That evening she was wearing her tights again, but this time she skipped dinner to begin exercising at the studio. She thought she’d leave the house before he returned, but that day, he didn’t come home late. Just as she was lacing her tennis shoes, the loud rubbery smack of the front door frame insulation startled her.
The kitchen wall clock read five forty-five.
“You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?” he said, as he reached to grab her hair that was wound into the fist–bun again.
She batted at his hand, insisting that he was “messing it up.”
“I’m growing out my bangs, so it took forever just to get it all up, okay?”
Mark smiled and apologized for his junior high flirting that still crept into their interactions from time to time. Although he knew it was more annoying than affirming, it was a remnant of their dating days when she learned that he wasn’t really all that funny at all—just charming and thoughtful in the same way small sons can be when they’ve been told that they’re good. It was that brand of corniness that was somehow simultaneously boyish and paternal that was occasionally endearing but never sexy.
She resumed tying her shoes.
“You’re still going to leave?”
When she didn’t answer, he offered to make dinner.
“Maybe we could watch a movie or I’ll rub your back.”
This sudden interest surprised her, so she hesitated in collecting her bag and keys. Her cheeks colored when she observed his obvious intent, but it drained when she looked at him. He tried again. Continue reading “When her bones crack, from “The Fault””