Seven forty-six. Matthias is late. Matthias is never late. More irritated than worried, I crane my neck to the right at the window to see farther up Swann Street.
Finally, the blue car appears, signals, and pulls into the driveway. In the seconds that follow, Matthias parks, locks the car, and walks over to the porch, as I debate running to the door before he rings or staying put. I stay put.
Doorbell, and chorus:
Anna! It’s Matthias!
I know, and walk over slowly. My petty, hurt way of punishing him; I can be late too.
I open the front door and kiss him mechanically. He looks exhausted. Still he smiles at me.
I do not smile back.
Traffic on the highway?
I ask.
No, actually, long day at work. I’m sorry, Anna. I couldn’t leave sooner.
It’s fine,
I say. We both know it is not, but the other girls are listening, so we go upstairs to the Van Gogh room and he collapses on the bed.
I close the door and stay where I am.
Your shoes are on my bed, Matthias.
He kicks them off distractedly.
I’m sorry, Anna. Come lie down next to me.
But I do not feel like it.
You could have called,
I say, though what I really mean is: We only have ninety minutes together! How could you be late?
I said I was sorry!
he retorts, his voice irritated now.
But Lesley called me into her office for a meeting at the last minute. I couldn’t say no.
Lesley. Her name pours over me like a cold shower.
And who is Lesley?
My supervisor, Anna! You know who Lesley is. Why are we still talking about this?
I do not know. He said he was sorry; his meeting just ran a little late. So why do I want to cry? Why am I wasting more of my precious minutes fighting him?
Because I am jealous of Lesley with Matthias. That she gets the whole day with him while I only get ninety minutes in a sterile, confined space. Because I am terrified that one day he will be more than fifteen minutes late.
My throat tightens. My eyes water, but then—
What an idiot I am! He is here, isn’t he? He did come! He comes here every night. I rush to the bed and lie down next to him, my arm on his chest.
He exhales, tired, and pulls me closer to him.
I’m sorry. I got jealous of Lesley.
Silly girl. How could you possibly think … I don’t even know what you thought. I love you, don’t you know that?
I hide my face in the nook of his shoulder. I do.
I am just tired.
He sighs:
I’m tired too.
He does not say: of this. Neither do I.