Page 78 of Woman on the Verge

“Well, I’ve worked up an appetite,” he says. “You?”

I nod. “Seriously, though, is the curry spicy?”

“Just a little,” he says. “I took you for a woman who likes some spice. Was I wrong?”

I do not like spice. I am a boring, basic white woman with a completely unadventurous palate. Katrina, I decide, will be different.

“You are not wrong,” I say.

He stands, still naked. I watch the muscles of his ass contract and release as he walks. He returns to the couch with a plate in each hand, piled high with rice and an orangey-yellow curry. I can’t help but stare at his penis, flaccid now but still larger than Kyle’s is when fully erect. It makes me feel immature to take note of such a thing.

“Thai coconut curry,” he says.

He sits next to me, and we eat, plates in our laps. It is spicier than I’d like, my lips burning almost immediately, but I say, “Mmm,” reminding myself that this is what I want—a life less bland.

“I missed you this week,” he says.

“I missed you too.”

“I was thinking that with all the texting, I still don’t know so many things about you,” he says.

You have no idea,I think again.

“What do you want to know?”

“The usual things. Where you grew up. If you like your parents. Your hobbies. I mean, do youhavehobbies? How do I not know this?”

I do not have hobbies. I take care of children all day. I have no idea who I am anymore. That’s why I’m here.

“Well, I grew up in Daly City,” I say, figuring I will try out occasional truths, see how they feel.

“You did? You’re a Bay Area girl?”

“I am.”

“You still have family up here?”

I nod. Suddenly, my throat constricts until it feels like it is the circumference of a drinking straw. I am about to cry.

“Hey,” he says, putting his plate on the coffee table and then placing one hand on my thigh, the other on my shoulder. “Hey, hey, it’s okay.”

The tears just come. There is no stopping them. I am in the grip of a grief that does not give me the courtesy of a fair warning.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

He takes my plate from me, puts it next to his. He uses the pad of his thumb to wipe the tears from under my eyes. He stares at me, his eyes scanning mine, back and forth, trying to decipher the reason for this unexpected display of emotion.

“Don’t apologize.”

I try to imagine Kyle saying these words, Kyle wiping my tears with his thumb, Kyle putting comforting hands on my body, Kyle touching me in a way that considers my feelings instead of his own motivations for attention.

“It’s just that . . .”

He waits, still staring. Has Kyle ever looked into the belly of the beast that is me? Has he evernotlooked away?

“My dad is dying.”

I was not expecting to share this, but there it is.