1.
“Michael,” she said, “We did not have sex.” Her gaze shifted to somewhere over my left shoulder. “Not really.”
“Not really?”
I stared at her incredulously. I watched as a flush began to spread across her face.
I waved the now crumpled piece of paper in my hand.
“Maria?” My tone was rising. “Tell me what this means?” I glared at her. She began to shy away.
Just a moment before, I’d been happy, when I’d come in through the door. I’d thought it was a prank, a joke, a silly rumor. I thought she would explain. I hadn’t expected this.
“Michael,” she said, backing up. She almost tripped on the low table near the door. She glanced quickly back. “Michael,” she said, “Please, listen to me.”
She dropped the paperback she’d been holding in her hands onto the table. “We didn’t do it,” she said, “I mean we did not have sex, I mean, at all.” She held out her hands.
“What does that mean?” I asked. She continued backing up. I followed her.
“Please,” she said. “Listen to me.”
“Maria,” I said, trying to control my voice, “I am listening. Tell me what you meant.”
She backed up against the counter that separates our kitchen from the living room. She stopped there. “Michael,” she said, “I did it for us, for the baby.”
“For the baby!” I stared, wide eyed, at her. Her fair skin had nearly lost its blush. Her blood-red lips were slightly parted. She licked them nervously. I could see the fear there - she was afraid of me.
I felt my own face begin to burn. The paper I’d been holding fell from my hand.
“For the baby,” I said, angrily. “What the hell do you mean by that?”
“Michael,” she said, “Don’t use that tone with me.” She widened her eyes at me. She sounded angry, ashamed, and frightened, all at once.
I felt a little frightened myself. I stared at her a moment, and then turned abruptly, looking back at our front door. For the baby, I thought. I felt a little dizzy.
“Maria.” I swallowed and tried again. Our neighbor’s little girl rode by outside, on a new bike without training wheels. “Maria-” She was going much too fast, I thought.
She interrupted me. “No, Michael,” she said, “Listen to me.” I felt her nervous footsteps on the floor. “I’m trying to explain.” She’d stopped somewhere in the middle of the room. “Listen,” she began again, “It’s not the same – it’s not the same with us. I mean with him. As it is with him.” I felt my stomach drop, like it does, when you come up over the top on an amusement park ride. I opened my mouth. Not a sound came out. I took a step toward the door.
“Michael,” she called out, “Don’t leave!” Her voice was shrill, plaintive.
I paused, looking out.
Maria was standing just behind me. I felt her fingers on my arm. “Michael,” she breathed, “Don’t go.” I stood there for a moment, thinking: it’s vertigo, I thought, that’s what they call this.
She clutched my arm. “Try to understand,” she said. She stepped in closer. I could feel her breathing on my neck, her nipple through her blouse, her thigh through the thin cotton of her small summer skirt. “Michael,” she said, “I’m doing it for us.” I swallowed, feeling a fierce hot anger building inside me. I started to pull away, but she pressed her nails into my flesh. “Don’t go!” she said. I turned on her.
“Michael,” she said, “Don’t.” Her blue eyes were rimmed with red. Her blonde framed face was smeared with tears. “Michael,” she stammered, “I don’t- I don’t enjoy this!”
“Don’t enjoy it!” I yelled back into her startled face. “You don’t enjoy it?” I breathed, panting through my mouth. A little spittle landed on her cheek.
“I don’t-” she moaned, eyes darting, clinging tightly to my arm, “I don’t enjoy it!”
I stared at her. I had a premonition: a vision: “You’re blowing him,” I said. I felt a preternatural sense of calm.
Her mouth was open, looking up. I saw her small pink tongue. I watched her touch her lip with it. Her face was turning red again.
“Michael, I-”
I pushed her. I shoved her. I shoved her small body with all my strength. Her nails tore into my arm as she fell backwards. Falling backwards, she was unable to break her fall. She cried out, falling badly. She landed on her butt, and then continued, rolling up onto her back. Her legs went flying in the air.
Finally she curled into a little ball, lying on her side, on the floor.
I stood over her, staring down. She lay there and began to sob. An enormous rent exposed her legs all the way up her thighs.
“Oh God,” she moaned. “Oh God, Oh Michael.”
I swallowed, still breathing hard. I unclenched my fists. I stared. “Maria?” My voice sounded hollow, rasping. She hugged her knees up to her chest; her hair had fallen across her face. I couldn’t tell what I’d done to her, if I had hurt her. I thought of the baby – our baby – inside her.
Finally I knelt down. I touched her gently on the shoulder. “Maria?”
“No,” she mumbled wetly, quietly. “No.” she said. “I’m sorry, Michael. I never meant it. I never meant to hurt you.”
I felt a painful swelling growing in my chest. It rose into my throat, choking me.
“Maria-” I tried to swallow.
She shook her head. I could see her pale cold cheek, her necklace, the one she always wore, tangled in her hair. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I really am.”
I opened my mouth. Not a sound came out. I knelt there and watched her breathing. A pool of tears had gathered along her nose. “Maria-”
The buttons on her blouse had broken open. The small gold cross she wore fell off her trembling breast onto the floor. “Maria- I’m sorry.”
A narrow slit of blue appeared between her eyelids. She was looking up at me.
I gathered myself and stood. “Maria,” I said, “I’m sorry too. I should not have done that, no matter what-” I turned away, but I heard her call my name.
