I cradle the handset in my palm. It's so small, like a kitten. I'm staring at it blankly. The cord twines around itself on the floor. My secretary keeps telling me to get a cordless, but I think I like the feeling of being tethered to something stable.
There's a sharp gnawing butterfly eating away the inside of my chest, clawing its way up to my throat. I slowly seat myself in my office chair and turn, gazing out at the city of San Francisco. From up here it almost looks like a mass of toys.
My job is not bad. Heading a huge corporation that devours smaller businesses like a child consumes candy is rather unfulfilling, but at least it pays the bills. I'm tempted to flip on the TV I have across the room and just set the phone down, but the fear of hearing that familiar voice through an unfamiliar medium is still too strong.
I dial the numbers.
Her voice answers, a cheery smile to my anticipating dreariness. “Hello?”
“Hello, Genevieve. It's Robert.”
For a moment, I almost expect her to hang up on me, but she recovers. “Robert?” Her smile has dwindled slightly, but I can almost see her force it back. “How are you?”
I debate momentarily whether to lie or not. “I'm fine, thank you. And you?”
“Oh, great,” she says, and now I can hear the honest grin has returned to her voice. “You've been busy at work, I take it.” There is almost a hint of accusation. “You missed the wedding.”
“I know; I'm sorry. That's why I'm calling, actually. I had to be in Japan to close a business deal.” I wonder if she can hear the thickness in my voice, and decide she probably can. Every Achilles has his heel. “I was wondering if I could stop by sometime.”
“Oh.” She sounds surprised, and I can almost see her damn wide eyes blinking in surprise. “You wanted to come here?”
I lean heavily back into my chair, a poor mockery of the arms belonging to the voice on the phone. “If you wouldn't mind. I haven't seen you in a while.” Actually, exactly a year and five days.
“That's true.” She is silent a moment, and with a sudden pang, I realize that I have no idea what she is thinking. “Are you free tomorrow?”
“I can be.”
“Great.” Her voice is gentle, kind. “I'll cook something good for you, okay?”
The pang stabs back into my heart. “You cook?” I keep the pain out of my voice, albeit with effort.
“Yeah, Matt taught me.” She seems pleased. “He's a really great cook.”
“Oh?” I say, not betraying myself and the sharp jealousy inundating me. “Tell me about him. I'm certain he's wonderful.”
“He is.” Her voice takes on that dreamy quality that I was so familiar with two years ago, that tone she used to whisper my name in and breathe to me that she loved me. I smile hard.
“He's an actor, right?” Their wedding had been the cover of every tabloid for weeks.
“Yes.” She's glowing. “He's just amazing… I used to think that so many actors and actresses were shallow and cold, but he really feels things, you know? He's so sweet and kind… and he cries at sunsets…”
There's a void somewhere in my body, maybe my heart, maybe my soul, that she once filled. That would be all right. I could handle that. The part I hate is the longing spilling out onto everything else. It’s so messy.
“… and his jokes are so funny-” Abruptly, she breaks off, as though suddenly realizing my feelings.
“Go on,” I urge her gently. My eyes lower to my left hand, the fourth finger.
“Hang on a second, I think he's calling me.” She sets the phone down.
So she hadn't been worried about my feelings. I guess true love will do that to a woman.
She sets down the phone with a soft clunk onto something. I press my ear to the phone. She has forgotten to turn on the mute.
“Matt?” she calls, and then, suddenly, “Hey!”
I hear the soft sound of a man laughing. His voice is deep and throaty and rich, a lovely baritone to her warm alto. I hear soft murmurs and then a long silence, longer than anything I've ever experienced.
I sit there, listening to the silence, my cheeks painfully dry.
And then, her voice again.
“Shit, I'm on the phone.” She stops, for his eyes must have asked a question. “It's Robert. I'll be right back.”
She sounds breathless when she picks up again. “Hello?”
“I'm still here.”
“Sorry, Matt was calling me.” She's grinning in that maniacal, childish way she always had.
“That's fine. I probably ought to get back to work.”
“Already?” I wonder if her disappointment is faked. She's an actress, after all.
“I'm sorry. When would you like me to show up tomorrow?” Trained apathy is a marvelous thing.
