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9/13/04
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: : : JANINE, LYING IN HER BELOVED clawfoot tub, points her knee at her chin and slowly runs a razor along the length of her calf.  Thomas stands in the doorway, watching her.  After all this time—almost three years now—the sight of her body still fills him with a delight.

She smirks at him.  —You're letting the cold air in, she says.

—I—he says.  —I'm sorry—.  He takes a step forward, closes the door gingerly behind him, sits down on the toilet seat, and watches her some more.  She returns her attention to her shaving for a minute, then looks back at him.  When she sees that he's still looking at her, she's pleased; she smiles; then she feels suddenly shy, and veils the smile with the fingers of her free hand.  Thomas watches this whole process with something like wonderment.  This human being before him.  This set of actions and responses.  There's something about it that's amazing.

—Janine, he says.

—Yes?

—Are you happy?  

This is a question that they ask one another periodically, even though each of them knows the answer, and neither of them really needs the reassurance.  But still they ask.  It's a way of saying that neither of them can quite believe just how lucky they are, to have reached this point, where they each feel comfortable in the presence of the other, where they each feel loved enough to begin to luxuriate and unfurl.  She meets his gaze and says yes, and even though it's the same answer she's given the last time he asked her, and the time before that, she still feels surprised to find that the answer feels true—

Outside, cool wind pushes through the trees; summer begins to tilt into fall.  Human faces on big-screen TVs move behind translucent curtains.  Water slaps quietly against the corrugated metal that lines the edge of the city, and the people heading home on Lake Shore Drive smoke cigarettes, talk on their phones, sing along with their radios, try to keep an eye on the road while they're extracting information from their handheld electronic devices.  Down in Hyde Park Paul kneels in front the TiVo that he and Marvin recently treated themselves to and uses a remote to pick his way through the interface.  Scott watches with interest from the couch.

—So the first thing I did was set it to record all occurrences of Antiques Roadshow, Paul says to Scott, who lets loose a gasp of pleasure.  

—They've been re-running old Dan Elias episodes, Paul says, getting one started up.  —I know you have a thing for him, so—

—Oh, sweetheart, Scott says.  —Come here.

Paul gets on the couch, makes a lap for Scott to rest his head in.  They get comfortable, and they watch Dan Elias explain where today's show has been taped.  

—Oh, Dan, Scott murmurs.  —Come to me.  You will be mine.  

—Should I be jealous? Paul asks, gently running his finger along the rim of Scott's ear.

—I don't know, Scott says.  —You'll always have a special spot in my heart—I think I'll keep you on the side when Dan and I get together.

Paul gives Scott's earlobe a tiny pinch.  —How thoughtful, he says.

—Yeah, Scott says, —I'm sweet that way.

Paul's briefcase is on the counter in the kitchen.  Inside, his cell phone vibrates, once, twice, three times, and then the voicemail picks up.  Hi, Paul's recorded voice says.  You have reached Paul Sutherland.  I can't get to the phone right now, but if you leave a message I'll be sure to return your call.  Bye!

Lydia waits for the tone, then speaks.  —Hi, Paul, it's me—uh, Lydia.  I just wanted to check in and see how you were doing.  Give me a call when you can.  Bye.  Then she hangs up and puts the phone back in its cradle.  

For a long time she sits there in the kitchen, her hand on the phone, looking at the dirty dishes piled in the sink.  She knows that she could wash them but she can't seem to muster the energy to do it.  She turns her attention elsewhere, stares instead at the things on the fridge.  She notices a Post-It that's been hanging there since January, a Post-It with Dennis' phone number on it.  How could it be that she hasn't yet managed to throw that away?  You're really falling apart, she tells herself.  She gets up, peels the note free, and crushes it inside her fist.  Then she presses her fist into her forehead.

The Prozac isn't working, she tells herself, as she stands there. You need to tell your doctor that it isn't working.  That you still feel depressed.  The rest of her apartment is quiet and dark.  

She tosses the wadded note onto the counter and heads into the bathroom, craving light, the bright rows of vanity bulbs in there.  She flips them on, and stares at her face, reflected in the medicine cabinet that they flank, waiting to cheer up.  After a minute she remembers that she hasn't yet the second dose of the day.  She tips a capsule out of the bottle, tosses it into the back of her throat, and cranes her head into the sink to get a mouthful of water from the tap.  She swishes and swallows.

She closes the medicine cabinet and looks away, out into the hallway.  She's sick of the sight of mirrors.  You should just go to bed, she tells herself, but the thought of leaving the bathroom makes her feel panicked.  So she lies down on the floor, curling fetally, placing her head on the bathmat.  From this position, she tries to think positively, to coax the Prozac along.  This place isn't so bad, she makes herself think, as she looks down the hallway.  You can be happy here.  You can.  It should be easy.

Home sweet home, she tells herself, and she closes her eyes, and listens to the building creak and tick as the season around it crumbles.  

This entry from Imaginary Year : Book Four is © 2004 Jeremy P. Bushnell.
Copies may be made in full or in part for any noncommercial purpose, provided that all copies include the text of this page.

Contact: jeremy AT invisible-city.com