But he got home earlier than expected, and I got distracted by those corridor crazies, and now I’m taking in the full, sober show of my Thomas standing so close to me under the full power of the LEDs.
There’s an abrupt twinge of warmth in my chest, right around my heart, and I’m compelled beyond reason to reach over and clean than little piece of fuzz from my husband’s left shoulder.
“Now, we wouldn’t want your sweet little sweater to get all frizzy, would we?” My voice sounds delicate and tender, at least to my ears.
But, apparently, not to Thomas’s. He takes a horrified step backwards and crosses his arms so fast he almost spills a precious drop of martini on the Brazilian walnut flooring.
“Uh-uh…I mean, what do you think you’re doing?”
Taking a step back myself, I suddenly don’t feel like finishing my cocktail.
We’re still young enough, and so is our marriage.
So how did we ever get to this point?
Thomas
Uh-uh.
It doesn’t matter who I’m speaking to, I owe them a better response than that.
Especially the woman I somehow convinced to be my wife. Those half-formed words just flew out of me, ahead of my thoughts—and the way I recoiled like that.
The martini glass makes a definitive clanking sound as I set it down hard, kind of like a judge banging a gavel to regain order. The idea is to demonstrate that I’m upset with myself for the way I just reacted to my wife’s touch.
But she also recoiled, shortly after I did, and my attempt at making a point may be pointless by now.
A strong moment of tenderness overtakes me. Seeing Margarita’s eyes uncomfortably scanning the floorboards, all I want to do is care for her, to take her dejection and discomfort away.
It feels kind of familiar—not passionate the way that it once was not too long ago, but warm and loving. I think that’s a good sign. I’m compelled to hug Margarita.
At least hold her tight and absorb…I don’t know.
She comes into my embrace fairly easily. Still clutching her own martini glass by the stem. She doesn’t wrap her arms back around me, but she leans in.
Okay…this is okay, right?
This is what it’s supposed to be about.
This is comfort.
Margarita’s not looking too comfortable after she backs away, though. She’s still studying the grains in the wood of our floor with a distressingly keen interest.
Now I need to win back her attention. And I don’t know if I have it in me.
Quick, think of something before you lose her for good.
“Hey!”
She looks up—that’s a start.
Now what?
Jesus fucking Christ.
The one thing I’ve fought for, since the moment I first caught this woman’s cloudy hazel eyes in the scarf section of Bergdorf’s, was to earn her attention and keep it.
And that script we seemed to be reading from, that easy way I could talk to her…I just lost it.