off.
“Hey,” he said, not smiling.
I leaned over the couch and we kissed with the sound of a thin book closing.
Our apartment often smelled like onions cooking in someone else’s apartment. Warm, though. Orderly. A few posters on the walls—a man playing guitar, a vase of blue flowers. A row of books on a white shelf.
I went into the bedroom and hung my jean jacket in the closet and then went into the bathroom and brushed my teeth. As I leaned over the sink, mouth full of mint and spit, Rick came up behind me, put his hand on my waist. In the mirror I could see him behind me, his shoulders sharp as wire hangers under his T-shirt. His jaw looked different, too, more clearly a bone than it had been a few months before. My hair fell reddish into the sink, and I flipped it over my shoulder, twisting away, swishing, rinsing while Rick moved back toward the bathroom door.
“How was work?” he asked.
“No big deal,” I said.
“Many guests?”
“No. Hardly any. Real slow.”
“Want some dinner now?” His skin looked gray against the bright bathroom walls, but his hair and eyes were dark, and behind them I could see his mother as a teenage beauty queen. It was as though, losing weight, Rick had dug up his mother’s lost face, exhumed her delicately shaped skull.
“No. I just want to go to bed. Did you eat?”
“Yeah,” he said, turning into the bedroom.
I put my hands on my hips and followed him. “What did you eat?” I asked.
Rick shrugged, “I had a salad.”
I leaned against the bedroom wall and shook my head. “Why? Why don’t you eat something besides salad, Rick? You’ve lost forty pounds. I hate it.”
Rick looked away from me. He smiled, sort of. Again, he shrugged. “I feel really good,” he said.
“Jesus,” I said, under my breath. “Well, you don’t look good. You look
sick
. You look like you’re dying. What’s the
matter
with you?”
I didn’t sound upset, even to myself, though my voice was raised. Instead, I sounded as if I were reading something interesting out of the paper, and Rick just looked at my bald knees, not smiling. He said, “Can’t we talk about something else?”
“No,” I said. “We have to talk about this. Millie told me today she couldn’t
believe
how you looked when she saw you last week. So should I tell her you’ve lost ten more pounds since then? That you won’t eat anything but lettuce, but you
feel really good?
” At the end, I imitated his monotone, folding my arms against my breasts.
“You can tell Millie anything you want, Leila. Surprisingly enough, Millie’s opinion isn’t all that important to me.” He didn’t sound angry, either, just blunt.
“What about
my
opinion? Don’t you care that looking at my husband makes me sick? Don’t you care that this is driving me crazy, watching you evaporate into thin air?”
Rick sat down hard on the edge of the bed, as if he were exhausted, then looked up at me. Even his hair looked different—finer. His teeth were bigger and more white.
“Listen, Leila. I’m tired of talking about my body.”
“Well I’m tired of living with it.”
He smirked. “Well, that’s honest at least. Leila, you’re tired of living with
me
, and I’m tired of doing what other people tell me all day to do. I’m tired of my mother nagging and my father foretelling my future in pinball machines, and I’m tired of you telling me what’s best to do with my body.”
“Well, you’re killing your body. Is that O.K. to say?”
My hands had begun to shake when he’d mentioned his father, the future, the pinball machines. It was the one thing I’d never heard Rick complain about before, the one thing I thought didn’t fill him with despair and contempt.
“Well, at least it’s
my
body,” he said. “It’s
my
body—” he thumped his rib cage each time he said
my
—“and I can do whatever the hell I want with
my
body. Is that correct?”
When I opened my mouth to answer, it was empty. A wet
“Hey,” he said, not smiling.
I leaned over the couch and we kissed with the sound of a thin book closing.
Our apartment often smelled like onions cooking in someone else’s apartment. Warm, though. Orderly. A few posters on the walls—a man playing guitar, a vase of blue flowers. A row of books on a white shelf.
I went into the bedroom and hung my jean jacket in the closet and then went into the bathroom and brushed my teeth. As I leaned over the sink, mouth full of mint and spit, Rick came up behind me, put his hand on my waist. In the mirror I could see him behind me, his shoulders sharp as wire hangers under his T-shirt. His jaw looked different, too, more clearly a bone than it had been a few months before. My hair fell reddish into the sink, and I flipped it over my shoulder, twisting away, swishing, rinsing while Rick moved back toward the bathroom door.
“How was work?” he asked.
“No big deal,” I said.
“Many guests?”
“No. Hardly any. Real slow.”
“Want some dinner now?” His skin looked gray against the bright bathroom walls, but his hair and eyes were dark, and behind them I could see his mother as a teenage beauty queen. It was as though, losing weight, Rick had dug up his mother’s lost face, exhumed her delicately shaped skull.
“No. I just want to go to bed. Did you eat?”
“Yeah,” he said, turning into the bedroom.
I put my hands on my hips and followed him. “What did you eat?” I asked.
Rick shrugged, “I had a salad.”
I leaned against the bedroom wall and shook my head. “Why? Why don’t you eat something besides salad, Rick? You’ve lost forty pounds. I hate it.”
Rick looked away from me. He smiled, sort of. Again, he shrugged. “I feel really good,” he said.
“Jesus,” I said, under my breath. “Well, you don’t look good. You look
sick
. You look like you’re dying. What’s the
matter
with you?”
I didn’t sound upset, even to myself, though my voice was raised. Instead, I sounded as if I were reading something interesting out of the paper, and Rick just looked at my bald knees, not smiling. He said, “Can’t we talk about something else?”
“No,” I said. “We have to talk about this. Millie told me today she couldn’t
believe
how you looked when she saw you last week. So should I tell her you’ve lost ten more pounds since then? That you won’t eat anything but lettuce, but you
feel really good?
” At the end, I imitated his monotone, folding my arms against my breasts.
“You can tell Millie anything you want, Leila. Surprisingly enough, Millie’s opinion isn’t all that important to me.” He didn’t sound angry, either, just blunt.
“What about
my
opinion? Don’t you care that looking at my husband makes me sick? Don’t you care that this is driving me crazy, watching you evaporate into thin air?”
Rick sat down hard on the edge of the bed, as if he were exhausted, then looked up at me. Even his hair looked different—finer. His teeth were bigger and more white.
“Listen, Leila. I’m tired of talking about my body.”
“Well I’m tired of living with it.”
He smirked. “Well, that’s honest at least. Leila, you’re tired of living with
me
, and I’m tired of doing what other people tell me all day to do. I’m tired of my mother nagging and my father foretelling my future in pinball machines, and I’m tired of you telling me what’s best to do with my body.”
“Well, you’re killing your body. Is that O.K. to say?”
My hands had begun to shake when he’d mentioned his father, the future, the pinball machines. It was the one thing I’d never heard Rick complain about before, the one thing I thought didn’t fill him with despair and contempt.
“Well, at least it’s
my
body,” he said. “It’s
my
body—” he thumped his rib cage each time he said
my
—“and I can do whatever the hell I want with
my
body. Is that correct?”
When I opened my mouth to answer, it was empty. A wet
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