Just written

Adam is watching you, a line of inquiry between his brows.

 

“I didn’t say anything,” you say, idiotically.

 

His face carries a what? expression.

 

“You’re always there.” Your voice, your feet, digging in. The resentment, the acute awareness. Leave me alone. Let me be.

 

His face, collapsing into hurt. Ah, shit. Adam doesn’t often betray feelings, but today cannot be denied. His mouth, turned down slightly, reminds you of Baz, that slight quiver. Are those tears? Fuck-fuck-fuck. You need to say something, get your lazy ass up out of the chair, give him a hug, remind him how much he means to you, how much you love him.

 

“Oh,” you say, “come on.”

 

Bitch. You are a bitch. The moment feels frozen, icicles hanging from its edges. How to get over yourself and reach out to him? How to vault the transom, even for a single second?

 

He shakes his head, walks away. It feels like a victory and yet even that sweetness on your tongue is bitter.

 

You are caught, so caught. You are stuck, trapped, gasping for air in a tight pocket.

 

Do you ever want to be a mother? A wife? When you are twenty-two and graduating from the University of California, Santa Barbara, you want nothing more than to inhabit some hell-forsaken garret in New York, to scratch out words while ducking the landlord month after month. It’s romantic, yes, but it’s also something more: a dream that will take you years to even recognize is achievable. As a newly minted graduate, you don’t think it’s possible. How in the hell can you relocate to New York, get the money to even find that garret? You don’t want eight roommates in the middle of Queens. You just don’t. You want your own space, your own tiny territory, and so in the end you forsake the idea for something entirely different: you move to North Platte, Nebraska to take a job as a wire editor at a rural newspaper. The Telegraph covers 13 counties, one of which is so small that if you call the operator and ask for Buck, you won’t need to give a last name.