They wake late the next morning, and Helena has the vague, dissatisfied feeling of almost, but not quite remembering her dream. The drive, the arrival at the desolate hotel, and especially her meeting with Ester seem more like a dream than whatever flitted through her subconscious. When she turns to Joachim, she sees that his eyes are already open.
“Hey, you.” She leans over to kiss him on the cheek, and the gesture has an echoing hollowness even as she feels the old ache of affection rise up in her. If only there were a way to start over. If only there were a way to be together now that had nothing to do with having been together before.
“Morning, darling.”
But that was never what she wanted. Didn’t she move and change her number to keep just that from happening? If he knew what was going through her head, he’d say what he always did, that she was overthinking things. That she could never just enjoy the moment without agonizing about the future.
She gets up to open the window. Only when a cool, fresh breeze comes in does she realize how oppressive the air in the room was, the stale smell of the room itself and the humid warmth of their bodies. Outside, everything is fresh and new. It must’ve rained overnight. Even the cracked pavement of the parking lot is glittering in the light of day.
That’s what they need, too: something to wash away the past and let the light of a new day shine on them. Maybe she’ll say something like that when he finally starts to talk to her. Or she could just say, “Shhh, I know all that. We can forget about it now.” And he’ll explain why he decided to play this strange little game, and she’ll tell him how long she’s known. Or they won’t mention it; one lie will cancel the other out.
He joins her in the shower, and until they leave their hotel room, they’re strangely quiet, like young lovers trying out new things. She switches the ceiling light on and off as they step out, but it hardly shows up against the brilliant light of noon.