Nothing Must Change

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At noon Carol heard the creak of the bed in the next room, heard Max’s vast awakening yawn. She turned on the gas under the coffee, then stood holding the handle of the dish mop so tightly that her fingers hurt. Max had come to bed just before dawn, after a roaring shower, bringing with him the faint tart odor of the thinner he had used to clean the oil paint from his fingers.

When she had gotten up, she had looked upon his sleeping face, the face that had been for the past three weeks the face of a stranger. Three weeks; this time, the cool-eyed, quiet withdrawal had lasted longer.

Carol heard the soft slap, slap of his old slippers as he went down the hallway and into the studio that had been the kitchen shed until he had cut the window and skylight.

She realized that she was holding her breath, wailing, hoping for an end to the lonely weeks. The coffee began to make a whispering sound.

“Carol!” he shouted. “Carol! Come here!”

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