The Dwelling: A Novel by Susie Moloney Page A

taking a few drags in his studio as he pondered or unpacked, and so far she hadn’t said much. He kept it contained in the small space and usually stopped long before she got home from work, so there was time to air the place out. When he put his window in, he was going to smoke all he wanted in there. Secondhand smoke kills, Dan.
    Not reliably. He smiled, thinking of some line from a movie. He’d used it on her a few times, but she never got the reference. She never remembered things like movie lines, or bits of poetry or famous quotes. If you told her the reference (which spoiled using it at all), she would smile falsely and sometimes laugh, if they were in a group, but it wouldn’t reach her eyes and he would know that she didn’t get it. It was part of her charm. At least, he used to think so.
    The backyard was a tangle of untended garden. He was still mildly high from a joint smoked early in the afternoon and so he imagined himself getting in there and untangling and replanting, propagating and creating something of unearthly beauty, a little Garden of Eden. He had time, after all. One afternoon when he wasn’t working, he would get out there and dig around in the dirt. It would be great. Dirt smelled great. Earthy and green. It was creation. He felt a surge of creativity that made him flick his lit cigarette to the side and wander over to the garden. He bent over, hands on knees, and stared into the tangle trying to recognize something in there. He thought he saw some columbine, some impatiens. He was no plant expert, but they were plants his mom had grown.
    He stretched into the sun, squinting against it, and looked at the back of the new house. Big place. Nice big yard. Lots of atmosphere. A good place to be creative. He wished for his cigarette back and patted the pocket of his denim shirt for the pack, but he’d left it on the table by the back door. He liked a smoke while he thought.
    Could use a coat of paint; roof might need work. Wouldn’t take anything at all to do and Bec wouldn’t scream about the money if he did it himself. In his mildly stoned state he felt both capable of anything (creative) and sort of tired, like he needed a shower. It was midafternoon. Max and Kate would be there in a few hours. In a perfect world, he would have liked to have the studio all finished for when Max showed up.
    And it was a perfect world. Dan was finally doing what he had been made to do. He was doing his art. At home. No more bullshit job; no more nine-to-five kissing ass.
    Perfect world.
    He went inside and called for Becca to come and help with the last shelf.
     
    Becca fixed her hair before going downstairs. She would have a shower before Dan’s guests came, but for now she pulled out the elastic gently and brushed the tangles from her long hair. All gently. She took very good care of her hair, and in return it was thick and glossy, poker straight. With her fair complexion she liked to think it gave her an exotic look. Her features were thin and even, broken only by a high, round forehead. Her shirt—actually an old shirt of Dan’s that she used to clean in—was dusty at the front and she brushed at it carefully with the palms of her hands, holding her fingertips outward so as not to catch a nail on a button or pocket. That was how accidents happened. If you were aware and alert, accidents were avoided and so was the disappointment. It was focus. She was a very focused person.
    “I’m coming!” she yelled. She would have sex with him now, and get it done with, then she could shower and be clean for the rest of the night. It wasn’t good for the skin to shower too often, and she felt dirty and dusty, as though a film was encasing her.
    The cup in the bathroom had a white-gray film in a circle on the bottom from toothpaste. She took it with her.
    She walked erectly down the stairs. Chinese would be a forty-dollar order, but she was in the mood for it and then wouldn’t have to cook or clean up before Max