“How about eleven? That way we can chat and I can cook you lunch. I like company in the kitchen.”
God, it would take everything I had in me to keep my hands off her. “That sounds wonderful.” Plastic voice, plastic smile, plastic emotions. Completely marketable. “Eleven then.”
“Great, I'll see you tomorrow!”
“Yes, you will.” I pause. “Gen?”
She senses something in my voice, and she is hesitant. “Yes?”
There is a long pause before I can speak. “I'm sorry.” Forgive me for lying to you with my eyes. Forgive me for my cold heart. Forgive me for having loved you. Forgive me for still loving you.
She's confused. “For what?”
“For everything.” For being a frigid bastard. For not giving you everything I could. For not giving you nearly close to what you deserved. For being unable to quite get you out of my mind. For being completely unable to get you out of my heart.
The silence threatens to drown me. “Robert.” That gentle tone again. “It's okay.”
No, it will never be okay. I lost my one chance. It will never be okay again.
I clear my throat. “Eleven then.”
“Yeah, eleven. See you then.”
“Goodbye.”
“Bye.”
I'm lost. Somewhere, I think about a year ago, I got off track, and haven't been able to find the right path since. I'm wandering in a big dark forest without a lantern, without my light, and I can't see to find my way out.
The relationship between Genevieve and I had not been stormy. My desire for control would not allow such ragged conflict to enter its borders. Equally as I did not fight at her, neither did I reassure her that I loved her.
And slowly, bit by bit, she drew away from me.
I understand it now. How could she read my mind the same way I could easily read hers? Her eyes were her soul. Perhaps mine were too and my soul is really made of stone. Either way, I did not give her the emotional support and reaffirmation that she wanted. I was heartless and cruel and infinitely selfish.
And I pay the price for my selfishness every day, whenever I see her smiling face on commercials, in the theater, in TV dramas, in the newspaper, in advertisements.
It's funny how simple things like going to the grocery store can be a trial. Every checkout line has her perfect face in print somewhere on the magazine racks.
Echoes of her ring through everything now. Maybe one day her popularity will fade.
I'll never know her again the same way as I did when we were young.
They mostly just call her Genevieve. She's so famous that everyone knows who she is just by that. When she married, she opted to change her name to his. Genevieve Carlson. It sounds so wrong. I can't say it aloud. It even has the same first initial as her family name, but it tastes strange. I wonder what her house looks like. I turn in my chair to gaze out the window again, to scan the tops of the high-rises of San Francisco. He had it built for them before their wedding.
It's probably perfect, with matching curtains and oriental rugs, strangers' faces circled by elegant frames on the perfectly painted walls, and assuredly with silk bed sheets. A slightly cynical laugh trickles from between my lips. She always told me she wanted silk bed sheets. She always wanted so many things.
I'm sure Matt loves them too, that soft feel of silk against his skin, against his body, against his body against her body.
I shut my eyes.
I remember exactly what happened the last time I spoke to her in person. It was just over two years ago. We met for a late lunch at one of the more expensive restaurants in the city. It was to be my treat. Food was the way to a man's heart, and but it had always been the way to hers too.
I settled myself in one of the chairs of the cozy table for two. It was candlelit, dark, a soothing atmosphere. It was to be perfect for the long serious talk that I would need with her. While waiting, I played with the ring on my left hand that she had given me during college. It was a pledge, she had said. It wasn't expensive, but it meant more to me than anything physical ever had. I never took it off.
Her career had kept her so busy that she hardly had time for me anymore. I understood; after all, hadn't I had similar issues with my career right after graduation? But lately, she had been spending less and less time at our shared townhouse and more and more at work.
It had made me a little anxious at first, but then I had arranged this dinner – I knew she couldn't pass up French food – where we would discuss these new circumstances. My instincts were humming with soft warnings, but I, blind in my muted love, ignored them.
When she showed up a few minutes late as expected, she wouldn't meet my eyes.
“Genevieve,” I greeted her, smiling, somewhat nervous at her display of unease, but masking it well. “I'm glad you came.”
At that she flashed me a brief smile, studied my face for a moment, and then glanced down at her menu. “I'm sorry I'm late. They kept me.”
