“That kind of forgiveness is all up in here.” He taps the side of his head too hard. “It’s what my son does with stuffed animals. It’s make-believe.”
Molly takes a sponge from the sink and wipes a puddle of juice off the counter. She goes over the area again and again, long after it’s dry. “Maybe it’d be better if you talked with my husband about this. I don’t think I’m expressing myself very clearly.”
“It’s not about being clear or unclear. I just don’t buy this devout little wife act. You’re either fooling yourself or the rest of us—I can never tell.”
Molly throws the sponge down and squares her shoulders, appearing much taller than she did before. “You don’t have the right to talk about me like that, like you actually know me. You never tried to befriend me—not back in school and not as adults either. You have no idea who I am.”
Her tone is barely civil now, and he likes the unguarded spike of hostility, returning like a memory she long ago blocked out. All these years, he had it wrong. Being kind to Molly, being a gentleman—that wasn’t what she wanted. Some part of her still responds to being abused.
“I didn’t try to befriend you because I felt sorry for you. Everyone knew how easy you were, how you’d go off during lunch with anyone who asked. I didn’t want to be one of those guys who just used you in the back of his car and then never gave you the time of day.”
“Ha,” she shouts, thrusting her face just inches in front of his. “I saw the way you always looked at me. You still do it now. You were just too shy to do anything about it when you had the chance.”
Her expression is angry and defiant, a break in her carefully composed veneer. Kyung sees the victory in this, the dare. One second, his arms are crossed over his chest. The next, he’s clutching the back of Molly’s head, pushing his tongue into her mouth. The effect is ugly and sloppy, more probing than kissing until a switch goes off somewhere, wired deep in the back channels of her brain. Gone is the woman so prim and eager to please. In her purest state, Molly is all instinct and aggression. She wraps her arms around his neck, snakes her leg around his leg, kissing him so furiously that her teeth knock and scrape against his. They stumble against the sink, and a pitcher falls off the counter and shatters on the floor. He can feel bits of glass crunching under his shoes, but the strangeness of this sensation quickly gives way to another—her hand on his pants, tracing and retracing him through the fabric.
This is what being with a woman is supposed to feel like. Dangerous and unfamiliar, on the edge of something because it’s both. By now, he knows every pale curve and freckled hollow of his wife’s body. He knows exactly how Gillian will respond if he touches her in one place versus another, if she wants him to be gentle or rough. The sex is never bad so much as predictable—rushed, usually—as if both of them would rather be doing something else. With Molly, it’s different. He’s not accustomed to her reactions, to the sounds she makes as he lowers a strap of her dress to kiss her bare breast. Her back arches as if it might break; her hips press tightly against his. He wants to take his time, to enjoy her while he can, but nothing about this feels patient. Kyung lifts her onto the countertop, centering himself between her legs. He yanks her underwear to her knees and slips his fingers inside her, higher and higher until she almost loses breath.
“Wait,” she says.
Kyung reaches for his belt, but the metal buckle won’t release. He fumbles with it, trying not to let his clumsiness become a distraction. He closes his eyes and kisses her again, imagining Molly on all fours while he takes her from behind. She wouldn’t mind this position, he thinks. But by the time he undoes his belt, something has started to change. Her body goes limp. Her right hand leaves his neck, and then the other soon follows. Kyung opens his eyes, startled to see that Molly’s are open too, but not open as they should be. Up close, they’re wide open, unblinking, the whites latticed with red. Her pupils are dilated; the blacks are all he can see. He backs away slowly, still joined by a long string of saliva connecting her mouth to his. It stretches and stretches, thinning to a hairlike strand that finally breaks.
Molly slides off the counter, hugging the cabinets as she slowly moves to the other side of the room. She looks disoriented, or maybe even sick.
“Are you all right?”
She stares at him, her lower lip in full tremor.
“Molly? What’s going on?”
“Why did we do that?” she asks. “Why?”
He doesn’t know what she expects him to say. He can’t answer for her; he can hardly answer for himself. “Because we wanted to, I guess.”
She continues staring at him, clutching the ends of the sweater still tied around her neck. Whatever confusion she may have felt is gone now, replaced by something that begins to resemble fear.