Again he was sitting at her kitchen table, now suffused with hunger instead of fear. She had opened a bottle of wine but wouldn’t let him drink any, keeping him on the tea. It was chamomile, which he didn’t care for, but it was good to sit still and let someone fuss over him, deciding what was best. He lounged, chin propped on the heel of his hand, quietly keeping her company.
She was busy with cutting board and knife. She dipped below his field of vision then reappeared with a skillet. The rapid click of the gas burner being ignited, the swish of flame, the skillet went down. She reached over here for a decanter of olive oil, over there for a pat of butter, what she wanted never far from reach. He watched her pull apart a head of garlic and competently smash the cloves one by one, under the flat blade of her knife. The papery skins were tossed in the sink. She brushed her fingers off on the dishtowel tucked through one of her belt loops. Gathering the pale yellow spheres into a pile she began to run her knife through them, quick and crisp, the tip of the blade steady on the board, her wrist rocking the handle in a precise rhythm. Once sliced, she gathered again and began to chop crosswise. Rock and run the blade through, gather the pieces, rock and run again. In the pan, olive oil and butter began to sing.
“Was your girlfriend all right? Did she ever dance again?” she asked. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
He didn’t. “She did. Months of rehab. A lot of hard work, but she did.”
“Where is she now?”
“She danced with the Pennsylvania Ballet for a while.” Erik rolled his lips in, considering his next move. Keep it ordinary, he thought.
“Last I heard she was in New York. We’re not in touch anymore. We broke up rather badly.”
“I see,” Melanie said. “I imagine the shooting messed you guys up nine ways to Sunday. That sucks, baby. I know it’s an understatement but I just have no words.”
She scooped up a pile of minced garlic with the knife and dropped it into the skillet, which gave up a satisfying, oily crackle. She shook the pan a little, reached for a wooden spoon. The smell of butter and olive oil and garlic was making Erik woozy.
“It’s nice here,” he said.
Melanie took a drink from her glass as she stirred, put it down and ran the back of her wrist across one eyebrow. “Do you think you’d like to stay tonight?” she asked.
He watched her swift, experienced hands without answering. He wanted to stay. He wondered if they would make love, and he wanted it as well. But what about the aftermath? What if it happened again, that awful death spiral of anxiety?
“What do I do about that?” he had asked Diane.
“What do you usually do?”
“Get the hell out of there.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s… I don’t know.”
“No, push it a little. Finish the thought. Because it’s what?”
Erik flailed around for words, dropping his hands into his lap. “It’s embarrassing.”
“Nobody would understand is what I hear you saying.”
“Right. It’s insane.”
“Have you ever tried explaining it?”
“No.”
“What if you did?”
He blinked at her. “How?”
“Tell the story. You don’t have to get into the nitty-gritty intimate details. You could simply condense it down to its most elemental parts.”
“What, so I say one night I had an intense sexual encounter with my girlfriend, and the next day I watched her get shot? And it irrevocably linked sex and anxiety in my mind?”
Diane nodded slowly, a corner of her mouth twisting. “That works,” she said. “But I’d leave out the irrevocable part.”
“I can’t say that.”
“Why not, it’s the truth. And if she can’t handle it, there’s no emotional future with her anyway. You can fuck, leave and save yourself the anxiety.”
So infrequently did Diane curse that the exchange had stayed firmly planted in Erik’s mind. And if ever there were a time give the advice a field trial…
What the hell, keep it ordinary, he thought, swallowing hard.