Pandemic Read Free Page B

again?”
    “No,” she said. “It was just some research.”
    His eyes narrowed. “Really?”
    Margaret felt her face flush. She knew better than to try to lie to him, especially about that.
    She glanced at the clock next to the computer — he’d left work a bit early.
    His black suit still looked pristine on his tall, thick frame, as sharp as when he’d left that morning. To anyone else, he probably looked all buttoned up, the kind of man who didn’t have to get off a bar stool to leave the place with three new phone numbers. But Margaret had known him for six years — four of those as his wife — and she saw the telltale signs of a long day: the tie just a bit askew; lines at the corners of his eyes because when he got tired, he started to squint; the slight discoloration on the collar of his white shirt, because he always sweated a little even in air-conditioning; the slight, damp gleam on his forehead that made his black skin glow.
    Clarence walked into the office to stand next to her. She stared at the closed laptop. He reached a hand down to her chin, gently tilted it up until their eyes met.
    “We talked about this,” he said. “We’ve been to therapy.”
    She snapped her chin away. “And that was a waste of time, just like I told you it would be.”
    Margaret searched his eyes, searched for the love that used to be there. She didn’t find it. Truth was she hadn’t seen that for a long time, hadn’t felt his warmth. Its absence made her feel far colder than if she’d never known it at all. Now when he looked at her, it was with pity. Sometimes, even contempt.
    He tapped the closed laptop. “This is what you do all day,” he said. “You read the comments of uneducated idiots who have no idea that they’re only alive because of what you did.” He looked her up and down. “And I see that you also followed the therapist’s advice about waking up, getting showered and dressed?”
    She’d forgotten she was still wearing the same ratty blue sweatpants and long-sleeved University of Oregon T-shirt she’d slept in. She’d meant to shower, but that thought had slipped away sometime during the second or third blog post she’d read. Was she angry at Clarence for calling her out on that, or at herself for not doing something so utterly basic?
    “What I wear is none of your business. And I have to do
something
with my time — It’s not like you’re ever around.”
    He tapped a fingertip against his sternum. “I
work
. You know, that thing that keeps a roof over our heads?”
    She laughed. Even as she did she heard how hateful and dismissive it sounded. He was supposed to be on her side, not riding her ass.
    “You think your job keeps a roof over our heads, Clarence? Oh
please
. Wenever have to work another day in our lives. We
saved the world
, remember? Uncle Sam will give us a check anytime we ask, just to keep us quiet.”
    Margaret stood, stared at his face. He was a full foot taller than she was. Once upon a time, she’d loved that — now it was just annoying to always have to look up.
    “You don’t work because you
have
to,” she said. “You work because you’re so goddamn naive you actually think you still make a difference.”
    He said nothing. She saw the veins pulsing in his temples. They popped out like that when he clenched his jaw. He clenched his jaw when he was trying to control his temper.
    “I
do
make a difference,” he said softly. “And so did you, before you decided to hide from the world. Before you decided to quit life.”
    He controlled his anger, as always; his discipline enraged her. The world threw hate at her day in, day out, yet off to work he went, leaving her to face everything alone. She felt a thick rage bubbling in her stomach and chest, a physical,
tangible
thing with a life of its own. She had to dial that back, or once again she would feel like a helpless participant who could only watch as someone else used her mouth to say awful things.
    “
Quit
? Is