The Guest Room(72)

…

“I’m really not hungry,” Kristin said, dropping the menu back on her placemat at the restaurant. It was a single sheet of paper, calligraphed and copied that day because the menu changed daily at the little bistro near the school—though rarely did anyone from the school eat there, at least during the school day. Today the restaurant was filled with ladies of a certain generation who lunched. And that generation was her mother’s. Other than a table with an elderly gentleman in a bowtie surrounded by three women, Richard was the only male in the small dining room.

“Really? You have to eat,” Richard said.

“I did. I had some soup during my first break. If I’d known you were coming, I wouldn’t have…but I did. Sorry.”

“Have some coffee. Please. So I’m not eating alone.”

“Of course.”

“I just thought a surprise lunch would be nice.”

“It is,” she said, and she reached across the table and took his hands. “This is really sweet of you. I appreciate it. And it is nice. It really is.”

“I have to admit, I was a little afraid you wouldn’t want to be seen in public with me. I was afraid it might be too embarrassing.”

“Oh, I’m fine. Or I’m getting fine. I don’t know. I think I’m actually more worried about your embarrassment at the moment.”

He turned toward the table with the four older customers. They were indeed glancing surreptitiously at him. He gave them a small wave, and instantly they all looked down at their entrées. “Well, I earned it,” he said to Kristin.

“I know. But a lot of men get away with a lot worse.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“But you’re still not hungry.”

She shook her head. The truth was, however, that she was famished. She had lied about the soup. And she had eaten nothing for breakfast. She was haunted by dual images: the sight she had seen when she had studied herself in the mirror and the fantasy she had created in her mind of the prostitute who had led her husband upstairs. Quickly she drank the entire glass of water before her, hoping she could trick her brain’s hunger center.

“I thought this afternoon I might research wallpaper designs for the front hallway,” he said.

“Are you kidding?” She couldn’t imagine him taking the time to find wallpaper designs. But then again, just yesterday he had come home from a furniture store with iPhone photos of possible couches to replace the one they were getting rid of on Saturday, as well as a stack of catalogs from the showroom. She was shocked, a little awed, by his initiative.

“Yeah, why not? Maybe find some paper with that great CBGB’s bathroom feel,” he said.

She smiled. The bathrooms there had always been appalling. But she and Richard had danced at the club and listened to music at the club and—one memorable evening—made out at the club. “Retro graffiti? Spray paint chic?”

“Absolutely. Did you have a chance to look at the catalogs I brought home? Think about what sort of new couch you’d like?”

She had carried the catalogs upstairs, but after reading with Melissa and then grading papers, she had turned out the light and gone to sleep—though first she had stared for a moment at Richard’s side of the bed. At her daughter, asleep there instead of her husband. “I didn’t. Sorry,” she answered. She felt a little sheepish.

“It’s okay. No need to apologize.” He looked once more at his menu. Then: “Remember that old joke about men and quiche?”

“I do. Are you thinking of ordering the quiche?”

“I am.”

“I never thought a man was less of a man because he liked quiche.”

He smiled. “Thank you.”

She sat back, wondering how this had all become so awkward. They had been married for nearly a decade and a half. They had been in love even longer. How was it they were struggling to make conversation? How was it their relationship had become an uncomfortable first date? She hated this. She loathed this. It was pathetic and…awful. Hadn’t they once been at least a little feral? A little less tamed? What the hell had happened to their nights at places like CBGB’s? What the hell had happened to the ease with which they would go to dinner and a movie and make love while Melissa was at a friend’s house for the night? She watched him look around for the waiter and made a decision. It was a snap decision, but at the moment she wanted nothing more than to find their way back to where they had been—to who they had been. To who they once were.

“Don’t order,” she commanded him.

He looked confused.

“We’ve got almost an hour,” she told him. “We’re going to go home and go upstairs. And there you are going to f*ck me silly.”

…

The next morning, Friday, Melissa was finding it easier not to be mad at her father. A little, anyway. After all, her mother seemed now to have forgiven him. Last night her parents had slept in their bedroom together for the first time since before her uncle’s bachelor party. She had even seen her mom kiss her dad on the cheek when she had come into the kitchen for breakfast, as her dad was making her lunch for school. (She tried to recall if her father had ever made her lunch before. She had to restrain herself from making suggestions; she had to trust that Mom had told him what she liked.)