Say When Read Free

to bed herself. An hour later, after a halfhearted attempt to get through Business Week and Forbes, Griffin came upstairs and leaned against his bedroom doorjamb, his arms crossed, his hands in loose fists. The room was lit softly by a paper lantern of a moon, a deep yellow orb that seemed hung directly outside their window, exclusively for their benefit. Ellen, he thought, and the name seemed to him to hold everything he might possibly want to say to her. It was a request, an apology, a sweet claim. He looked at her lying on her side of the bed, looked too at the space she had left beside her. That was his side, because he was her husband. And she was his wife.
    Quietly, slowly, he lay down beside her. She was turned away from him. Asleep? He listened to her breathe for a while and decided not, the rhythm was wrong. And anyway, he could feel her awareness, feel her listening to him. “Ellen,” he whispered. “Can we talk?”
    She turned over, her face full of relief. “Yes.”
    He looked fully at her, saw her eyes (nearsighted), her nose (once, out on a date when she was in high school, the guy asked if she’d broken it, humiliating her so much she feared letting anyone see her profile for years), her mouth (the first lipstick she ever wore was tangerine lip gloss, a sample stolen from a drugstore), her dimpled chin (something she used to pray would turn into a “normal” chin), her small ears (plagued by infections until she was ten—her mother used to get up with her in the middle of night and bring her into the kitchen for an orange to comfort her). I know you, he wanted to say. Do you know how well I know you?
    He wanted to remind her that she had been in the ocean for the first time with him, that it was he she’d turned to with amazement saying, “It tastes salty!” He wanted to tell her that he provided her with excellent health and dental insurance, that it was he who had made her finally understand how airplanes stayed in the air—science was not her strong suit. They were so familiar to each other, he loved her so much, and she wanted a divorce? No. She said divorce, but she meant something else. She was confused. This…illness had come over her, the last several months. Together, they could cure her.
    He wanted to suggest something: Saturday night dating. Yes. They’d hire a standing sitter, and every Saturday night, they’d go out somewhere. Chicago was a fabulous city; there was so much to do—they’d take advantage of the fact that they lived in Oak Park and could get in and out so easily. He was sorry he’d ignored her complaints about almost never going with her to see the ballet, or plays, or concerts, or even enough movies. Maybe she’d like to try opera; he’d be willing to try opera. Or if not exactly opera…No! He would be willing to try opera.
    He’d make an effort to go out with other couples; Ellen was right when she said they needed to make friends. He’d send her flowers on a random Thursday, he’d pay attention and nod at all the right times when she told one of her interminable stories about—well, anyone would agree—about not much. He’d tell her how he felt about the sunrise, about the headlines, about the new neighbors down the block, about the barely discernible change in her hairstyle. He’d stop leaving the lid up—though Zoe liked it, claiming that she, too, liked to stand to urinate. Oh, he would do everything, he would do everything she wanted, maybe her demands weren’t so much after all. He’d read poetry with her, all right? Maybe he’d amaze her with his insights; he wasn’t so insensitive as she thought, he could be just as sensitive as the next guy, if he wanted to be. And she’d be so glad, in the end, so happy they’d stayed together.
    He cleared his throat. “Ellen. I love you so much.”
    She started to cry. He thought perhaps this was a good sign—it was her way of saying she loved him, too. He tried to take her in his arms, but she pushed