Scene

by Leah L. Cole

        They had come back to his room. It was almost time for the evening to end; almost time for her to make her way up the stairs to her own room. But, as always, they prolonged it a little bit by stopping at his room on the way. His roommate was out, probably somewhere listening to someone else's problems. She took off her shoes and dropped her keys and coat in the usual place. Out of habit, she stepped over his dirty laundry and plopped onto his bed, watching him as he hung up his coat and took off his shoes. She admired him. He looked particularly good tonight, his dress slacks outlining his narrow hips and dark shirt accenting his magnetic features.

        He curled up next to her on the bed. Though it was narrow, they were comfortable. They started talking, flirting nothings about sharing a shower. After a thoughtful moment, she said that someday she'd like to explore her new home, room by room with her husband. They had spoken many times about sex. He had a sad story about the romance that couldn't be, but the love that muddled through after all. A sad Hollywood ending. She had been abused and shamed to her bones for nothing. She cloaked her insecurity, her self abusing recriminations, and her terror with pipedreams of marital purity, white wedding dresses and sentimental Christian values. Though he didn't fully understand, he tried to accept. Though she didn't fully understand, she resented. Hiding from each other, they spoke openly and shared gently.

        So when he fell silent, she knew that her starry-eyed visions had made him pensive. After a pause, she asked gingerly, "What are you thinking?"

        "Nothing."

        Another pause. "That's rare."

        "You're right."

        He would not look at her. "So what are you really thinking?"

        "How I am supposed to tell you I don't want you to know what I'm really thinking."

        Another silence. He shifted his arm out from under her, and started to play with his fingernails. She recognized the habit he had picked up from her. She just lay there, looking at him. The silence grew. He only glanced up at her once. Then he flung his arm up between them. She could only speculate about his thoughts. That he was thinking of that girl. That he was wishing that she was ready to loose her virginity. That he felt attacked by her quiet difference from him.

        She could feel a wall growing up between them. Each second ticking away in silence seemed to add another brick. Each heavy breath seemed to mortar the bricks together.

        Finally he broke the silence. "So what did you think of the play?"

        "I liked it. Richard was a bit stiff—"

        "But it fit his character," they finished together.

        Silence. Even longer this time.

        "So what are you thinking?"

        Could she tell him? How she respected the privacy of his thoughts, but that she was still hurt? How she sensed something important between them was being muted. Should she describe the wall she felt so clearly? She said nothing.

        Eventually, "My question mark hangs in the air without an answer to rescue it."

        She considered her response carefully. "Some question marks are destined for that."

        They lay there. She thought of leaving, before they hurt each other in an attempt at caution. He just continued gazing at the ceiling. She kept looking at where his face would be behind his arm. Finally, he raised his head and said, "Hey…. You have more of the bed than I do." It was an attempt to change the subject. The questions still hung heavily and the wall was still rising coldly.

        She sat up and climbed over him. She kissed him gently, and quickly collected her things. He asked her if he should walk her upstairs, but she knew he didn't' really want to. She left it up to him. He stayed on his bed, but held out his arms compellingly. She re-crossed the room and they hugged awkwardly. She answered his goodnight distantly and carefully closed the door behind her.


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