The Work Is Innocent by Rafael Yglesias Page B

while but it no longer bothers me.” She laughed. “Too much, that is.”
    Richard got up from the couch and took his coat off. He folded it, laid it on the couch, and placed his novel on top of it.
    “You brought it. Good,” Joan said. “I hope Ann gets here soon so we can hear it.”
    “You can read it now, if you like.”
    Joan considered briefly and said, “Let’s wait. Do you want something to drink or eat or anything?”
    Richard asked for coffee. “Come and keep me company,” Joan said, and he followed her through the foyer into a long, narrow kitchen. He sat on the countertop next to the refrigerator and dangled his legs, beating an irregular rhythm on the cabinets below. Joan, after filling a teapot with water and placing it on the stove, lit one of the burners. “Reach in the shelf behind you and get a mug,” she said.
    Richard did so and gave it to her while Joan got a jar of instant coffee from another cabinet. “What does your father do for a living?” Richard asked.
    “He’s a salesman for a toy company. Do you want two spoonfuls?”
    “Uh, yes. What does a salesman do, exactly? I mean he doesn’t go door to door.”
    “I don’t know what his title is, but he handles distribution to department stores. You know.”
    “Has Mary been a girl friend for a long time?”
    “No. He met her a few months ago.” The phone rang in one of the other rooms and Joan went to answer it. She was gone for a while, and with each passing minute Richard criticized himself for his ungraceful and unsympathetic response to hearing of Joan’s mother’s death. It didn’t occur to him that no one would take such news without a sign of being stunned. He had felt constricted after his reaction to the news. He was convinced that Joan had been offended.
    The pot was whistling when Joan re-entered the kitchen. “That was Ann,” she said, pouring the water. “Some cousins from California are visiting and she can’t come.”
    Richard slid off the countertop, partly from shock. He said nothing.
    Joan turned to face him and she said with a sly dimpled smile, “That isn’t too much of a drag, is it?”
    Richard couldn’t help smiling. “Oh no.” He stood there, feeling that he must say something but unable to do so.
    “Milk and sugar, sir?” Joan went to the refrigerator and got a carton of milk.
    “Yeah,” Richard said, going over to the coffee and staring at the floating brown foam that instant coffee creates. Joan brought him the milk and sugar, and Richard fixed his drink. Joan, without speaking, left the kitchen. Now Richard was convinced that he had disgusted her.
    He carried his cup gingerly into the living room and was surprised at not seeing Joan. He was deciding whether or not to search for her when she briskly entered. Joan flopped onto the couch and put a pipe and a plastic bag of marijuana on the glass table in front of the couch. “That’s a good idea,” Richard said, and sat in an easy chair opposite her. “Maybe it’ll improve my novel.”
    Joan smiled distractedly while she rolled a joint. Richard watched silently and with apprehension. He might be very foolish indeed once stoned. Joan looked gleefully naughty.
    They smoked two joints solemnly, as if it were a wondrous ritual, heavy with the ardor of preceding young lovers. Richard was accustomed to getting high very quickly on little grass, but he felt nothing after an amount that should have overwhelmed him. Joan stretched her legs and put her head back on the cushions until Richard lit a cigarette, and she asked him for one.
    “Oh,” she said while taking it from him. “Do you want to hear some music?” He said yes. She put on Otis Redding and returned to her relaxed pose on the couch. He watched her, tensing against the drug and confused by the randomness of events. When the record ended and left an oppressive silence Joan’s eyes were closed. Richard got up, without thinking, and stood in front of her. What was he doing there? She