Dream of the Blue Room Read Online Free PDF Page A

the rest of his body sighed and shifted in his masculine and ungraceful sleep. Sometimes, even now, I will catch a glimpse of his hands and I will feel as undone as if we had just met, and we’d yet to share intimacies.
    He gets out of bed. “How’d you sleep?”
    “I didn’t.”
    “Why don’t you take those pills I gave you?” He heads for the shower, not waiting for an answer. His stomach looks firmer than it did when he moved out, almost too firm, like one of those guys who sell exercise equipment on Sunday morning infomercials.
    “You look different,” I say.
    “Do I?” He shuts the door behind him. The shower begins to hum.
    For the next half hour we maneuver around each other in the small cabin. I emerge from the shower, wrapped in a towel, and am looking through my suitcase when I feel Dave watching me. “What’s that?” he says, eyeing a red scratch that stretches from thigh to knee.
    “Rollerblading accident in the park.”
    “Since when do you Rollerblade?”
    “Since you left.” I almost wish he’d ask who I was skating with. If he did, I wouldn’t let on that I’d been alone. Instead, I’d try to make up some story about a guy I met at a dinner party, someone athletic, witty, and well-paid.
    “Hey,” he says, reaching out and touching the upper tip of the scratch. My heart lifts.
    “Yes?”
    “You should put some iodine on that.” Dave sits on the edge of the bed and begins lacing his boots.
    “It almost feels normal,” I say.
    “What does?”
    “This. The routine. Getting up. Dressing. Like we used to.”
    “Hmmn.”
    “It’s nice,” I say. Dave looks away, feigning great interest in his bootlaces, and I immediately feel stupid for opening myself up to him.
    He stands, tucks in his shirt, straightens his collar. “What’s it been? Two months?”
    “And four days.”
    He turns on the television and finds the English-language news. I know what that means: end of subject. “Look at that,” he says. “An earthquake in Japan. Big one. Massive damage. What I’d give.”
    He doesn’t finish his sentence, but I know what he means: what he’d give to be there, aiding in the rescue, saving people. Not here, with me. “They say there’s flooding upriver,” I offer. “Could get bad.”
    “Yeah?” He brightens, but only for a moment. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

    At 6:45 we go down to breakfast. The tables have been set with white china and gleaming silverware, linen napkins in bright blues and greens. “Table seven,” the hostess says when Dave shows her our room key. She leads us to our table, where a thin girl in red-framed eyeglasses is sipping Diet Coke from a can. “Very pleasant company,” the hostess says. “I trust you all have happy together.”
    Our pleasant company wears a white blouse that slouches off her bony shoulders. She is young, pale, and unhealthy looking, with dark circles under her eyes and fake blonde streaks in her hair. “Morning,” she says, grinning. Before we can introduce ourselves, a waiter appears with menus and two large cups of steaming coffee. There’s no sign of anything Chinese in the restaurant: no chopsticks or steaming noodles, no pots of green tea. All of the crew members have adopted western names. Our server’s name tag says Matt Dillon in bright yellow letters.
    Pleasant company points to the name tag. “Like the actor?”
    Matt Dillon beams. “Yes! I like very much The Flamingo Kid . Also Rumblefish.” He takes our orders, promising to be back soon. The girl turns to us. “I’m Stacy. Just graduated from Michigan State with an art degree. My parents sent me here to paint landscapes. What’s your story?”
    Dave reaches out to shake her hand. “I’m Dave. This is Jenny. We’re on vacation from New York.”
    “What do you two do?”
    “Right now I manage a clothing boutique in Manhattan,” I say, unfolding my napkin and placing it in my lap, trying to avoid further conversation on the