tangle of her thighs as they stretch against the perimeter's of the room and wrestle the walls against the recklessness of his kiss. He listens to the heaves in her chest, feels the air of each sigh's passion when they are connected by this naked desire.
And when she says she loves him, he can feel it climb up his body, grab the stem of his brain, and tug at his dreams with the force of what could be.
And when he says he loves her, it is effortless, more than meaningful, and deeper than just plain desire. It is true. And truth is hard to hold onto. And he feels that it won't hold, fears the cold splash of its letting go.
And what's true in this room is not necessarily true outside the room. And this additional truth, the truth of their love's limitations, is always present in the room, hanging precariously above them, waiting to drop.
Then there are the nights like tonight when he sits at home and dwells on their days, dwindling in the delirium of the daze they've shared. And he stares out the window thinking of ways to winnow all the words down, find the kernel of the meaning they make so that he can turn it into poetry. But his mind melts into marvelous meaninglessness when he tries to write. A thousand words bounce from one to another until all that's left is a mess of hands and kisses, and he knows that the focus is too close to see this thing clearly. He knows he needs some distance in order to better see the words. Right now, the words are sitting atop a jagged nerve so electric that they are too raw to translate without tripping a physical shock. He needs these shocks to come from memories more distant than experience.
And he is biding his time, living in the moment, marveling in all the untamed truth that she gives him. He memorizes moments and minutes, holds them tightly in his mind's fist for future days, when he can unfurl those fingers and recognize those flowers of feelings.
Then a light, a light in a room of the house she shares with Brad, comes on, and she moves into the room. She looks out at him, and spreads the curtains of the window open. She opens the window, and he can see the breeze blow into her body. She turns and moves across the room, hits a button on their stereo, and begins to move. She slowly swings and sways her way back to the window and looks up at him. He stares back at her and watches her weave like light on water, sliding her hands across her hips and thighs, pulling and tugging at her shirt and her short shorts, revealing naked hips and the small of her back. She pulls the shirt taut across her breasts, and shakes her body into shapes so provocative that he finds himself unzipping his pants. He grabs himself without shame, and watches her body's waves, and he feels so close to her that he might as well be in the room with her, but, if he were there, there would be a crossing of lines that could never be uncrossed and it would quickly crisscross into a thousand lines of chaos... chaos... chaos...
He presses his hand on the window, fully exhales, and drags his rigid fingers down the glass, leaving behind smears of condensation.
And she watches him. Smiles. Closes the curtains.
"We're separating."
"Really?" Jacob asks.
"Yeah, we've decided it's for the best."
"What about the kids?"
"Like I said before, it's not doing them any good—us being together. That almost seems like a poor excuse for a rationalization now. They're old enough to know that we're not happy, and old enough to understand that any kind of mythical idea they may have had about their parents was only illusory."
"So, you're moving out?"
"Yeah."
"Where?"
"I'm going to move in with Keri.
"But, you said—"
"I know what I said. I changed my mind."
"Does Clare know that— ?"
"I don't know. I haven't told her, and if someone else has, she hasn't brought it up, or hinted that she suspects anything."
"Do you think she might have been with someone herself?"
"No, I don't think so. It's possible she may've met someone recently, but she's too good a person to have reacted to it while we were still together."
"But you think she has met someone?"
"Maybe. She's certainly changed over the past few weeks. In general, she seems happier. Not toward me, but, just from observing her around the house, she seems sunnier somehow. She's definitely shown more determination to resolve this."
"She's pushed for this?"
"We both did."
"How do you feel about this?"
"I don't know. It's just happened, really. I mean, it's been happening for a long time, almost imperceptibly, like when your with someone everyday and your too close to see them grow. Then one day you look over and they're a completely different person, and you know that you're a different person too. Then you realize that you don't love that person who sleeps next to you. You don't even really know them."
"But you guys have been together for so long. It seems sad."