I nodded, understanding and ever-magnanimous. “It's all right. I hope I didn't drag you away from anything.”
She looked up quickly, something etched on her face that I, for once, could not read. Fear tickled my throat, but I swallowed and recovered.
“No, I just need to go back to the set after this,” she murmured, folding and refolding her napkin on her lap. I watched, grimly fascinated.
She ordered huge amounts of foods, and some normalcy returned as I teased her about her appetite and good looks, and how the two seemed incompatible. The waiter begged for her autograph – this was near the start of her popularity – but things proceeded smoothly.
Until dessert.
She, of course, ordered dessert. I had none. Unlike my blonde companion, I had to watch what I ate. High schools days had fled.
“Genevieve, I've been meaning to talk to you,” I began once the waiter had delivered the slice of cake.
Slowly, again not meeting my eyes, she set her fork down. “And I've been meaning to talk to you.”
I paused, taken aback. This was not according to script. I fumbled for my control. “What… do you mean?”
Now she raised her face to mine, cobalt meeting my vision with shocking seriousness. “Robert.” She took a deep breath, as if saying my name had been taxing for her. “I'm seeing someone else.”
What happened after that is scattered and distant in my mind, the dappled shadows of leaves flickering on grass, unclear, tenebrous. I remember her pulling off her ring, the one I had given her, and placing it on the table, saying something about her stuff already being packed, and that she would call me later, and would I be all right?
And then I remember sitting at the table, staring at her ring, gleaming silver, and wondering if she would have still left if I had gotten her a gold one to match her hair.
The waiter eventually came back to the table and gave me a puzzled look, but asked if I were ready to pay. Silently, I handed him my credit card, picked up her ring, and just walked out. They called that night about the card, but I never picked it up. I never wanted to set foot in that place again.
I remember staring into the empty room, shadows flickering on the white walls. She had always had posters and things in here. It was the room where she relaxed, where she made phone calls, where she typed resumes, where sometimes we made love. And it still smelled of her.
It was it this room that I cried myself to sleep.
She never called later.
I reopen my eyes, weary. It's not nearly time to go home, and I'm sure I can function adequately for the rest of the day; I just don't want to.
It used to be that she'd just lightly rub my back when I was upset, relieving me with the tenacity of her presence and the gentleness of her touch, her soft voice lilting into my ear like a spring breeze.
A vase of flowers sits on my desk. One of the lilies is wilting, starting to plunge toward the mahogany. Lilies are such funereal flowers.
I wonder, still vaguely, if that is what love is like. Beautiful, but a constant reminder of death. Love dies all the time.
I stand, push in my chair, and leave. My secretary calls some nonsense after me. I ignore her. In bed that night, alone, I ponder the meaning of my existence.
Tomorrow, when I see her house, her husband, and her gold ring, truth will destroy all my tenuous fantasies.
The next day, I'm exactly on time. Of course. I park my car in the loping driveway after the gates open. If anything goes awry, my escape can be hasty and preconceived.
The outside of the mansion is daunting. The grass sprawls for what seems like miles, and the house is large and looming. Perhaps I only find it fearsome because of what it represents. Trees canopy the yards and the bushes are perfectly trimmed. I can smell the scent of freshly mowed grass glazing the air like icing.
It's gorgeous.
I lift my finger to press the doorbell, and soft chimes dance through the air, barely audible from the outside. After a moment, a cheery old woman opens the door. “Mr. McKenzie?” She's short, dumpy, but her face is covered with smile lines. Genevieve must have hired her herself.
“Yes,” I say quietly, and she holds the door wide for me. “Follow me,” she says as she makes a flourishing gesture toward where I can only assume Genevieve is waiting.
The entrance hall is as impressive as the outside. A ridiculous fountain is the center piece for the room. I can only assume that Genevieve picked that out herself too. She always wanted a fountain. Matt must be a forgiving man.
Marble tiles cause my footsteps to resound eerily in the large circular room. The lady's steps are silent. A staircase swoops hugely off to the right and a smattering of doors indicates exits. While taking this in, I follow as she requested. My heart is in my throat.
Surely I'm going to die.
