Michael grabbed a can and gave it to her. Opening the can she cut her finger and shook it in the air. She took a swallow. “So, who’s going to cook?” she asked.
“I will.”
“That was easy. I’ll help.”
Later that night, after dinner, Gail was watching television and nursing another diet soda. She sat in the overstuffed chair with her legs folded under her. Michael passed through on his way to the bookshelf against the far wall.
“They’re talking about the suicides at the Golden Gate Bridge,” she said, referring to the program on the television. “This guy is supposedly an expert on suicide.” She laughed. “How can you be an expert on suicide and still be alive?”
Michael chuckled, too. “I suppose that’s a good point.”
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I thought I’d sit in the other room and read for a while.”
“Come on, sit in here with me and watch something stupid.”
“Nah, I’m just going to read.”
“Come on, veg with me.”
Michael looked at the book in his hand.
“You can sit on the floor in front of me and I’ll rub your neck.”
Michael tossed the book onto the coffee table and sat in front of her. “You’re a terrible influence.”
“That’s why you married me. Because I like to give.”
“Does your mother know how you talk?”
“Nope.”
Michael felt his wife’s fingers on his neck and watched the images of the bridge in San Francisco. “Do you mind if we watch something else?”
Gail picked up the remote control and switched channels, moving past an old movie, a soccer game, a couple of ads, and settled on an exercise show. The woman leading the group counted out loud between whoops and encouraging words.
“You’re not serious?” Michael said.
“Do you think she has a good body?” Gail asked.
“She ought to; she exercises for a living.” He watched the woman in spandex. “Actually, I don’t like her body. I don’t like her legs.”
“They’re thin.”
“So? What’s thin got to do with anything? Her legs are shapeless.” He turned and looked at Gail. “Now your legs … your legs are not shapeless.” He pretended to bite her knee.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” He puckered his lips. “Kiss me.”
Gail leaned forward and kissed him. A noise in the backyard caused her to sit up straight. “What was that?”
“Don’t know,” Michael said.
“Do you love me?”
Michael reached and took his wife’s hand. “Yes, I love you. You know I love you.”
“There’s that sound again,” Gail said.
“I’ll go see what it is,” Michael said and found his feet. Gail followed him into the kitchen. They didn’t turn on the lights. Michael looked out the door window and Gail looked out through the window over the sink. “I don’t see anything.” Michael opened the door and stepped out onto the small deck. He looked over at the garbage cans and saw that one of the metal lids was on the ground. He walked down and put the top back on the container, thought he heard something behind him, but turned and found nothing.
Gail called to Michael from the door.
“It must have a been a cat or a dog,” he said. He pressed the lid firmly down and stepped back up to the door. “Yeah, cat or dog, maybe a bear or hyena.”
“Or a duck-billed platypus.”
Upstairs in bed, Michael felt the little movements that told him his wife was close. He tried to think of his love for her, but it seemed to get lost in his head. He felt her come, then shut his eyes and rested his face on her thigh.
The next morning Michael returned from his run and jumped into the shower. He kept the water cool. He was tired of the hot summer weather. He made the water a little colder and let it strike his face. His knees ached a bit and he remembered a time when they didn’t, when his runs were longer and seemed less boring. He turned off the water, grabbed a towel from the rod, and dried. It was Sunday and he’d promised Gail that he would try to get the dryer to stop making a new, high-pitched whine. He slid open the closet door and there, sitting on top of a stack of sweaters and pullovers was the light blue UNC T-shirt. He stared at it. Gail must have washed it and run it through the whining dryer while he was out running. He touched it, thinking about how it had been on the body of that man. He was ashamed that he was afraid to put it on. He picked it up and sniffed it, found that it smelled like the soap they used. He tossed the shirt on the bed and looked at it while he found and put on underwear, socks, and a pair of jeans. He looked at himself in the mirror and noticed how old he was getting. He walked downstairs to the kitchen with the shirt in his hand. He took a yogurt from the refrigerator.
“I was wondering if you’d actually wear that shirt,” Gail said. She had file folders open on the table and was making notes.
“What’s the big deal? It’s washed, right?”
Gail nodded. “I’m just surprised.”
“Didn’t mean to surprise you.”
“Are you all right?” Gail asked.
“Sure. Why?”
“You didn’t sleep well.”
“No, I guess not.” Michael rubbed his forehead.
“Are you happy?” she asked.
“It’s just work, honey.” He looked at her eyes. “I thought I’d look at the dryer,” Michael said. “But I have no clue where that sound is coming from.”
“Well, it drives me crazy. You know how those little high squeals can squirm all through the house and find you and get under your skin and make you want to kill the nearest person.”
“I’ll fix it.” He slipped the shirt over his head and took a bite of yogurt.
“Good.”
It was hot in the back room. The air conditioner failed to pump relief there and the morning sun pounded at the slatted windows. Michael had the dryer turned on its side and was checking the belt. The problem was, of course, that as long as the machine was disassembled it had to be unplugged, and therefore couldn’t be turned on to allow him to hear the noise. The belt seemed tight enough without being too tight and all the screws and bolts were fast. He lay there on his back, reached inside, and sprayed the motor and belt with WD-40. He let his head fall back and stared at the ceiling. He scratched at his shoulder, then at his chest. Gail called to him from the kitchen.
“How’s it coming?” she asked, now standing in the doorway.
Michael didn’t say anything, just looked at her and shrugged. He started to put the dryer back together.
“You’re soaked,” Gail said.
Michael looked at himself and wiped the perspiration from his face.
“I’m going to make some lemonade.”
He gave her the okay sign with his fingers and watched her turn away into the kitchen. Michael got the dryer back together and turned it on. It didn’t whine. He didn’t know why, but it sounded the way it was supposed to sound.
Gail leaned into the room. “All right, you fixed it,” she said and was gone again.
Michael put away the tools. He felt good. He felt easy. He went back upstairs, stripped down, and got into the shower again. He put on another shirt and some shorts.
“Where’s the lemonade?” he asked, walking into the kitchen.
“I’ll pour you some,” she said, opening the refrigerator.
Michael sat at the table and watched his wife. He loved the way she enjoyed her body, the way she moved. “Are you still working on the same chapter?” he asked her.
“I’m always working on the same chapter.”
“That’s not quite true.”
“True enough,” she said. She pushed a glass of lemonade in front of her husband.
“Thanks.” Michael took a long swallow. It was cool and tasted good, but he felt a little out of sorts.