"In the abstract, it is sad," David says, matter-of-factly. "I've known Clare since college, and there was a time when I think I was truly in love with her. But, honestly, in general, I'm relieved," he says, looking out the window of the café onto campus. "I'm moving in with Keri this weekend."
"Are you happy about that?"
"I am," he says, looking at Jacob. "I worry about certain things—certain little things. Mostly to do with the fact that she's still a student. But she only has a few more classes to take, and she'll wrap those up by the end of the summer. But, overall, when it's just me and her, it's nice. I feel comfortable with her in a way I can't remember feeling with Clare, at least not in a long time. Clare and I have lived in quiet hostility for so long that you forget what it's like to know the quiet calm of real comfort."
"And you don't think there's any chance that you created, or imagined this hostile environment to make it easier for you to have an affair?"
"God, no. Do you think I'm that deluded?"
"Just asking."
"No. This, between Clare and I, has been going on for years and years. Well before Keri. We were busy with our jobs, our kids, and we just accepted that the drifting between us was natural. But we let ourselves drift too far. That's all." David looks at Jacob again. "Why? Are you creating hostility with Rachael to make you feel less guilty about Joelle?"
"I wouldn't say I'm creating hostility as much as distance, but there has been some hostility."
"When would you say that started? About the time you met Joelle?"
"Seems that way."
"Do you think you might be trying to drive Rachael away?"
"No, but—"
"You're just trying to give yourself some space."
"It's easier for me that way. When Rachael and I are at odds, and there is some emotional distance between us, I can be with Joelle and not be riddled with guilt."
"But now?"
"Well, now that I know that's what I've been doing, I realize how much I've been fooling myself, and how unfair I've been to Rachael."
"So, things haven't changed with Rachael?"
"No, honestly, not much has changed. I mean, yes, some things have changed, but I can still talk to her. She's still every bit my partner in life, just as much as she's always been."
"And Joelle?"
"She is exactly what I wanted her to be. When you and I first talked about what I was missing after Gary died, I said that I needed something to change, something to desire. She's my change. She's reminded me what it's like to fall in love again, what it's like to have those first nervous revelations of emotional interest, those first unsure touches, those first kisses."
"But the poetry'?"
"Still not there," Jacob says. "And you were right about Imeros. All of those poems came after I lost Melissa. But that didn't necessarily surprise me. What did surprise me was that, when I looked through my old notebooks, there wasn't a single significant word written while we were together. My thoughts seemed just as scrambled as they have been lately."
"So, does that mean you're going to end it?"
"I have to."
"But
you love her?"
"Yeah, I do."
"Well, what if you're making a mistake?"
"Then I'll be sorry, I guess. But it's just too risky. I trust what I have with Rachael. We've built a life. There is comfort and stability in the world we've built. There is too much uncertainty with Joelle. The truth is, I know almost nothing about her."
"If you don't know anything about her then how can you say that you love her?"
"Precisely because I don't know her. We're together so rarely—sneaking around to avoid suspicion—that I get to build her up when we're apart, and my need to be around her has to be filled by something, and I've found a way to fill her full of... Well, I know it sounds crazy, but—"
"Melissa."
"Right."
"How?"
"All of those feelings I've been having for Joelle have opened up those places in my mind—those Melissa places. I'm remembering things about Melissa that I thought I'd forgotten. Everything I wanted a couple months ago, to recover that part of myself that I thought was long gone, has come back to me. I've gotten everything I wanted from Joelle."
"Except the poetry."
"Right."
"And you have to break her heart in order to get it."
"And mine."
He found it hard to look at Joelle in class today, though she was not shy about looking at him. He had spent most the night thinking of ways to end things gracefully, but there is no grace when emotions are as heightened and naked as what they've shared.
Now, as he sits in his office and waits for her, he wonders if he'll still be able to muster the strength to say what he's planned to say. It's one thing to imagine the words while lying