"Jason Gould - Double Negative" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gould Jason)

Double Negative
a short story by Jason Gould

Every time I see deaf people talking with their hands, I am reminded of
the silent world in which Angela and I fought on our final evening
together. To have used our voices, however softly, would've been too
personal; too personal by far. Had we been adepts in the art of argument,
then I'm sure our throats would have been put to fuller effect; but ours
was a marriage in which quarrels were scarce, and glibness rife. Thinking
back, it was probably this aspect of our relationship that prompted my
fling, that had me straying from our bed again and again, despite
promising myself not to. Affairs are like that - addictive. To begin with
it's physical; then, as time passes and the touch that had once been
electric gradually numbs, the secrecy takes over - the countryside hotels,
the knowing glances, the fierce afternoons of cigarettes and sweat.
'Why are you crying?' Angela asked, her gaze turning from the television.
I touched my face, and my fingers came away wet. I often speculate, now I
have so much spare time, on what provoked my eyes into betraying me that
night. It must have had something to do with Angela's presence. Was it the
earnest way she followed even the most mundane of soap operas? Perhaps her
sorrowful eyes and uncontrollable hair? Her refusal to make love with the
light on? Her tears at charity appeals and disturbing news items? The list
is infinite; believe me I have literally reams and reams of possibilities,
yet all they are - all they add up to when spoken or dreamed or scribbled
on bus tickets - is words. I have all these words, but nothing concrete.
'Why are you crying?' she repeated, switching off the television and
crossing to where I sat. I looked at her thin legs and freckled arms, her
eyes that turn puffy in winter and romantic in spring.
I got up, went into the kitchen and doused myself with water from the cold
tap. Angela followed me, keen to learn the source of my unease. I turned
my back on her, electing to look out at the garden instead. On the
opposite side of the window, dusk had had its frailty fattened by
darkness. I squinted, leaning forward slightly. I wished I could see
things beyond that glass; things that might navigate our lives and assume
responsibility for our actions. But the only thing I could see was my
reflection, and hers.
'Are you going to tell me why you're crying?' she said.
I thought she would have sensed it by that point; like when we used to
guess each other's dreams in the morning or start the same sentence
simultaneously. Sometimes, after a half-day between the sheets in a rural
tavern, I would step into the lounge and expect her to know instinctively
where I'd been. Not by a speck of lipstick or sniff of scent - I was never
that stupid - but by a look on my face, as if every kiss it'd taken over
the past four hours had left its mark.
'I've been seeing someone...' I said.
'What?'
'I've been seeing someone...a woman.' I went on to tell her about childish
infatuation, about vows that had withered in the heat of the moment and
how shame had made an insomniac of me. I didn't want to be there, in that
kitchen, with that person. But I was. I was there with my arms dangling