Stateless 3: How the light gets in (Interlude 1)
She's perched in a white wicker chair, bare arms around her knees. Beyond her the sea is still dark, edged with sparkling shards of gold and red. A cup of tea sits forgotten on the table by her elbow. Behind her the condo's little bedroom is swaddled in shadows. A tune she can't quite remember drifts along the surface of her thoughts, the soft sound of Adam's breathing an even counterpoint.
He's a light sleeper, but he loathes the early hours. He lies awake into the night when he thinks she's asleep. Listening to her breathe. He never looks tired in the morning, so she hasn't mentioned it. During the day she catches him memorizing her face, the sound of her voice. Like he's creating a memorial in his head while she's still here.
She wonders what Adam left behind to be with her. She knows the facts of his life but not the reality. It's as if he was born when they met at Joe's bar. It's a big responsibility, being the spark that caused such a change. She tries not to let that weigh her down. Even if she sees a confused tangle of love and dread in his eyes when he's alone, when he's with her, he's fully present.
The water shifts and brightens until it mirrors the sky. Blankets rustle behind her. Adam sighs in his sleep. Not-quite-waking-up sounds. If she's quiet he'll turn over and doze for another hour, until the sun rises enough to throw a glare over the bed.
Her tea is lukewarm but she sips it anyway. Though he rarely drinks it himself, Adam is a master of tea-lore. Peppermint or ginger to calm nausea. English tea in the morning. Green tea for health. Jasmine, for the delicate grace of it. Rosehip tea for vitamins. Thyme or eucalyptus to ease her breathing. Valerian and chamomile when she can't sleep. Some horrid mossy brew that sprouted a merry grin on his face when she wrinkled her nose at the smell.
In Paris they spent an afternoon in the tearoom of Mariage Freres, eating scones and tea-flavored jelly, drinking exotic tea from white porcelain teapots. Hibiscus-scented "Eros", smoky "Marco Polo" - she would have felt like a character in a silly romantic novel, had it not all been so... she still could not find the words to encompass dizzying reality of the experience.
Elegant tearooms aside, it hadn't all been romance. After the Grand Canyon they'd skipped over the ocean to Morocco then wandered up through Spain and France. As the weeks drifted by the flesh began melting from her, no matter what decadent food she ate. At first it felt as if her clothes were expanding in the night. As if the change was in the material, not in her body. In Barcelona her dresses began to hang on her, so Adam bought red and orange scarves to tie around her waist. They adopted the habit of siesta in Florence. They ate small meals scattered throughout the days. Adam said nothing, making adjustments to their routines before she realized she needed them. It was strange to be anticipated.
Adam shifts again, restless. She turns in her chair, turns away from the emerging dawn. Rests her arm along the curved wicker back of the chair. Props her chin up. A breeze ruffles her hair, a soft touch against her cheek. It's warm enough here that she'd left the sliding glass door to the balcony open. A hanging of green and blue glass chimes over her head.
The blanket is bunched around Adam's shins. He clings to the edge of the sheet and his face is half-buried in his pillow. A block of sunlight reaches out from the balcony and climbs the side of the bed. Wraps around the curve of Adam's hip. His fingers twitch.
A swath of dark hair curls over his forehead. His eyes flicker under the lids.
In Seacouver she'd been proud of her stoicism. She'd thought she'd passed through the fear and bitterness until Adam swept into her life. He'd been so sure.And she realized she hadn't dealt with anything at all - she'd just shut down. Withered. Donned her strength like a shell as her body rotted from the inside.
She'd hated him a little.
But he'd browbeat her address out of Joe and appeared on her doorstep with a ticket. And her seams weakened.
The bright block crept over Adam's chest, changing shape as he breathed.
They moved together through narrow, time-scuffed streets. Spent hours in spice bazaars and paper shops. Watched book-binders, cheese-makers, stomped and squished dark grapes beneath their feet. Split apart in museums, following their separate interests, then meeting up again to show each other what they'd found.
As they traveled Adam eased out of his too-careful attention. The gawkiness slipped away, like he'd shed a skin.
All of her bravery, her stiff resolve, broke apart.
She should hate him for that.
He stirs, shifts onto his back, and the sun-shape divides his face into daybreak and shadow. He turns his head toward the light, toward her.
Her bitterness, her anger, they haven't fully left her. She doubts they will. Not while she can see the mourning to come when he looks at her.
The sun is hot on the back of her neck, and none of that matters. She's unfurling. Becoming.
Adam blinks, squints against the brightness. Then he yawns and props his head up on one hand.
Her smile is reflected back to her, and she opens a little more.
There
is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in.
Leonard
Cohen