She could behind any of these doors. I go out of the entrance hall, into a receiving room, into something else, past what seemed to be a dining room, down a hallway…
She stops outside a door, pausing with her hand on the doorknob. She eyes me up and down once, scrutinizing me surreptitiously. Only a suspicious person like me would notice.
“Genny, Mr. McKenzie is here for you.” With that brief announcement, my stomach hurling itself towards my esophagus, she leaves.
An ice age passes. Every heartbeat, stars and galaxies form. Worlds are born. The Earth issues forth life. Some species takes control of the earth and then loses it. Mankind struggles to reach its notoriety.
The doorknob turns.
I see her shirt first. It's a soft blue color, the color I always liked her to wear because it made her eyes glow and her skin look even more perfect that usual. It's a simple button down cotton shirt, the sleeves rolled up casually, almost jauntily. Her arms are dark with a real tan, smooth and lean.
And then I have to look up.
She is smiling.
It's that smile, that sweet innocent smile, the smile of open honesty and gentleness I loved so deeply and for so long.
Her eyes radiate warmth and kindness. I can feel my throat tighten. It was all a bad dream. She still loves me. She still loves me. She still loves me.
She sticks out her hand.
The world shatters like mirror as I reach out, smiling cordially, to shake her hand firmly.
“Genevieve,” I greet, not a trace of anything other than politeness in my tone.
Her grip is firm. “Robert, how are you?” There is no trace of guile anywhere.
I'm dying, Genevieve. I'm in love with you, Genevieve. I'm going mad, Genevieve. “I'm fine, how are you?” Veiled words, empty, void. Like me.
She grins again. “I'm great! I'm so glad you're here. I want to show you everything!”
“Everything?” It's so easy to fall back into the old habits, the joking, the repartee, the goodnight kisses…
“Want to see the view?” She's positively glowing.
Did she actually miss me?
“I would,” I say sincerely.
She leads me to her bedroom, winding us through the huge mansion.
“This is the best view in the house,” she says, smiling at me even with her eyes. “You can see for miles over the ocean. It's beautiful.”
“It must be difficult to keep your grass so nice with the sea so close,” I say, following her.
She gives me a puzzled look. “The gardener takes care of that.”
How foolish of me. “That's right. I'm sorry.” Before she can say anything to that, I gesture to the large curtained window. “Is that the view?”
She nods and flings open the curtains with a flourish that only an actress could muster. “Here you go!”
It's breathtaking.
There is balcony and then sky and water, mixing, rolling into one, a mass of blue. And her standing there, her blue shirt mingling with the sea and sky, her blond hair the sun, and her eyes, her perfect shining eyes…
I try to say something, to say anything at all, but she's too beautiful. She's looking at me expectantly, and I manage one word and that's all. “Amazing.”
Because she is.
She smiles gently again. I want to throw my arms around her and hug her so tightly that we become one, one person, and she can never leave me again.
I don't, of course.
“Yeah, it's really nice,” she agrees congenially, yet aloof. “Matt actually decided to make this the bedroom. The original master bedroom was supposed to be across the hall.” She gestures, a single liquid movement, and I turn my eyes away from her and the ocean.
The room is furnished delicately, almost sparsely, and is remarkably neat. Maids, I assume after a moment. Genevieve was never messy, but she was never as scrupulous as I am. What furniture that is there is functional, yet simple and elegant. Matt must have decorated this room.
I do note that the pillowcases on the large double bed are silk.
“Are you hungry?” she asks, chipper as a morning bird. Her voice pulls my gaze back toward her.
“Famished,” I reply, the expected response. There is nothing on my face, nothing in my eyes. If I'm still the same demon I was when she loved me, then why doesn't she love me now?
She grins, eyes expectant and eager. “To the kitchen!” And she leads the way.
“It's an awfully large house,” I murmur, gazing at all the rooms we pass in something akin to awe.
Land in the city is expensive. My townhouse is just within my budget. Comparatively, I am a monetary infant.
She glances at me over her shoulder. “We don't live here alone, you know. The gardener and his family lives here, the cleaning staff, Marjorie and her family… Marjorie is the one who brought you in. There are some other people here too… It's not too big with so many people.” A quick smile.
