She
inhaled deeply and pressed his shoulder with her left hand,
careful to keep the sight of it from his peripheral vision. Her
other hand strayed along his biceps. Raising her face, she closed
her eyes and moved her lips to his.
He sniffed, and she opened her eyes just in time to see him turn
his agonized face toward the window. He sneezed, twice, and she
flinched with each burst, but was at the same time enormously
relieved too. For an instant she had had the impression that the
face he'd made had been in response to her. But it was only a
sneeze. Two sneezes. Nothing at all to do with her, and so silly
for her to have thought otherwise.
Or was it. There he was, gazing out the window again, as if he
were counting the individual lights in the valley. She scolded
herself for not having pulled the shade.
"Matthew," she said softly, meaning to apologize or assure him or
-
"Good night," he said.
Or nothing.
It was useless, and so she retreated to her side of the bed and
lay there in silent deliberation. For the second time today she
worried if perhaps the crystal bowl she had purchased had been a
mistake, her private celebration somehow jinxing the outcome of
tomorrow's meeting.
They lay there like that for a long time, silent and awake but
inexpressive, until, eventually, exhaustion won out and they both
slept, each playing their parts in a dream that did not embody
the other.
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