Spaced Out


“You haven't a clue what I just said, have you?”

She looked at him.  “Sorry,” she said, and looked away from him again.

“You stare into space, you stare at the wall, you stare at the
freckles on the back of your hand—”

“Oh, shut up.”

He was taken aback.  He put down the magazine.  “Why?” he asked, “why
do you let me ramble on about this—” he picked it up again, rolled it
into a tube and swatted it against the table, then went on, holding
the rolled up tube and striding, not looking at her: “—about trivial
matters, conversation, little nothings, even sweet nothings; but when
I bring up a serious topic, one thing or another that has real bearing
upon our relationship, then, only then is when I must shut up!”

He had worked himself up and she shot a look at him.  Their eyes met
and her face broke and she sobbed, “Oh, how can I expect you to
understand?” though there were not any tears.

His arms dropped to his sides and he came round the table to her side.
He did not trust she was sincere.  He touched her under the chin with
the rolled-up magazine and she looked up at him.  The eyes were
sorrowful but there were no tears nor any beginnings of tears.

“How can I expect you to understand when all you care about is that
I'm thoughtful every now and again?”

“You're worried about what to do with your life?  You're worried
perhaps it has no meaning?  How's this for a suggestion?  Why don't
you take a stab at theatre?  You play a marvellous tragic heroine.  I
care that you are thoughtful?  I care that you aren't, that you aren't
thoughtful of me, not in the least.  And if I am thoughtful of you it
is a nuisance to you.  I'm always stepping on your toes or nipping at
your ankles.  And, and now you want to dance, now you don't, and never
in step with me: we're never in step.”

He had moved away from her now and was pacing up and down again.  She
watched him go back and forth as though she were at the tennis but
confused because she didn't care for tennis and didn't understand the
scoring.  He tailed off and there was a silence which surprised them
both and during that silence they both were wondering whether she had
drifted away and not heard his latest words.

“I'm sorry,” she said.  She was looking down and scratching at a crust
of something stuck to her dress.  “But what shall we do?” and she
looked up at him.  She looked up at him and for the first time in
years he felt they were really looking at each other.  He felt warm in
his chest and he noticed her face, he really looked at her face.  He
saw the gentle ridge where her lips became her lips.  He saw how her
hairline crowned her head, sending down waves to frame her face.  Her
cheek, curving up; her brow curving, curving, uncreased; and her eyes,
her eyes clear, steady and inviting, communicating, saying what?
perhaps he could not tell, but he stood there and smiled just for the
fact that they were communicating.

“Never mind.”

“Never mind,” he said, and he held out his hand.  “Let's go down to
dinner.”