I nod, still gazing in a mixture of awe and emptiness at the house. I love it because it is hers.
We reach the kitchen and she starts fishing around for pot and pans. “So are you still downtown in the same old apartment?”
“Yes. It suits me well.” It's barren too.
She pauses a moment. “Girlfriend?”
“No.” How could I love anyone like I love her? “I'm too busy to actually meet people.”
She gives me a little knowing nod. “Matt knows some cute girls if you want.”
I give her a brief smile. “That's all right. I don't think I'd have time for a relationship. But thanks.”
She shrugs, flicking on the stove. “Suit yourself.”
I try to start up conversation. “Your new movie was good. You did very well.”
She grins. “Thanks. It was fun to make.” She's throwing all sorts of things into the pot. I don't ask because I don't want to know.
“Is it hard work?”
“Sometimes.” She's stirring the contents idly while with the other hand pressing the buttons on the rice maker. “I didn't have to do my own stunts, so it was okay.”
“Is that what you do all day then? Just go to the studio and act?”
I get a dour look for that comment. “There's more to it than that. Do you just sit in that chair in your corner windowed office all day and watch birds?”
“Sometimes.” And daydream.
Another look. “Let's trade jobs then. I'd like to do that.”
“I'm not exactly the heartthrob type, Genevieve.”
There's silence a moment as she tries to think what to say to that.
“Do you ever go back to Seattle?” I ask, my voice sounding a little forlorn.
“It's a long trip,” she avoids. I call her on it.
“Your parents visit then? And your sister?” I can imagine Megan's reaction to this house.
She glances at me a moment, then back to the rice cooker. “Megan… had a crush on Matt for a while.” Her voice is somber. “She doesn't come around much anymore.”
Ah. “I see. That must make things difficult. Your parents?”
“Sometimes.”
I pause again. “Mike? Chad? Angela?” They are some of her friends from college.
Now her smile warms up. “Angela was my maid of honor.” The smile fades slightly. “I wish you could have gone.”
“I was in Japan, I'm sorry.” I look properly penitent. “But I'm glad for him. Chad was a bridesmaid then?” I ask dryly. Chad had been somewhat of a long-haired hippie in college.
She chuckles, a soothing sound to my ears. “No, he wasn't. He actually cut his hair recently. I hear he's engaged.”
I'm startled. “I see. I haven't heard from him recently.”
She nods. “We keep in touch via email and phone a lot. He's a good kid. Doing well for himself.”
Silence. “Well… that's good then. He deserves to be happy.”
She smiles and stirs and doesn't reply.
“You have wedding pictures, right?” I ask, to break the pregnant silence before it gives birth to discomfort.
“Yeah, in the living room down the hall and on the right.” She points a spoon in the direction I am to take.
I go.
The living room holds no traces of Genevieve's personal taste. I pick up the albums and meander back toward the kitchen. When I return, I seat myself at the counter and flip open the first one.
She peers over from the stove where she has something on a griddle. “Yeah, that's the first one.” A smile. “These're pretty good shots.”
I open the first page.
She and Matt are there, holding each other's hands and gazing into each other's eyes. I smile with my mouth, my eyes dry and hard, a desert of stone.
It's deathly quiet in the kitchen, except for her moving about.
My eyes are looking of their own will upon the pictures.
He's wearing a traditional black tuxedo which just serves to make his hair and face look brighter. Genevieve, a lovely perfect bride, stands about 6 inches shorter than him, glistening like dew in her white dress. I recognize Matt easily after all the pictures I've seen on the news of them together. She's absolutely beautiful. And radiant.
I watch her out of the corner of my eye, silently observing. Her posture and the way she moves has not changed since I saw her last. She's still the athlete, the dancer, the graceful physical artist. I flip through the pictures one by one.
It should have been me.
I clack the photo album shut.
She looks up. “All done?” She's beaming. The scent of tomato soup of some variety is winding through the air gently. It smells good.
“Yes. I'm sorry I missed it. He looked very handsome. You looked beautiful.”
She has the decency to nearly blush. “Thanks. Lunch is almost ready”
I nod. “I'm sure it will be excellent.” Curdled milk would taste exquisite in this company.
