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November 13, 1991
Nov. 7th, 2012 08:58 pm"Hello?"
The apartment is quiet. There's a stack of papers at one end of the couch next to a half-finished cold cup of coffee, and a note stuck to the refrigerator.
Meg,
I had to pick some things up for Tante Ginette.
I should be home by 6:00, but I'll call if it's going to be later than 7:00.
Love you, see you soon.
Alain
It's already 6:20, but visits to Alain's aunt often run long, so that's not really a surprise. She dumps the cold coffee down the drain, rinses the mug and leaves it on the counter, and puts a fresh pot on to brew. And then she goes back to their room to get her Walkman.
She's about to curl up on the bed to listen to Tchaikovsky when she remembers that she told Alain they could try to be in the same room and not interact. She's not certain she thinks that'll work -- for one, she's not sure he won't try to talk to her, and for another, she's not sure she'll feel alone enough -- but at the very least, they need to try it.
So she settles at the end of the couch that doesn't have papers piled next to it, sitting sideways, with the small of her back up against the arm and her legs stretched out along the cushions.
She's about halfway through the first movement of the violin concerto when the door opens. "Ma belle?"
"I'm here."
Alain comes over, looks down at her, and then reaches up and taps one of his ears just where headphones would be, eyebrows raised just enough to make the gesture into a question.
Meg nods.
"Is everything all right?" he asks.
Meg nods again, and tries not to flinch. She's probably not completely successful, though, because Alain continues, "I know, Meg, but I have to ask that much."
"I know. Is everything okay at your aunt's?"
"Yes." Alain leans down and kisses her, briefly, just catching the corner of her mouth. "I have a story for you, though. Later. Go back to your music."
"There's fresh coffee," she says, as he starts to walk away from the couch.
"I love you."
"You're welcome."
She closes her eyes and goes back to her music.
She can hear him over the strings, fixing his coffee in the kitchen, crossing the room, settling at the other end of the couch, turning the pages of the papers he's grading.
It's . . . comfortable.
It's very, very comfortable.
After about twenty minutes, as she's turning the tape over the play the Mendelssohn on the other side, Meg shifts a little, so that she's more lying on the couch than sitting on it, and so that her feet just come to rest against the side of Alain's leg.
He looks up from his papers to her.
"Tickle me and I'll kick you," Meg says, closing her eyes again.
"Wouldn't dream of it," Alain says, squeezing the toes of her left foot for a second and then turning his attention back to his work.
When the second concerto ends, she decides, she'll ask him about his aunt and dinner and whatever one of his students wrote that just made him laugh out loud.
But for now, they can just keep working on being alone together.
The apartment is quiet. There's a stack of papers at one end of the couch next to a half-finished cold cup of coffee, and a note stuck to the refrigerator.
Meg,
I had to pick some things up for Tante Ginette.
I should be home by 6:00, but I'll call if it's going to be later than 7:00.
Love you, see you soon.
Alain
It's already 6:20, but visits to Alain's aunt often run long, so that's not really a surprise. She dumps the cold coffee down the drain, rinses the mug and leaves it on the counter, and puts a fresh pot on to brew. And then she goes back to their room to get her Walkman.
She's about to curl up on the bed to listen to Tchaikovsky when she remembers that she told Alain they could try to be in the same room and not interact. She's not certain she thinks that'll work -- for one, she's not sure he won't try to talk to her, and for another, she's not sure she'll feel alone enough -- but at the very least, they need to try it.
So she settles at the end of the couch that doesn't have papers piled next to it, sitting sideways, with the small of her back up against the arm and her legs stretched out along the cushions.
She's about halfway through the first movement of the violin concerto when the door opens. "Ma belle?"
"I'm here."
Alain comes over, looks down at her, and then reaches up and taps one of his ears just where headphones would be, eyebrows raised just enough to make the gesture into a question.
Meg nods.
"Is everything all right?" he asks.
Meg nods again, and tries not to flinch. She's probably not completely successful, though, because Alain continues, "I know, Meg, but I have to ask that much."
"I know. Is everything okay at your aunt's?"
"Yes." Alain leans down and kisses her, briefly, just catching the corner of her mouth. "I have a story for you, though. Later. Go back to your music."
"There's fresh coffee," she says, as he starts to walk away from the couch.
"I love you."
"You're welcome."
She closes her eyes and goes back to her music.
She can hear him over the strings, fixing his coffee in the kitchen, crossing the room, settling at the other end of the couch, turning the pages of the papers he's grading.
It's . . . comfortable.
It's very, very comfortable.
After about twenty minutes, as she's turning the tape over the play the Mendelssohn on the other side, Meg shifts a little, so that she's more lying on the couch than sitting on it, and so that her feet just come to rest against the side of Alain's leg.
He looks up from his papers to her.
"Tickle me and I'll kick you," Meg says, closing her eyes again.
"Wouldn't dream of it," Alain says, squeezing the toes of her left foot for a second and then turning his attention back to his work.
When the second concerto ends, she decides, she'll ask him about his aunt and dinner and whatever one of his students wrote that just made him laugh out loud.
But for now, they can just keep working on being alone together.
