Dept. Of Speculation by Jenny Offill Page B

their eyes?
    People say,
You must have known. How could you not know?
To which she says, Nothing has ever surprised me more in my life.
    You must have known
, people say.
    The wife did have theories about why he was acting gloomy. He was drinking too much, for example. But no, that turned out to be completely backwards; all the whiskey drinking was the result, not the cause, of the problem. Correlation IS NOT causation. She remembered that the almost astronaut always got very agitated about this mistake that nonscientists made.
    Other theories she’d had about the husband’s gloominess:
    He no longer has a piano.
    He no longer has a garden.
    He no longer is young.
    She found a community garden and a good therapist for him, then went back to talkingabout her own feelings and fears while he patiently listened.
    Was she a good wife?
    Well, no
.
    Evolution designed us to cry out if we are being abandoned. To make as much noise as possible so the tribe will come back for us.
    The ex-boyfriend starts sending her music. Rare cuts, B-sides, little perfect things. He wants to make amends, she remembers.
    She did speed with him once. But it is not the best drug for her. Her brain tends to speed along anyway, speed, swerve, crash, and so on and so on. That is the default state of things.
    Some nights in bed the wife can feel herself floating up towards the ceiling. Help me, she thinks, help me, but he sleeps and sleeps.
    “What is he acting like?” her best friend says. Like an Evil Love Zombie is the answer.
    That first time they fucked after she found out. Jesus. Jesus. He looking down at her body which was not the girl’s body, she looking up at his face which was not his face. “I’m sorry I let you get so lonely,” she told him later. “Stop apologizing,” he said.
    What John Berryman said:
Let all flowers wither like a party
.
    The wife reads about something called “the wayward fog” on the Internet. The one who has the affair becomes enveloped in it. His old life and wife become unbearably irritating. His possible new life seems a shimmering dream. All of this has to do with chemicals in the brain, allegedly. An amphetamine-like mix, far more compelling than the soothing attachment one. Or so the evolutionary biologists say.
    It is during this period that people burntheir houses down. At first the flames are beautiful to see. But later when the fog wears off, they come back to find only ashes.
    “What are you reading about?” the husband asks her from across the room. “Weather,” she tells him.

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    People keep flirting with the wife. Has this been happening all along and she never noticed? Or is it new? She’s like a taxi whose light just went on. All these men standing in the street, waving her over.
    I CAN HAS BOYFRIEND?
    She falls in love with a friend. She falls in love with a student. She falls in love with the bodega man. He hands her back her change so gently.
    Floating, yes, floating away. How can he sleep? Doesn’t he feel her levitating?
    I will leave you, my love. Already I am going. Already I watch you speaking as if from a great height. Already the feel of your hand on my hand, of your lips on my lips, is only curious. It is decided then. The stars are accelerating. I half remember a sky could look like this. I saw
it once when she was born. I saw it once when I got sick. I thought you’d have to die before I saw it again. I thought one of us would have to die. But look, here it is! Who will help me? Who can help me? Rilke? Rilke! If you’re listening, come quickly. Lash me to this bed! Bind me to this earthly body! If you hear this, come now! I am untethering. Who can hold me?
    What John Berryman said:
Goodbye, sir, & fare well. You’re in the clear
.
    These bits of poetry that stick to her like burrs.
    Lately, the wife has been thinking about God, in whom the husband no longer believes. The wife has an idea to meet her ex-boyfriend at the park. Maybe they could talk about God. Then make out.