A grin. “It's Matt's recipe… his favorite. I'm sure you'll love it.”
“I'm sure I will too.” Because Matt apparently has good taste. In houses, cooking, and women.
I stand, moving over to see what she's concocted. “Well, I don't think any of it will bite back,” I say, amused at my own comment.
She glares. “It'll be good.”
“What's this?” My finger hovers over a pot of an unknown substance.
“Linguini with clam sauce. It's flavorful.” She grins widely.
With a start, I realize suddenly how close I am to her. I can see every detail in her face, like in a movie close-up. Even more than that, I can feel the heat of her body. And even more than that, I can smell her. God, can I smell her.
She still uses the same perfume. I feel goosebumps skitter along my arms. The gentle faint whisper of musk mixed with her own scent is overpowering. It's too much. I can't take this.
“Linguini…” I repeat blindly. “With clam sauce…”
So close… if I just…
There were times when we were young and foolish that she would say things to me, sweet words from her heart, things that she had never spoken to anyone before. I certainly wasn't her first kiss, but I was her first love.
She was my first everything.
I loved her with silent passion, deep, that I only let out at certain times. When we made love I was ferocious, trying to show her with my body and hands everything that I could not say with my tongue. I loved to hear her moan my name, to know that she loved me, that she would always love me, and only me…
I was selfish. I still am. I should have been brave and let her know she had my heart.
Because maybe then I'd still have her.
But I denied my chance, denied her what she wanted.
I should be content though. She's happy. She's found someone who loves her as much as she loves him. This way is better for her. I should be content.
I should be happy.
I lean toward her, my hands catching hold of her. I feel their warmth, calluses from her years of lacrosse softened by her career. For a moment, she lets me touch her like this, so familiar and longed for, so close, so close…
Her eyes are wide with surprise, but she's used to touch, so it's not electrifying her like it is to me. Everything is somehow in my view. The world is profoundly clear. I can see the misplaced paper tower by the sink. The bag of rice is in the open cupboard. Something is about to boil over. She's in front of me and she's beautiful, every hair, every pore.
“Robert…” she starts warningly, but I take no notice. She's real. For the first time in so long, she's here and not in my imagination, or my television, or on a magazine. She's warm, breathing, and so, so close. I notice again how much taller I am than she is, and it's to my advantage now.
“Genevieve, it's been so long,” I whisper, and my voice is hoarse.
She looks nervous. “Robert… what…”
I lean down closer, and kiss her.
God, it's amazing. Her lips taste so sweet and she's actually kissing me back. Harder… harder… it's like college again, and I can feel my body responding as it did then too. I tighten my hold around her and I feel her arms pull me near.
So normal… this is how it was meant to be. Her, me, together. Tighter… closer…
I remember a time in high school of one particular thing she said to me and my familiar failure to her in not being able to speak my heart.
Genevieve glanced at me, watching me button my shirt, her bright eyes gleaming with some deep emotion someone like me could never feel. “You're my smile.”
I paused a moment, looking at her, silent.
“You're my smile when I look in the mirror and feel like I'm actually beautiful.” Her eyes were so deep, so sincere, so trusting, and loving.
Wordlessly, I smiled faintly and shook my head. “It's almost time for classes.”
I saw the look of mute resentment on my deference to her comment. It lined her face like worry or sadness, pain wrinkling an ageless face.
But I still said nothing. What could I do to deserve such sweet words? I was not a poet, like her. I was cold, hard, calculating, a fortified stone of flesh and reality. I should not have been anyone's smile.
“No!” She pushes me away roughly, not looking at me, shamed.
“Genevieve, I still…” I start desperately.
“Don't.” She's still not looking at me.
I'm breathless, breathing heavy. “Genevieve, I'm…”
“I'm married, Robert… I can't…” She turns to me to give me a helpless look, eyes pained. “I love my husband.”
“I'm sorry.” I find my self-control in the abscess of where my heart is. “I lost my head.”
She gives me a wan smile. It doesn't reach her eyes. With a brisk motion, she saves what was about to boil over.
I move away from her, toward the window. My voice is tight. “May I smoke here?”
“There's a door to the outside in the next room.” Her voice is disapproving. I think I'll die of heartbreak sooner than lung cancer anyway.
