What they do when they think no one’s watching
She’s lying to herself, pretending she’s not in love with him. I wonder how I can tell, if it’s because I’ve been in love with a married man. If my husband was cheating on me. Maybe I caught him red-handed and bare-assed, and fled. Though I would prefer to think I was not the kind of woman who would be broken by a man.
I listen to them in his office sometimes, my ear pressed to the door. I like the way she sounds when she forgets herself. It’s a noise between a whimper and a laugh, and her please lives in the same gap, a wounded joy. They are my soap opera now. He creeps up behind her while she administers my tests, watches me watch him subtly stroking her neck. He’s hard on her in public, she’s lost her golden girl glow; he wants everyone to know he sees her flaws, and she wants everyone to know it, too, so no one imagines the truth. She never stops watching him, or watching for him when he’s gone. When I catch her crying, she pretends she isn’t, and I pretend to believe her. If she asked, I could tell her I’m pleased she’s finally allowed herself to want. I could tell her it would be better if she wanted someone else.
I can tell she’s lonely. I could tell her I remember that, the feeling of being lonely with someone else. That sometimes, before I fall asleep, I can remember how it felt to lie beside someone who doesn’t love you enough to stay awake. I don’t tell her this, though, because she would only want to know how I remember, and whether the memory is tethered to person or place, and what this kind of memory feels like compared to the memory of whether I want pepperoni on my slice or how many stars are on the American flag. It wouldn’t occur to her that I could help. I’m a subject, and subjects don’t do, we’re done to. I see the way he looks at her. If she asked, I could tell her: she’s a subject, too.