Rain patters gently against the kitchen's curtain wall glass as we eat. Usually the rhythmic ticking of an analog had been the only noise that could break the silence between us. But the clock no longer exists; this morning, after three years, it simply fell from its place on the wall. The fragile cover glass broke into a thousand pieces on the travertine floor. I swept up the broken pieces in silence and threw them in the garbage can while you, Andrei, stood by without lifting a finger.
There are more ways of being silent than there are words. Words have limits. They are created to frame things—descriptions, messages, thoughts. Silence is endless and as blurred as the world on a rainy day such as now.
Meanwhile the sound of the rain has changed. Now it knocks on the curtain wall like a stormy guest at the double doors. Knife and fork clatter as we work our meals with them. The noise reminds me of a high-pitched screeching. Maybe of a bird caught by a tiger. For a moment I wonder if I should share this thought with him.
But at the same moment I realize that I don't want that at all, and probably couldn't either. Lately, my throat has been feeling like a bike that's rusting more and more, and when I speak, my voice sounds like it: creaky, strained. Like something that has not been considered for a long time.
Does he still remember the history of that clock? The one that ended up in our trash can this morning? It was one of our numerous wedding gifts, from a Muscovite friend who is now as forgotten as the fire in us for each other. At least I think there was such a thing once... Why else would this insignificantly beautiful, golden ring have gotten to my finger? Sometimes I catch myself wondering why I am still wearing it. Its cold metal has long since lost its meaning to me. It feels like someone else's ring; and in principle it is.
I know I've made the decision I've been putting off for a long time. Just like a tree being felled in a lonely forest, no one saw our marriage fall.
Suddenly he starts to speak. "Had another eventful day at the industry today. ... How did yours go?"
I'm amazed that he suddenly started making conversation, and I wonder if he haven't noticed yet that the ice between us is too thick to be broken through.
"My day ... was all right." An appraisal of a Monet before a wedding auction. I imagine the happy couple's amorous beams would fill a whole room when they display it. "As always, actually."
He nods once. Did I mention that during this conversation—if you can call it that—we didn't even glance at each other. Our gazes remained firmly fixed on our plates like a drowning person's on a lifebuoy. It feels strange to talk to him. He feels strange.
The legs of our chairs scrape against the floor. We both get up. Dinner is over, the only time of the day we spend together. Lately. Or for a long time. I don't know anymore. Not that it matters now.
When I reach to do the washing up, he suddenly takes me in his arms. When was the last time he did this? I cannot remember. In any case, I remember it less beautifully, less familiarly, less pleasantly than those earlier, doting months. Now it feels like trying to put two pieces of a puzzle together that are so warped they just don't fit together anymore.
I gently break away from the embrace and move to put away the broom that had been taken out to sweep away the clock's broken pieces. I know that he knows what we both have known for a long time: never again.
Silence fills the room as he unbuttons his cuffs and undoes his belt, advancing into his bedroom across from mine. The ensuing silence, despite the lashing rain, is deafening and lingers on for much longer.