Scolding myself for being melodramatic, I find the exit.
The view, of course, is lovely. I pull my pack of cigarettes out of my pocket, tugging one out. I light the end and stick it into my mouth, taking a long drag. Warm air fills my lungs, reassuring. I let the nicotine do its job.
When that one is finished, I drop it and stamp it out, then pull out another. And then another.
By the time my third cigarette is finished, I feel calm enough to face her again. Almost.
God, this was a bad idea. I drop the third cigarette butt onto the stoop, and step on it, crushing it with my shoe. I stamp the fire, the life out of it, and I know that she is waiting for me inside. I push back open the door, knowing the scent of smoke is still lingering on and maligning my sweater. I run a hand through my perfectly layered hair, and walk back into the kitchen, smiling my false, plastic smile. I wonder if they can put a barcode on my smile and market it.
“I'm sorry, Genevieve,” I say, my voice controlled. “I just lost my head. It won't happen again.”
She gives me a terse smile as she stirs something on the stove. “Oh, don't worry about it.” Cheery cordiality. “But you came back just in time. It's just about done.” She inclines her head. “Want to go sit in the dining room?”
She leaves me no choice but to obey. I go, and I sit.
A long damask tablecloth hides a luscious cherry wood table. I tsk under my breath. They should have used lace. It was a waste to hide such a lovely table.
There are only two seats at this table, so I assume this is where she and Matt usually eat. I wonder with a harsh smile if I am sitting in Matt's seat.
She brings out some plates, and I think for a moment how inappropriate it is for such a famous person to wait on me. I rise. “Do you want some help?”
“No, that's fine,” she smiles, then bustles back into the kitchen.
I slowly sit again, watching her go, always watching her go.
She brings out cups and silverware and several trivets, then bowls and plates and other assorted containers of various food. This is more food than two people should ever eat.
But then again, she has always liked food.
A deep sense of apathy comes over me, replacing the longing momentarily. She pours me some wine, red, and I sip. Maybe it was never meant to be. I should not live the rest of my life in a dream. She heaps my plate full, both of us steeped in relative silence. “Try something,” she says, her sweet mouth engrossed in smiling at me.
I lower my fork, plunge it into something warm, lift it to my lips, bite, and swallow.
It is delicious.
If she had never met Matt, she would never have been able to do this.
“This is wonderful,” I tell her, keeping my voice steady. “You know, I bet he only taught you to cook so he wouldn't have to do it all. With your appetite and all.” I smile at her.
Her face lights up and she laughs, relaxed again.
Lunch is light-hearted.
I try some of everything. It's all good. Even things I had never liked before taste wonderful. Maybe because of the hand that cooked them.
We chat. Everything out of my mouth is mindless, pointless drivel, but it feels good because she is smiling and laughing. I am memorizing how her face moves in real life and not on the television, how her voice sounds five feet from my ear and not through the tin of the radio. She's more perfect in reality than any movie camera could portray her. She talks about her husband, what they do, what she does at work, things I hear and memorize as she speaks, but to which I pay no attention. My mind is occupied with her, her voice, face, eyes, lips, hands. I respond appropriately. I smile and nod encouragingly. I love and adore and worship seamlessly and imperceptibly.
She stops suddenly.
“Robert…” Her voice is wary. I follow the line of her vision.
It rests on the fourth finger of my left hand.
Suddenly uncomfortable, I move my hand to my lap. “I'm sorry.”
“You still wear it.” She sounds a little puzzled, but mostly surprised.
“Yes.” I am ashamed.
“Why?” There's nothing resentful in her tone, no anger, just simple curiosity.
I pause a moment. Why? Why did I still wear her ring despite everything? Why did I hang on to frivolous fantasies of a married woman who would never love me? “Do you want the truth?” My own voice surprises me with its candidness.
She watches me closely, a shadow coming over the blue of her eyes. “Please.”
My heart is pounding and it's hot. I let none of this show. “Because I still love you, Genevieve.” My eyes do not stray from her.
“Robert…”
“I'm sorry. I do. I always have, and I probably always will.” There's a strange sort of resolute acceptance in my voice.
She's silent a long time. I take another sip of wine while she absorbs this.
