street, he said slowly. It was a windy day.
Because it was windy, smoking almost killed you?
Because it was windy, I had my head down, I was cupping the match with my hands. I didn’t see the car. So, yes. Because it was windy, smoking almost killed me.
How awful, the girl said.
Yes, the man said distantly. I suppose it was awful.
You don’t remember the accident? the girl said.
I don’t, he said. Apparently I’m not the same man I was.
According to whom?
According to whom . My grammarian ex-wife would be very impressed, the man said. According to the doctors. According to my ex-wife, who was my ex-wife before the accident. She claims I used to be taciturn and self-defeating, I used to be a trial lawyer who lacked animation, I used to be an uninspired dinner-party guest. I used to be a heavy sleeper. I used to detest shrimp.
Wow, the girl said. Do you miss yourself?
The man laughed bitterly.
It’s hard to miss a man who married a woman I cannot imagine anyone finding attractive, he said.
The rain increased its intensity. The girl watched as a van pulled into her driveway; her older sister emerged from the passenger side, her school blazer pup-tented over her head. She ran for the side door and fumbled beneath an empty clay planter for the house key.
Her sister vanished inside the house.
It’s getting late, the man said.
The girl reached down to grab her backpack, then remembered she’d left it in her locker.
I wonder, said the girl, if not knowing who you are—I mean, were—feels exciting or frightening.
Must it be one or the other? the man asked.
But you could be anybody now, the girl said. You might be a champion chess player or a famous artist. You might be a criminal.
The man gripped the steering wheel with his gloved hands. He wore black gloves, the sort of gloves, shiny and tight-fitting, that TV stranglers wear.
Exciting and frightening, the man said. Both, I’d say.
I’m hungry, the girl said. You?
The man didn’t respond.
I’m in the mood for shrimp, the girl said.
One by one all the windows of her house ignited. Her sister was a nervous person, terrified of robbers, kidnappers, all-purpose intruders. She had yet to realize that the way to surmount your fears was to stalk them and invite them to dinner.
The man didn’t say yes, he didn’t say no. He put the car in drive and pulled away from the curb just as the girl’s sister appeared in the living-room window, her body a silhouette framed by the curtains.
The man had a good sense of direction, or at least his new self did; he didn’t ask the girl left here? or right? The rain had submerged the roads and driving the Mercedes appeared to be like steering an unwieldy scow; each slight turn of the man’s wrist resulted in a delayed, and disproportionately large, directional shift. He slalomed out of the girl’s neighborhood, a canopied tangle of poorly drained roads lined with very old houses close to the curb and very new houses built to look like very old houses set farther back in the woods. The girl’s mother hated these new-old houses, these sentimental facsimiles with their suburban willow trees and their diagonal property sitings and their perfectly round ponds. Her mother volunteered at the historical society and the landmarks commission; she was in charge of maintaining the dignity of dead things.
The man turned south on Harbor Road. It was completely dark now, though only 5:46 p.m., according to the car clock. The girl did not ask where are we going? Possibly a restaurant. Possibly his house, where he now kept a freezerful of shrimp at his ready disposal. Possibly to his boat (if he had a boat), where he would offer her a beer and they would sit in the damp cabin and the sex, if they had it, would be the chafing kind that would leave friction burns in places he hadn’t even touched her. Possibly to the woods, where he would rape and dismember her and promptly forget he’d even met her, because his short-term
Because it was windy, smoking almost killed you?
Because it was windy, I had my head down, I was cupping the match with my hands. I didn’t see the car. So, yes. Because it was windy, smoking almost killed me.
How awful, the girl said.
Yes, the man said distantly. I suppose it was awful.
You don’t remember the accident? the girl said.
I don’t, he said. Apparently I’m not the same man I was.
According to whom?
According to whom . My grammarian ex-wife would be very impressed, the man said. According to the doctors. According to my ex-wife, who was my ex-wife before the accident. She claims I used to be taciturn and self-defeating, I used to be a trial lawyer who lacked animation, I used to be an uninspired dinner-party guest. I used to be a heavy sleeper. I used to detest shrimp.
Wow, the girl said. Do you miss yourself?
The man laughed bitterly.
It’s hard to miss a man who married a woman I cannot imagine anyone finding attractive, he said.
The rain increased its intensity. The girl watched as a van pulled into her driveway; her older sister emerged from the passenger side, her school blazer pup-tented over her head. She ran for the side door and fumbled beneath an empty clay planter for the house key.
Her sister vanished inside the house.
It’s getting late, the man said.
The girl reached down to grab her backpack, then remembered she’d left it in her locker.
I wonder, said the girl, if not knowing who you are—I mean, were—feels exciting or frightening.
Must it be one or the other? the man asked.
But you could be anybody now, the girl said. You might be a champion chess player or a famous artist. You might be a criminal.
The man gripped the steering wheel with his gloved hands. He wore black gloves, the sort of gloves, shiny and tight-fitting, that TV stranglers wear.
Exciting and frightening, the man said. Both, I’d say.
I’m hungry, the girl said. You?
The man didn’t respond.
I’m in the mood for shrimp, the girl said.
One by one all the windows of her house ignited. Her sister was a nervous person, terrified of robbers, kidnappers, all-purpose intruders. She had yet to realize that the way to surmount your fears was to stalk them and invite them to dinner.
The man didn’t say yes, he didn’t say no. He put the car in drive and pulled away from the curb just as the girl’s sister appeared in the living-room window, her body a silhouette framed by the curtains.
The man had a good sense of direction, or at least his new self did; he didn’t ask the girl left here? or right? The rain had submerged the roads and driving the Mercedes appeared to be like steering an unwieldy scow; each slight turn of the man’s wrist resulted in a delayed, and disproportionately large, directional shift. He slalomed out of the girl’s neighborhood, a canopied tangle of poorly drained roads lined with very old houses close to the curb and very new houses built to look like very old houses set farther back in the woods. The girl’s mother hated these new-old houses, these sentimental facsimiles with their suburban willow trees and their diagonal property sitings and their perfectly round ponds. Her mother volunteered at the historical society and the landmarks commission; she was in charge of maintaining the dignity of dead things.
The man turned south on Harbor Road. It was completely dark now, though only 5:46 p.m., according to the car clock. The girl did not ask where are we going? Possibly a restaurant. Possibly his house, where he now kept a freezerful of shrimp at his ready disposal. Possibly to his boat (if he had a boat), where he would offer her a beer and they would sit in the damp cabin and the sex, if they had it, would be the chafing kind that would leave friction burns in places he hadn’t even touched her. Possibly to the woods, where he would rape and dismember her and promptly forget he’d even met her, because his short-term
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