November 9, 1991

She doesn't get much sleep.

She lies on her side of the bed, hovering in a sort of watchful, wary state of not quite being awake (but also decidedly not being asleep), and she waits.

It's like her ribs are all of a sudden a half size too small for her lungs, and she hates it. It's half worry (because maybe something has happened, maybe he was so mad when he left that he forgot his wallet and his keys and he's stuck somewhere and he can't get home, and maybe he's been hit by a car and he's lying in a hospital bed, and maybe he's decided to move to Europe and he's gone to apply for the visa). And it's half anger (because maybe none of those things are true, and he's just not here.)

And it doesn't end well, because if nothing has happened, then the moment of relief is going to be utterly swallowed up by the intensified anger that follows. And if something has happened, then the guilt over having been angry at him is going to be horrid. And neither of those things is going to be improved by the fact that she'll likely be exhausted when whatever it is happens, because she hasn't slept.

She finally gives up just before seven o'clock, and gets up, and goes out to the living room, wondering how long she waits before she calls his brother or his parents or the hospitals.

Alain is asleep -- sound asleep, by the looks of it -- on the couch.

Never mind angry, never mind relieved, Meg is instantly and deeply annoyed.

(It won't last long. One minute later, she'll be furious, but in this moment, it's pure, unadulterated annoyance.)

She stomps (as much as a small person wearing bedroom slippers on a carpeted floor can be said to stomp) into the kitchen, and she unloads the clean dishes from the dishwasher, slamming cabinets and drawers and rattling cutlery as she does so.

(And she hates that, too, because it's petty and childish and ridiculously passive aggressive, and she knows that it's not going to make her feel better and she knows that it's not going to improve the situation and she knows that it's just mean and she does it anyway.)

"Meg?" Alain says, around a yawn, as he stands up.

"Sorry, did I wake you?" Meg asks, looking at him across the counter that divides the kitchen proper from the living room.

"You know that you did," Alain says.

And because there's no answer to that that she can really make, she says, "When did you get in?"

"A little past twelve."

"Oh."

"You'd gone to bed. I didn't want to disturb you. More than I already had, of course."

"Don't. Don't."

"Do you know how you made me feel last night?" Alain asks.

"Do you know how you made me feel last night?"

"I don't see you all day, and then you're home, and I think, I finally get to spend time with my wife, but no, you just want to hide in the bedroom and listen to music you only play when you're upset, and you won't tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing was wrong, Alain. I just needed half an hour when I didn't have to interact with anyone."

"I'm not 'anyone,' Meg. I'm your husband."

"And it's not about who you are. It's about who I am. I am a person who occasionally needs to be alone. And last night was one of those occasions."

"So, what, you're Marlene Deitrich? You 'want to be alone'?"

"That was Greta Garbo," Meg says automatically.

Alain glares at her. "Is that really the point, right now?"

"I guess it's not, no. What is?"

"The point is that you made me feel like you didn't want me around last night."

"Yeah, you've made that really clear. And you've made it very clear that you're disappointed in me because of that, and I really don't know what to do about that, because I can't change it, any more than I could suddenly have green eyes. So you know what? I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Alain, that I am complicated and demanding and that I ask more from you than most would, and I am sorry that there are fundamental parts of my personality that you apparently find so problematic that you storm out and stay gone all night, and I am sorry that I cannot be exactly what you want at every given moment of our lives, and I'm sorry that I'm not perfect."

There's a moment of silence, and they stare at each other, and Meg tries to wrap her brain around the fact that she's really and truly yelling at her husband.

And then he starts to laugh.

. . . that is not what Meg was expecting.

"What?" she snaps.

"What are we doing?" Alain asks.

"I'm pretty sure we're having a fight."

"Are you enjoying it?"

"Not especially, no," Meg says. "Not at all."

"Me, either. Why don't we stop?"

"Because we clearly have issues we need to resolve. And if we don't talk about them, they're just going to fester and get worse."

"All right, yes," Alain says, coming into the kitchen. "But, ma belle, you just apologized for being human. I don't think we're exactly having a rational, productive discussion about issues. I think we're just having a fight. And I hate fighting with you."

"I hate fighting with you, too."

"So let's stop," Alain says, wrapping an arm around her waist. "We'll stop fighting, we'll talk."

Meg nods.

"Good. Come on," he adds, tugging her forward a little.

"Where?"

"Bed," Alain says. "Not like that," he adds, off her incredulous look. "I just have a theory I want to test."

"And what's that?"

"That it's almost impossible to fight with a woman if you're curled up together and she's got her head on your chest."

Meg laughs without really meaning to, and it's like something shifts back into balance.

"There's that smile," Alain says. "Come on."

He's right. The new conditions are not remotely ideal for a fight. They work pretty well for a conversation, though.

"I don't remember that you ever wanted to be left alone before we got married," Alain says, one thumb tracing a circle on the back of her shoulder. "And lately, I don't know. You didn't want to spend time with my friends, and then you didn't want to go see Luc, and then last night you didn't even want to see me. And I don't remember it from before. It's like it's new, and I don't know why."

"It's not new, Alain. It's something I've done my whole life, needing to be alone sometimes. I just didn't live with you until recently. So when I didn't want company, I just . . . stayed home."

"Ah. That makes sense."

"Doesn't it?"

"Well, now I just feel silly," Alain says.

"Don't. It's new for you, and you like having people around all the time. I don't always. And it's not about not liking people, or not wanting to spend time with people I care about, it's just that sometimes I need thirty minutes or a hour or so when I don't have to interact with anyone at all."

"So it's about interacting? Or not interacting?"

Meg nods. "Yeah."

"All right. So do you think could you not interact with me while we were in the same room?"

"What do you mean?" Meg asks cautiously.

"Could you, say, listen to your music at one end of the couch while I was reading a book at the other? Then you don't have to interact with me, but I get to feel like I'm spending time with you."

"I don't know," Meg says, after a moment's thought. "But we could try it."

"All right. We'll try it."

"You scared me last night," Meg says, a full minute later.

"Scared you?" he asks, and his thumb stops moving on her shoulder.

Meg nods against his chest. "Yeah. Because you were disappointed and upset and you left, and you wouldn't say where you were going or when you were coming back and sometimes . . . sometimes, when someone does that -- "

"I'm not your sister."

"I know. I -- "

"I'm not going to do what she did. And you have to trust that. You can't judge me based on what someone else did before you met me, Meg. That's not fair."

"I know that. Rationally, I know that. But the rational part of my brain doesn't always get the loudest voice on this topic. And I know that you need to be able to leave, and take time and space to deal with things, that's how you process, and I don't want you feel like you can't, but . . . just tell me when you're going to be home. Please."

"All right," he says. He traces three circles on her shoulder, then stops and asks, "You know I don't actually think you're perfect, right? I know it sounds unromantic to say that, but I know that you're not perfect. I don't expect you to be."

"I know."

"Because sometimes, ma belle, I think you expect you to be. I think you expect people to expect you to be. And you're not. There are going to be times you disappoint me, and there are going to be times I disappoint you. I hope that most of them are small, like I wish he hadn't forgotten to buy the paper towels, but some of them are going to be big. If your goal is to get through the next sixty years without ever disappointing each other . . . we might as well give up now."

"I'm not giving up."

"Good."

"And whatever we have to work out, we'll work out," Meg says. "Because . . . because I am worth everything I put you through."

Alain laughs, which she as much feels as hears. "Yes, you are. And I'm worth everything I put you through."

"You are, yes." Meg sighs and settles a little more comfortably against him. "And I could almost sleep."

"So sleep. I'll be here when you wake up."