“I don't expect anything, Genevieve,” I say after a while. “But you have to be true to your feelings. It's the same for me. I won't lie to myself.”
She raises her eyes to mine. “I understand.”
The rest of the lunch is a little curter. She watches her words carefully. I talk about work. After all, it's the only thing I have left.
She asks the right questions and I give the right answers and everything is marketable and clean. I feel like I'm a talking puppet, that I have no voice or mouth or lips or brain, but am just a programmed thing that does what is necessary.
Somewhere near the end, I hear a faint echo of a man's voice drift down the hall.
She stands, a silly grin on her face. Something lurches in my chest. It's such a familiar smile, but to see it directed toward someone other than me…
“We're in here, honey!” she calls, and then seats herself again, looking much more pleased. “I'm glad,” she says to me. “Now you'll finally get to meet Matt.”
I smile back, bland. “I've been wanting to.”
Lies are easier than truths. And I have finished my share of truths for the day.
A tall young man strides in, short dark hair cut fashionably, quick dark eyes brightening at the sight of his lovely wife. “I'm home!” He embraces her from behind and leans around her to give her a messy kiss.
I smile stoically from my seat.
Genevieve takes this opportunity to introduce us. “Honey, this is Robert, my friend from college. Robert, my husband, Matt.”
I'm sure that all he ever knew me as was her friend. I do not comment.
He smiles, charming. “Oh, Robert, I've heard a lot about you.” He gives me his hand and I shake it dutifully, smiling pleasantly.
“I've heard much about you as well.” I want to choke.
“Please, you can call me Matt,” he says, still smiling.
“Matt then,” I say, smiling back.
Inside, something in my chest dies.
I make my escape at the planned time, one o'clock, after enduring brief bouts of conversation with her charming, witty, intellectual, handsome husband. Her perfect husband.
It's obvious they dote on each other. I smile staidly as they feed each other bites of her creations, giggling.
After he arrived, it's more of a conversation between them with me as the observer, occasionally answering a question directed toward me.
The moment my watch flips to one, I stand. “Well, I think it's time for me to be off.”
Genevieve looks at me, blinking, heartless. “So soon?”
“I have a business meeting to attend. Forgive me.”
Matt grins disarmingly. “You'll have to promise to come back soon then, Robert!”
Death seems much more appealing, oddly enough. I smile back. “Of course.”
They see me to the door.
The longest part of this day is the walk from the door to the car, where they are watching my back, together, holding each other tightly.
I turn, wave, step into the car, and shut the door.
My face is chalky and blotchy all at once, though my eyes are dry. How pitiful. The one person that I could care about the most has found another and is completely happy without me.
I'm such a fool.
I'll be home soon, home where she once held me and I can be riveted by memories to things that were only ever lies.
Everything I ever loved or believed in is a lie. My life is a lie. Nothing and everything and reality and life is a lie.
I speed onto the highway and I think it should be raining.
Wearily, I park and take the elevator to my apartment, so big and empty. Maybe I should get a cat. I pull off my sweater as I pull out my key, unlocking the door. I push it open and step through, shutting and locking it again behind me. My keys I toss on the small table near the door and then pull off my shoes. I slide into my home slippers. I feel old.
My path leads me deeper into my apartment, to a small room, her old room. I lean against the door a moment, feeling the cool hardness of the wood against my cheek, closing my eyes and just being still.
How funny that one simple thing – my honesty and my willingness to share that – could have changed my entire life.
I slide open the door and step in.
I move towards my favorite picture in her room and lean my forehead against it, suddenly overwhelmed by a sick feeling of horror in my stomach. I can feel all the eyes of every poster of her I put in this room staring at me, condemning me. Something akin to nausea overcomes me and I slowly sink to the floor.
All around me, circling me, are bright smiling pictures of her face, magazine cutouts, posters, movie fliers. A shelf with all of the movies she's made sits at the far end. Tapes of radio shows and interviews rest on another shelf.
I sit here, alone, wondering if that's all I ever really had of her – a smiling face, empty of anything behind it, a voice with no body, a sort of falsified love that maybe I only dreamed.
And until it starts to blur into nothing, all I can see is her face.