P.S. Of course we need a bigger place. I told you so …
Attachment: UNTITLED.doc
My cursor hovered over the Send button.
In Chapter 2, my unsolicited addition to Hannah’s story, I had described a session with Mike: the day he gave me my Black Book of Aberrant Desires.
The chapter ended with the word EXHIBITIONISM.
Maybe this—this story—would be the easiest way to tell Hannah everything.
I glanced at the clock. Nine-ish. She might still be awake.
“Ah, fuck it.” I hit Send, then pushed away from my desk and glared at A Street in Venice. The painting gave me no peace. I picked the small darts from my drawer and threw them at the board on the far wall. Thunk. One hit the double ring. Thunk. Outside the triple ring.
Usually I had better aim.
Now I couldn’t focus.
No children with Hannah. No family.
I simply wasn’t ready to discuss that issue, much less accept it, and so I ignored it.
I waited in my office for ten minutes, expecting a knock. None came.
I emerged into the hallway, paused outside our bedroom, and listened. There was no light beneath the door and no sound from within.
Impatience seized me. I forced a credit card between the door and the frame, and the lock released. The door swung inward.
Hannah sat on our bed in the dark, her MacBook open in front of her. The screen’s soft glow lit her face.
She didn’t jump, but she regarded me cautiously.
I struggled to read her expression.
Silence.
A stalemate.
“I came for my sleeping bag,” I lied. “I don’t really fit on the couch.”
“Okay.”
“And quit locking the door.” I walked to the closet and flicked on the light. Maybe she hadn’t read my e-mail yet. Maybe she had and was planning her escape. I grabbed my Marmot stuff sack and lingered, compressing the down like a stress ball. How to prolong my time in the bedroom? I moved a few shoeboxes, searching for … whatever. A flashlight. A peace offering.
Beneath a bag of Hannah’s winter clothes I found a large, flat box tied with black ribbon. A little tag on the box read, Matt.
I carried it out of the closet.
“What’s this?” I shook the box.
Hannah darted off the bed and snatched the box. I tightened my hold on the corner, mostly to keep her close. We played tug-of-war for a moment, me grinning and Hannah exasperated, yanking at the box with all her might.
“You’re feisty tonight.” I chuckled.
I twisted the box out of her grip and lifted it, my arm stretched toward the ceiling. I raised a brow. She didn’t even try to reach for it. Too bad … would have been cute.
“It’s a gift. But I don’t want you to have it yet. Give it to me.”
“Pout prettily and I will.” I smiled.
“Matt…” Her voice hardened with warning.
“Let me hold you, then, and I won’t ask about it. And I’ll give it back.”
She glared up at me, but she nodded. I tossed the box onto our bed. Something inside shifted. I dropped my sleeping bag and pulled her into my arms.
She’d changed into tiny, soft shorts and a cami. A burst of honeysuckle scent rose from her hair. I nuzzled my nose into her curls and sighed, my hands roaming.
“Don’t make me sleep in the TV room. I’m lonely for you…” I wedged her shorts between her legs and cupped her ass. She trembled and held my hip with one hand.
If only we could talk, I could fix things. Hannah didn’t want my children. That was a problem. I could fix it. And she was pissed about Last Light. I could fix that, too.
“Hannah—”
“Go,” she said.
* * *
I woke to the sound of the condo door closing.
“Bird,” I mumbled. I tried to sit up and flopped over, stuck in my mummy bag. “Ah, for fuck’s sake.”
My shoulders ached. My back was stiff.
I wriggled out of the sleeping bag and prowled into the kitchen.
Somehow, Hannah had slipped off to work without waking me. She must have skipped breakfast. I frowned and contemplated the door.
Were we having a serious fight?
She’d upset me last night; I’d upset her. Then I’d barged into the bedroom for makeup sex (or conversation, at least) and she shut me down … again.
When did we last fuck, anyway?
I wrote a text—I need sex—and deleted it. Stupid. “Grow the fuck up,” I grumbled. Still, some fearful little voice piped up in my brain, warning me that marriage was more of this—a creeping siege, a war of attrition. Never before had Hannah locked me out of our bedroom. Now, with a ring on her finger, she’d ordered me out of our bed twice. And I’d rolled over like a well-trained dog. What next?
Tomorrow I could wake up and be that guy who only gets a blow job on his birthday.
I shuddered.
My morning coffee tasted bland. I skipped my run and searched the condo for a note from Hannah, but I found nothing. She’d re-hid the present and made our bed.
I retreated to the office and checked my e-mail.
My mood lifted when I saw a new e-mail from Hannah.
Subject: Camping in the TV room
Sender: Hannah Catalano
Date: Tuesday, July 1, 2014
Time: 6:50 AM
Sweet Matt,
I’m sorry I sent you out of the bedroom last night. I needed alone time … to think. Exhibitionism? I have so many questions. I want to know more. I’m not scared; I’m curious. Do you really have a journal?
