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: : : THOMAS AND JANINE ARE WALKING along a moving sidewalk at O'Hare Airport, passing huge square placards bearing advertisements. The one they're passing is for some hospital; it shows a hand using a marker to inscribe codes on a patient's foot. Thomas, pereplexed, quickly scans what he can of the text: the gist of it seems to be that the advertised hospital allows the patient to watch while a doctor marks the body part that's to be operated on, apparently as a confusion-minimizing strategy. Thomas finds this less than reassuring. The very existence of such a policy raises at least the conceptual existence of an entire series of botched operations, a long litany of confused doctors lopping off the wrong part. And if that's your problem, it hardly seems like passing out a few Sharpies is really going to help.
Janine checks her watch. —It's 8:05, she says. —If all goes well, I'll be getting off a plane in Germany in—she counts—sixteen hours.
Thomas thinks the words don't go. And then he chides himself: don't be ridiculous. She's going to be gone for a week. It's not like you're losing her forever.
But still. When she outlined the whole thing for him last month—this collective women's small press thing—his response was oh, that sounds perfect for you. And he's thought that ever since. Perfect for her. This is perfect for her.
And this raises the question—is he perfect for her?
He isn't. He knows he isn't.
They've been together for a long time, now, it's true. They've known each other for five years now, and they've been sleeping together for three. Three years—four in October—surely by now he should be able to feel some degree of confidence that she's not going to leave him for something that just happens to come along.
Even if that thing is perfect for her? She's going to Germany to see Ingrid, Thomas thinks, her lover. Her other lover. Her better lover. Janine's known Ingrid longer than she's known him; she's been sleeping with Ingrid longer than she's been sleeping with him—surely if Janine was asked to choose she'd choose—
But you're not asking her to choose, Thomas thinks. That's the whole point of this kind of relationship; you don't have to ask her to choose.
But what if Ingrid asks her? What if she gets out there and they sleep together—Thomas knows that they'll sleep together—and Ingrid says why don't you come out here for good? Maybe not permanent at first. Maybe she'll say take a year. What's keeping Janine in Chicago? What, Thomas asks, do you have to offer her? He answers habit. He answers comfort. But there comes a time in some people's lives where they sacrifice comfort and habit to have a chance to go for that thing that they really want—
Janine stops walking. Thomas notices that she's stopped and he stops too. She's looking at him.
—Are you alright? she asks.
—What? Thomas says. —Yeah, I'm fine.
—You look worried, Janine says.
He smiles, shakes his head no. —I just—just promise me you'll travel safely.
Janine rolls her eyes. —Airplane's safer than a car, she says.
—I know, Thomas says. —I just want you to come back all in one piece.
Together, carrying her suitcases, they climb the stairs and walk towards the check-in counter.
: : :
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