The Shape of Desire Read Online Free PDF Page A

they might be like.
    W ork is endless. I actually nod off during the staff meeting my boss holds right after lunch, when my coworkers and I are all at our dullest. Fourteen of us are grouped around a conference table meant to hold ten, and the temperature inside the room must be close toeighty. Kathleen is sitting near the head of the table, taking notes by hand. The bruises on her face have turned from purple to a greenish-yellow, still visible under her makeup. She is wearing a new ring on her right hand, a star sapphire flanked by diamonds.
    “That sumbitch gave it to her last night,” Ellen whispers to me when I draw her attention to the new jewelry. “She was walking around this morning showing it off to everyone. ‘See what Ritchie bought me! Isn’t it beautiful?’ I said, ‘Kathleen, honey, why’d he get you something so nice? Is it your anniversary? I
know
your birthday’s not till February.’ And she said, happy as you please, ‘We had an argument Monday night and he just wanted to say he was sorry.’ And I said, ‘Well, sugar, maybe next time you ought to let him carve your face open with a butcher knife. Then he’ll owe you a
car
.’”
    I put a hand to my mouth to muffle my laugh. “What did she say then?”
    “She told me I was a stupid bitch and to mind my own business.”
    “No, she didn’t.”
    “Well, she just turned around and walked away, but I knew what she was thinking.”
    “Maybe he’ll be nice to her for a while.”
    “Well, then, happy days for sure.”
    When the meeting
finally
comes to its conclusion, we all jostle toward the door, and I find myself unexpectedly falling in step beside Kathleen. Almost before I know the words are forming in my mouth, I say, “I’ve been admiring your ring. Is it new?”
    Her face lights up. She extends her right hand so I can see her fingers. “Isn’t it beautiful? My husband gave it to me.”
    I don’t know how to answer. I finally say, “I’m sure he loves you very much.”
    Ellen is behind me, so I can’t see her face, but I know she’s rolling her eyes. The thing is, he probably
does
love her, in a tortured andunhealthy way. The question isn’t whether she loves him back, but whether she
should
. The question is: Is he
safe
to love?
    D ante wants to go out to dinner, even though it’s Friday night, which means restaurants will be crowded. We pick a small place with outdoor seating that’s airy and open enough to keep Dante from getting edgy. Although it’s mid-September, the days are still fairly warm, and the heat lamps strategically set up around the perimeter of the patio keep the area perfectly comfortable at night.
    “Can I get you anything to drink?” our waitress asks. She’s about twenty-five, pretty and buxom, with shiny brown hair pulled back in a ponytail and lipstick that looks so much like bubblegum I wonder if it came with a miniature comic wrapping.
    “How about a beer?” Dante says.
    She reels off the selections and he picks some kind of heavy Irish stout. I ask for lemonade. Dante makes a face at me as soon as the waitress leaves.
    “I’m not going to get
drunk
, you know,” he says. “You don’t have to choose nonalcoholic beverages so you can be the designated driver.”
    He loves to drive; whenever he’s in town and we go anywhere together, he automatically slips behind the steering wheel. I’m usually nervous for the first fifteen minutes, wondering if his fine motor coordination has deteriorated during his travels; but, so far anyway, he doesn’t seem to have lost a jot of his competence.
    “I don’t feel like drinking,” I say. “Alcohol messes up my sleep patterns, and I haven’t gotten much sleep this week as it is.”
    “Well, I’ll only be around a few more days,” he says. “You can catch up next week.”
    He says the words so casually; he must have no idea how they lacerate my heart. “You’ll make it through Sunday, won’t you?” I say, tryingto joke. “Otherwise, I guess