Attachment: UNTITLED.doc
My cursor hovered over the Send button.
In Chapter 2, my unsolicited addition to Hannah’s story, I had described a session with Mike: the day he gave me my Black Book of Aberrant Desires.
The chapter ended with the word EXHIBITIONISM.
Maybe this—this story—would be the easiest way to tell Hannah everything.
I glanced at the clock. Nine-ish. She might still be awake.
“Ah, fuck it.” I hit Send, then pushed away from my desk and glared at A Street in Venice. The painting gave me no peace. I picked the small darts from my drawer and threw them at the board on the far wall. Thunk. One hit the double ring. Thunk. Outside the triple ring.
Usually I had better aim.
Now I couldn’t focus.
No children with Hannah. No family.
I simply wasn’t ready to discuss that issue, much less accept it, and so I ignored it.
I waited in my office for ten minutes, expecting a knock. None came.
I emerged into the hallway, paused outside our bedroom, and listened. There was no light beneath the door and no sound from within.
Impatience seized me. I forced a credit card between the door and the frame, and the lock released. The door swung inward.
Hannah sat on our bed in the dark, her MacBook open in front of her. The screen’s soft glow lit her face.
She didn’t jump, but she regarded me cautiously.
I struggled to read her expression.
Silence.
A stalemate.
“I came for my sleeping bag,” I lied. “I don’t really fit on the couch.”
“Okay.”
“And quit locking the door.” I walked to the closet and flicked on the light. Maybe she hadn’t read my e-mail yet. Maybe she had and was planning her escape. I grabbed my Marmot stuff sack and lingered, compressing the down like a stress ball. How to prolong my time in the bedroom? I moved a few shoeboxes, searching for … whatever. A flashlight. A peace offering.
Beneath a bag of Hannah’s winter clothes I found a large, flat box tied with black ribbon. A little tag on the box read, Matt.
I carried it out of the closet.
“What’s this?” I shook the box.
Hannah darted off the bed and snatched the box. I tightened my hold on the corner, mostly to keep her close. We played tug-of-war for a moment, me grinning and Hannah exasperated, yanking at the box with all her might.
“You’re feisty tonight.” I chuckled.
I twisted the box out of her grip and lifted it, my arm stretched toward the ceiling. I raised a brow. She didn’t even try to reach for it. Too bad … would have been cute.
“It’s a gift. But I don’t want you to have it yet. Give it to me.”
“Pout prettily and I will.” I smiled.
“Matt…” Her voice hardened with warning.
“Let me hold you, then, and I won’t ask about it. And I’ll give it back.”
She glared up at me, but she nodded. I tossed the box onto our bed. Something inside shifted. I dropped my sleeping bag and pulled her into my arms.
She’d changed into tiny, soft shorts and a cami. A burst of honeysuckle scent rose from her hair. I nuzzled my nose into her curls and sighed, my hands roaming.
“Don’t make me sleep in the TV room. I’m lonely for you…” I wedged her shorts between her legs and cupped her ass. She trembled and held my hip with one hand.
If only we could talk, I could fix things. Hannah didn’t want my children. That was a problem. I could fix it. And she was pissed about Last Light. I could fix that, too.
“Hannah—”
“Go,” she said.
* * *
I woke to the sound of the condo door closing.
“Bird,” I mumbled. I tried to sit up and flopped over, stuck in my mummy bag. “Ah, for fuck’s sake.”
My shoulders ached. My back was stiff.
I wriggled out of the sleeping bag and prowled into the kitchen.
Somehow, Hannah had slipped off to work without waking me. She must have skipped breakfast. I frowned and contemplated the door.
Were we having a serious fight?
She’d upset me last night; I’d upset her. Then I’d barged into the bedroom for makeup sex (or conversation, at least) and she shut me down … again.
When did we last fuck, anyway?
I wrote a text—I need sex—and deleted it. Stupid. “Grow the fuck up,” I grumbled. Still, some fearful little voice piped up in my brain, warning me that marriage was more of this—a creeping siege, a war of attrition. Never before had Hannah locked me out of our bedroom. Now, with a ring on her finger, she’d ordered me out of our bed twice. And I’d rolled over like a well-trained dog. What next?
Tomorrow I could wake up and be that guy who only gets a blow job on his birthday.
I shuddered.
My morning coffee tasted bland. I skipped my run and searched the condo for a note from Hannah, but I found nothing. She’d re-hid the present and made our bed.
I retreated to the office and checked my e-mail.
My mood lifted when I saw a new e-mail from Hannah.
Subject: Camping in the TV room
Sender: Hannah Catalano
Date: Tuesday, July 1, 2014
Time: 6:50 AM
Sweet Matt,
I’m sorry I sent you out of the bedroom last night. I needed alone time … to think. Exhibitionism? I have so many questions. I want to know more. I’m not scared; I’m curious. Do you really have a journal?
