Tim leaned through the kitchen doorway. That was Carl on the phone. He’s coming in next week to do some training.
Maureen looked up from The Gallery by John Horne Burns. What day?
Thursday.
Okay.
Tim waited for his wife to expand on her confirmation but her attention immediately returned to her book. Does that mean you’ll be here to help?
Maureen held her eyes on the page. It’s only Friday, so who can say? But if I’m here I’m sure I’ll lend a hand.
Well that’s big of you. Thanks. Me and the rest of the stock will all be waiting to see if you’ll grace us with your presence.
Are you implying I don’t do enough around here?
I didn’t say anything of the sort. Those words never even left my mouth. Once again you’re accusing me of things you’ve imagined I’ve done.
Don’t try to play that bullshit game. Who the hell closed up shop for the past four nights because you had a little sniffle? And then you insinuate I’m not pulling my weight. What a jerk.
And you’re a crazy bitch.
Watch me. The moment this place is off our hands you won’t see my dust.
Go now if you want. I’ll send you a cheque.
I don’t think so. Your idea of fifty per cent is not always the same as mine.
Now you’re accusing me of being a thief? Anything else you’d like to add? Murderer? Adulterer?
The possibility of Maureen being unfaithful had never occurred to Tim before, and with it came the realisation that once they separated she would be free to have sex with whomever she wanted. Tim had dedicated countless hours to imagining himself with women other than his wife, but so far had failed to picture Maureen undressing for anyone beside himself. It sparked jealousy in his veins. And like the moment when all the features of the office had abruptly emerged, Tim was now suddenly awake to qualities of Maureen’s beauty that years of marriage had allowed him to take for granted. The soft lines beside her eyes; the elegance of her stockings and shoes; her perfect stillness as she read a book; the tips of her painted fingernails holding open a page. Tim stood staring. Thinking. One more time. After all the years they had spent together…just one more time. The anger that sought to continue the argument was suddenly usurped by another internal drive.
You’re right, he said in a conciliatory tone. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things. I didn’t mean to be so rude. I know how hard you work. And I appreciate it. I really do. I can take care of Carl’s training. How difficult could it be, right?
Maureen refused to concede the moral high ground and pulled herself away from her book. I’m sorry too. Let’s not do that again. Remember we promised. No more arguments.
Agreed, said Tim, who looked for a moment longer, then returned to the shop.