up; zig zag, zig zag.
“Am I really that interesting?” he says, not looking up. He turns a page.
I suppose I’m staring at him. Perhaps not a good idea. Oh well. “Of course.”
“Really.” He looks up at me, stares back for a moment. Smiles. There’s a warmth in his eyes; he doesn’t actually mind. He might even like it. Looks back at me, his flecked eyes; a strange intimacy in the looking. The obstacle of the table, the weight of the wrong words between us, the wrong decisions. Easily pushed aside. Rub fingers against my lips, imagine touching his. “What are you deducing about me today?”
“Your left eye is slightly weaker than the right.” I say it automatically. It’s true, but I deduced it months ago, not just now. Why am I lying? Comes out naturally. Both want and don’t want to start this conversation. The one about Mary, and what he’s about to do. What he needs to know. Bizarre internal conflict about starting an external conflict. (Conscience? Fear? Desire to keep the peace? No idea.) Wait.
“Is it?” He finds it amusing.
“Yes.” Lace fingers together. He’s still looking at me, hint of a smile on his face. “Also: your hair is different colours. Blond, brown, some grey. I want to know what they feel like.” That part is true. Is it inappropriate to say?
He smiles again. The human face is extremely plastic, an evolutionary trait in support of a social creature in need of relationships. John’s face is uniquely expressive (and he is uniquely in need of relationships: are these facts connected?) His affection for me: obvious. (The bitter feeling in my stomach outweighed by something else, a light sort of joy, a pleasant feeling in my gut when he smiles at me like that. Soothing; also arousing. Interesting.) He leans forward a bit. “Go on then. Far be it from me to get in the way of science.”
A table is no obstacle at all. I push my fingers through his hair; the warm bit at the top where the sun has been resting; blond, brown, grey. Hard to distinguish them, but each colour has a slightly different texture. Blond the thinnest and softest (of course), grey the thickest, coarsest. When he grows older he will have a head of thick grey hair; testosterone level in his body is high enough to give him a healthy sex drive (obviously), but not high enough to show signs of balding. Let one hand trail over to the back of his neck; thumb rests behind his ear. Warm. Can feel his pulse, heat rising on his skin. Feel his breath speed up slightly. Markers of arousal. Spike of pleasure. Have to shut my eyes against it. John smells of sleep and soap. I can’t smell the rancid fat from the chicken shops near Mary’s flat, or the sickly smell of cheap cleaning products from the hallway outside her door. This morning he only smells of Baker St. and himself.
It’s been a few moments too long that I’ve been holding on, fingers on his neck, in his hair. I know it. I can tell he does too, but he doesn’t appear to object. I lean closer and rub my cheek against his hair. Quickly press my lips to his forehead through his fringe. A mirror of the kiss he gave me. Then I let him go. There’s an odd trembling in my stomach. Steeple my fingers again, breathe.
John leans back, takes a sip from his cup. He studies me, his expression calm, relaxed. “Well?”
“I’ll write up a report, if you like.”
He laughs. He doesn’t turn the next page in the paper, and doesn’t see the last article I printed for him. I can only imagine that’s why he doesn’t get my point about Mary this morning.
So I try again in the afternoon.
Two strategically placed psychology textbooks on the coffee table (given my distaste for this so-called science, I had to go out of my way to procure these: found both in a second hand bookshop near Imperial; one on co-dependency, opened to a extremely relevant section and highlighted by its previous owner (too copiously, students lack rigour when given a bright yellow marker), and another dissecting the odd but not uncommon conflation of intimacy issues and infidelity. Stack them against each other, so that the corner of one book is pointing quite deliberately to an especially cutting paragraph in the other. Precise.
In about twenty-five minutes, a documentary about socially destructive sexual behaviour in Bonobos is going to come on the telly. John unlikely to watch the whole thing, but since the thrust of its argument is present in the introduction, it will set the proper tone. John sitting on the sofa with me, eating an apple, watching some chat show. I have a report on my lap, which I am perusing. (Clearly: can watch a documentary and verify some lab results at the same time.) He gets up to dispose of the core, and when he sits back down, he is partially sitting on my toes. I wiggle them.
