Hand in Hand

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—Originally publshed in The Roanoke Review, Fall 1996

Continued from page (9)

He turned from the balcony and settled on the floor beside her. She refilled their glasses.
    “And so,” he said, “the last great adventure.”
    “There’s still having children. Death.”
    “We decided long ago that marriage is the last adventure. Having children is a part of that. Death . . . no, we decided not to talk about death.”
    “Or kissing. We are talking about them.” She shifted. “There have to be more things to look forward to.”
    “Death?”
    “We don’t know what it’s like—”
    He felt the tremor along his spine. “It’s closer than it used to be.” He focussed his gaze on her swan-like neck and her eyes, like the clearest and darkest of nights. “You’re still a burlesque Nefertiti, Sissy, but paler and more angular.”
    “I’m trying to learn to live with not being beautiful.”
    “I didn’t say you weren’t beautiful.”
    “I’m not. It’s harder without you around. You’ve finally grown from a stick of a kid into a handsome man. That smile. Women won’t be able to keep their hands off you.”
    Sam rolled his eyes. “I trust your intellectual and artistic judgment. I trust my own erotic judgment.”
    “Why do you think you’re so successful tending bar? If only you’d try instead of demanding that God or someone come down from heaven and tell you that you’re acceptable.” Her face turned bleak. “God. I sound just like Grace. See what happens to me when you spout nonsense?”
    “It’s nonsense,” Sam said, “but that doesn’t make it either untrue or invalid.”
    “Puke. Don’t intellectualize.”
    “No, that’s what we always said about you—that you needed to listen more to your heart and less to your head. You’re too smart. You’re too careful.” Sam swallowed. “Let go of seeing through false mirrors, Sissy. Forget about enduring. Seize life by the shoulders and shake it.”
    “You, too?” She got to her feet and walked to the balcony doors. “If I let go of my intellect, I won’t have anything left.” She looked at him. “I’m no good, Sam. I couldn’t even graduate from college. I’m not beautiful. I’ve tried and tried.” She turned to look out at the night and watched her own transparent orange image in the glass door.
    Beyond her, fog washed over San Francisco and drained down to the bay.

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