The Bleeding Heart Read Online Free PDF Page A

turned (what ease! what naturalness!) and glanced up at the overhead rack, and stood and reached for her bag and briefcase and he stood to get his bag and coat and the train braked hard and she staggered and he was behind her, holding her, and he reached up over her head and pulled down her cases (show-off! I could have done it myself! Did you think I couldn’t?) and put them on the seat and for some reason she was still standing there and he put his arms around her waist, gathering his hands together in the front as if he had to tie them up or as if to tie her up. And something inside her sank, sank, and she let it sink, she surrendered, she let herself lean against him just a little, just a breath, as the train halted its way to a full stop.
    The train stopped. Doors clanked open, luggage was bumping against the corridor walls, shadows of people passed the compartment window. They still stood there, his arms around her from behind, she with her head tilted back very slightly, her lips parted slightly, relaxed, and she knew she had to regain control, had to move. And so she did, a good girl still; she moved her body slightly, just stiffened it, and he released her and she reached for her purse and reached towards her bags, but he snatched them up from behind her, and his arms were trembling (or was it her arms?) and he picked up his bag and coat and stalked out of the compartment expecting her to follow (me Tarzan you Jane?) and of course she did since he had her bags.
    People were all around, greeting, being greeted, rushing to appointments, looking for a porter, and noises swirled around them as she followed him out of the train and onto the platform, and edged around the clusters of people, and to the escalator, and down into the station, and out, out into the cool Oxford afternoon.

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    O N THE STREET SHE stopped and turned to face him. “Thank you,” she said formally, holding out her hand for her cases. She hoped he could not detect the tremulousness she felt: she felt like a child pleading with her father, begging for something.
    He simply looked at her.
    “I go up to the Banbury Road,” she explained. Explaining what?
    “Yes,” he agreed, and began walking. She followed, she felt like a child trotting after her parent. He simply strode off. Damned male, sure of himself. She felt like shouting at him: What makes you think you can treat me like this! What made him think it was, obviously, that he could. She could dismiss him easily if she wanted to. All she had to do was get annoyed, or even just formal and controlled, ask for his credentials, inform him that she no longer desired his company. It wasn’t true, though: she wanted his company. But she did not like feeling she was being preempted.
    They did not look at each other as they walked toward the Banbury Road. What I can do, her mind rambled on, is turn and make polite conversation. Do you live in Oxford? Ah, the big house on the corner, the one with all the little trikes outside? How nice. Why don’t you and your wife stop in for drinks with me sometime? Lovely day it turned out to be after all. Such a beastly morning, wasn’t it. But perhaps we’ll have more rain later, don’t you think? So kind of you to carry my bags. (They’re so awfully heavy.)
    Yes, I could do that. End it fast.
    She remained silent.
    Where does he live, do you suppose? Carrying a good-sized suitcase. His Yes sounded more American than British, although yes was hardly much to go on. The suitcase would hold enough clothes for a few days, a week even. If he didn’t live in Oxford, maybe he was looking for a place to stay.
    A jolt: she paused in her stride. N OT WITH ME ! her mind cried, startled and appalled at a possibility she hadn’t considered. Nothing had happened, yet she already felt invaded, crowded, imposed upon. No, no. He must already have a hotel. He’d have to be a fool to come here unbooked at term time. It did not occur to her to ask him.
    Yes, he was an American