For you? Never.
I can’t readit?
Nope. You’re banned for life.
That’s bullshit, he says. Also, good luck. I’ll be able to buy it anywhere.
Not if I cancel publication.
You’ll deprive the whole world, just to thwartme?
Absolutely. She reaches for his phone. I’m calling my editor right now.
She’s joking about it! She can’t be too upset. That’s a relief.
They turn their attention once again to the news. CNN is showing more clips of the explosion. It’s a near-constant loop, interrupted only by occasional shots of grave-faced Brian. Where are they getting all this footage? Are they just harvesting videos off the internet now?
He watches her go to the plugged-in phone to check for updates. Is she really not bothered by his yearslong deception? She lies to him about something trivial, and he blows up. He lies to her about her life’s work, and she shrugs?
He’d always assumed some part of her was disappointed that he hadn’t read her books. But maybe she truly doesn’t care. About his opinion. About him.
It’s always been obvious what he does for her. He satisfies her, consistently and extravagantly. He amuses her. Is that it? Does she agree with Tom that he’s an egotistical prick?Has this changed you?She wanted to know, and he’d answered truthfully, more or less. He never asked if he changed her.
Is he one of the good things about her life that she treasures, one of the things she’s afraid to lose?
Hey Jenny, he says.
She looks up from the phone.
He holds up the bottle. More wine?
Additional firefighting units are arriving at the scene as the FDNY continues to assess the strength of the fire and the extent of its casualties.
I’d better not, she says. I’m already a little…she waggles a hand in the air. I’ll take a pop, though, if there is one.
He roots around in the fridge. Pop. Another of her midwesternisms. Along with, apparently, an inability to accept praise. He finds a bottle of twee-looking artisanal cola and takes her wineglass into the bathroom to rinse it out.
She can’t see herself clearly. But then, nobody can. And most of the people around us can’t offer much assistance. Their views of usare distorted, too, by past and circumstance, their own hangups. So when we turn to them to know ourselves—have I done right, have I done wrong, does this make me look fat, am I any good at all?—they can’t helpus.
Though they can try. They should. She says Tom is a good partner, but can he be all that great if she thinks so little of herself?
Also, what’s his failing in bed?Tom can be a little…what? A little what?
He’s dying to know.
What he’s not dying to do is have sex with her right now. An absence of lust. Unprecedented. Wanting her—craving her—has been a prevailing condition of his life for more than half a decade.
It’s fine. It’ll return. It always does.
He leaves the bathroom. There she is, perched at the end of the bed. The woman who doesn’t know herself. Still, she must be happy, right? Even if she feels insecure and imposterous, even if she can’t appreciate herself the way she should. Even if Tom can be a little…
What, goddammit?
A little what?
He holds out the soda, but she doesn’t take it. Her eyes are fixed on the television.
Look, she says.
