Further Reversals
Annabel arrives late; nevertheless, I manage still to be unkempt and peevish from a day of mediocrity in all things -- work, play, food, laundry. We spend the evening at dinner, a meal during which her windswept hair (we dine al fresca) and the changing sky behind her combine to create cinematic effects usually rendered by computers or composites. Cards are kept close to the vest, but perhaps not as close as usual: Annabel admits to thinking about me during her day, and I, I suppose I comment favorably on her clothes, and possibly her hair, and her face, and possibly also certain gestures or mannerisms, and at one brief moment her mere existence, although all things considered, I think my face remains relatively deadpan, for better or for worse.
Later that night, she grows distant and flighty. "You are the only one I know who can manage to be diffident while simultaneously unpacking your toothbrush," I tell her. She is not amused. I cannot imagine that she sleeps well; I certainly don't -- tossing and turning and tormented by the immeasurably distant form two inches to my right. However, usually a portrait of grumpiness in the morning, A. awakes fresh and intoxicatingly content ("content" is an anticlimax, there, I know; sorry). In dreams, she says, I had asked her to buy me some small thing -- a book, a notebook, a small universe -- and she agreed. "Thank you," I say. I see her off feeling as though my face has been scrubbed clean and bright by the sun.
Later that night, she grows distant and flighty. "You are the only one I know who can manage to be diffident while simultaneously unpacking your toothbrush," I tell her. She is not amused. I cannot imagine that she sleeps well; I certainly don't -- tossing and turning and tormented by the immeasurably distant form two inches to my right. However, usually a portrait of grumpiness in the morning, A. awakes fresh and intoxicatingly content ("content" is an anticlimax, there, I know; sorry). In dreams, she says, I had asked her to buy me some small thing -- a book, a notebook, a small universe -- and she agreed. "Thank you," I say. I see her off feeling as though my face has been scrubbed clean and bright by the sun.