He goes back to watching his show, but wraps his right hand around my ankle, absently, and strokes his thumb back and forth from the top of my instep up, across the soft point between my talus and calcaneus bones. Catches me; didn’t expect that. A strangely intimate touch. (Breathe. Breathe.) Feel my phone buzz: a text. Don’t care.
In the Chinese tradition, stroking this spot is thought to stimulate the groin. While I know very well that the body’s organs are not mapped out in the feet, linking this particular spot to the groin might have been done for real physiological reasons; must research this phenomenon later. Concentration is shot. Vision goes a bit blurry. Retain enough awareness to avoid drooling. Pretend to be absorbed in the report all the same. Blissful. When he stops, I notice he’s switched the channel without my noticing. John may or may not have seen the documentary at all.
Check incoming texts: just one, from Mycroft. Ignore it (for now, at least). Hardly need him spoiling the afternoon (again). Lingering warm buzzing in my lower stomach. Glorious. Don’t think John got the point of the textbooks or the documentary. Too subtle?
Over dinner, about to ask: searching for a way to phrase it, the way people do when they have a question they don’t quite know how to articulate without causing a riot. The way they ask questions that aren’t the things they want to ask, just to introduce a topic. Want to ask, “has she told you?”, when the real question is, “are you aware that your marriage will end the same way Mary’s previous marriages did, because there’s no way for it to go otherwise? Are you sure you want to do this?” Can’t see a way to phrase it that doesn’t put him on the defensive. Enjoying his relaxed posture, the smoothness of him. Don’t want the frequent touches to stop, the warm grins. He’s happy. Consider dozens of alternatives: “She’s been married before, correct?” playing dumb doesn’t suit me; only requires a yes or no response), “Mary has a colourful past, doesn’t she,” (bordering on offensive, terrible turn of phrase, trite, tedious) or, “is she still in touch with her ex-husbands?” (Cheeky.) None of them seem quite right. Not talking about it is easier and more pleasant. It remains on the tip of my tongue, hovering there, getting in the way of dinner, but it never emerges.
Stalling, check Mycroft’s text message. Prophetic, of course: If you tell him, and she is unfaithful, he will blame you. Annoyed. Dislike the degree to which he can follow my train of thought, even from a distance. Off-putting. But it works. I stop considering it. Can’t argue that he doesn’t have a valid point. Feels like I’m failing John somehow. Not prepared to sacrifice myself (my relationship with him, my future relationship with him, in whatever form that might take) in order to prevent his pain. None of my business. His decision.
Mycroft requires a very specific response: Piss off. SH
The night before the wedding, I fall asleep leaning against the frame of John’s partially open bedroom door. Must have: remember standing at the door, watching him sleep, waiting for a nightmare, waiting for the top right corner of his bed to come undone. Then suddenly, John standing over me, hand on my shoulder. I’ve fallen. Must have tipped over. He hauls me to my feet wordlessly, pushes me toward his bed. Tucks me in. Gets in on the left side (why always the left side of the bed? What advantage?) and curls up against me. His forehead on the back of my neck, hand on my hip, which flexes, as if he’s trying to communicate (hand, hip: a primitive kind of language). Don’t think I will, but I fall asleep.
Harry and I both sign as witnesses, while Mary’s two giggly friends look on and snap photos. John looks sharp and serious in his dark suit; Mary looks happy in a green dress (she has the decency not to wear white, which is atrocious anyway). Harry looks marginally perturbed; either she doesn’t approve any more than I do (and if so: perhaps I have met a new friend), or she’s concerned about how long it will be until her next drink. (She looks like John; same sharp eyes, plastic, endlessly readable face.)
Something only I (and probably Mycroft, damn him) would see: John walks out toward the car, off to begin his marital bliss with a weekend at a bed and breakfast (Whitstable in Kent), with a very slight limp. Almost unnoticeable. But not quite.