“I need to find a wife. I’m almost forty, you know.” He unfolds a napkin and takes a swig from his whiskey glass.
“No. I thought you were in your late twenties. Younger than me.” I’m honestly surprised.
“I’m an old man. Not in spirit, like your Henry. He’s an old soul. But I’m not getting younger. Know of any single women who are looking for a husband?” He rests his chin on his palm and faces me, his apple cheeks red from the alcohol.
“In New York City?” I raise my eyebrows. “Are you kidding? We must have the highest available woman per capita ratio in the country. Wear a sandwich board and stand on the street.”
He snorts, a quick huff of air through his nose, and shakes his head. “Find me someone. I need a smart woman, independent. No plastic surgery. No fascination with measuring their thigh gap.”
“What in the world is a thigh gap?” I blink, twice. I’m not sure I want to know. The concerns of half my gender baffle me. In Henry’s world, there is no shortage of beautiful, wealthy women who behave like teenagers with limitless bank accounts.
“See? Don’t you have any friends who are like you? Conscious of the world? Grateful? That’s our problem. No one is fucking grateful anymore. Look at you, with CARE. You’re grateful. I bet you were poor growing up, right?”
I shift in my chair. At that moment, the sashimi is placed in front of me, beautiful with its brightly colored fish and green vegetables, and a swirl of scarlet miso on the square, white plate.
“You don’t have to answer that. Don’t you have friends? I need to find someone like you.” He slurs the like and the you together. At that moment, I realize that Henry has turned around and is paying close attention to our conversation. I meet his gaze and his eyes narrow. He snaps open his napkin in one quick wrist motion and gives a short shake of his head, staring stonily ahead to some point on the far wall. I imagine it’s one of Henry’s most marketable skills: the stonewall. His face smooths out, perfectly unlined, like chiseled marble. A David statue of my husband and just as cool to the touch. While anger heats most people up, buzzes them and makes them hyper, it has the opposite effect on Henry. He becomes cold and still, his flesh hardens. A corpse taken straight from the morgue refrigerator.
Reid blathers next to me, his words skipping and sliding into each other, oblivious to the undercurrent between Henry and me. I lean to my left, nudge Henry with my elbow, press my fingertips into his quadriceps, he doesn’t flinch.
The sashimi plates are replaced by dinner plates, large and gleaming with impossibly small portions. Four courses come and go, with Henry smiling at Muriel across the table and Reid chattering to anyone who will listen. At dinner’s conclusion, while everyone is drinking dessert wine and sherry, Henry stands, his hand on my elbow, and with a wide apologetic smile ushers me to the waiting car.
In the car, the radio plays classical music at low volume, like Henry always instructs the driver to do. The city street passes silently by, life on mute.
“Say something, please.” I run my fingernail along the window edge, inexplicably damp with condensation.
“I don’t want to worry about my wife and other men. I’ll say that.” His hands are clasped across his knees, his back rigid. The ball joint of his jaw trembles underneath his skin.
“Is this about Cash or Reid?” I feel my shoulders droop. I’m so tired of this conversation, for no reason. I want to bring up the blonde but I can’t. It’s a big new door and the room behind it is filled with unknowable variables. I’m so tired. “I’ve never given you any reason to worry. That’s your own doing.”
“Zoe.”
In the apartment, he says nothing and goes right to his office. The door closes with a heavy click, a hushed echo in the marble hallway. I go to bed, knowing, acknowledging for the first time, that we are in trouble. Our life, not what I expect or want, but just the way it is. I realize that tomorrow Henry is leaving for Japan and I don’t know for sure when he’s coming home. It occurs to me that maybe he won’t be. That our marriage will be over.
I spin the charm bracelet around my wrist. Such a unique, creative gift, so out of character for Henry. Just last weekend, he’d been windblown and free. Loving. Writing poetry, or at least copying poetry. And now, back in the city we call home, he’s this other man again. Cold. Calculating.