Chapter Two

He pauses in the doorway. She is not asleep.

The melancholy notes of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata hang in the air, and the blue glow of the CD player's digital display faintly illuminates her form, perched in the low window seat. She is a silhouette against the black glass.

He knows without seeing her face that she's been crying. "Julie."

She shifts, but does not turn to look at him. A glint of light reflects from the wineglass cradled limply in her hands. Just a few swallows of dark liquid remain.

Once, he would have gone to her, he knows. Would have knelt beside her, cradled her face in his hands, kissed the tears away and promised that it would be okay. But that was before the cutting words and awful silences, before this thing they couldn't get through and couldn't get past. Now he just stands awkwardly in the doorway, bracing himself for whatever will come next.

When at last she speaks, her voice is hard. "Why not, James?"

He flinches. It's going to be this fight again, the one he can't ever win, can't even argue, because he can't explain it to himself, let alone to her. He can only stand there and let her hate him.

A hand comes up to rub the back of his neck and he takes a few steps into the elegantly appointed room. He sighs wearily. She wants a better answer, is entitled to a better answer, but he can only give the one he has. "I don't know. I just can't."

She is silent for a long moment, and then the dam breaks. Her voice sounds like the words are tearing at her throat. "Oh God, James, I can't bear it. I can't."

Her grief breaks his immobility, and he is crossing the room before he thinks about it. He kneels beside her and reaches for her, then hesitates, afraid of her reaction. Her face is twisted in agony, eyes clenched shut, and he loathes himself for doing this to her. Finally he touches her knee. As if that simple contact had upset whatever fragile balance had been holding her upright, she collapses against him, sobbing helplessly into his shoulder. He takes the wineglass and puts it aside, then wraps his arms around her, pulling her close. His cheek comes to rest against the top of her head as he murmurs a soft litany of comfortless words. "Oh, Julie. Oh, my very dear. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…"

He holds her for a long time, while she weeps for the child he can't bring himself to give her. When she begins to quiet, he reaches for his handkerchief. She takes the proffered cloth and dries her face. At last, she heaves a shuddering sigh and is still, relaxed against him. Pulling back a little, he looks down at her. She lifts her head to meet his gaze. He feels like he should say something, but can't find anything left to say. Instead, he touches his lips chastely to hers, a peace offering. Her skin is salty with tears, and his heart contracts painfully. Then her mouth opens beneath his and the earthy taste of the wine is dark on his tongue. Her hands are in his hair, pulling him down, as though she could draw him close enough to erase all the distances between them.

It's like a first kiss all over again, shy and tender, but somehow demanding too. He savors it, savors her more carefully than he has in too long. Suddenly hungry to touch her, he gathers her up and stands. Four steps bring him to the bed, and he lowers her to the quilt. She lies passive as he removes her clothing, then watches him wordlessly as he removes his own. He stands next to the bed, suddenly apprehensive at what might lie beneath her silence, afraid to give her one more thing to hate him for. Then she lifts her arms to him, and the gesture of welcome is unmistakable. He stretches beside her, the length of their bodies touching, and begins to reacquaint himself with his wife.

She is too thin, all planes and angles. This is his fault, he knows, the toll of her longing and his refusal. He takes his time, telling her with hands and lips that everything will be okay. For a moment, as her breath quickens and her back arches beneath his touch, he even believes it.

When waiting another moment seems impossible, he reaches into the drawer of the nightstand. Her eyes snap open and focus on the small package in his hand. Face crumpling with renewed betrayal, she rolls onto her side, turning her back to him. Mouth set, he tears open the package and smoothes on the condom. It is not in him to give her what she wants, and he will not let her take the choice from him.

With a hand on her hip, he rolls her gently back toward him. She does not resist, but neither will she meet his eyes. Nudging apart her knees, he moves between her legs, entwines his fingers with hers above her head. Still she does not look at him. He dusts kisses across her face, mouth coming to rest beside her ear. His eyes drift shut and he feels his lashes brush against her cheek. One word is all he has, a soft exhalation. "Julie." So much in that word, and not nearly enough.

Her breath catches in her throat, and it is all the invitation she will give. He moves forward slowly, enters her. She cries out softly, and does not pull away. He makes love to her with all the tenderness he has, coaxing her pleasure. When she comes, it is silent, shuddering limbs wrapping around him and pulling him close and sending him tumbling over the edge.

After, she looks away while he disposes of the condom. When he lies back, she curls up against him, head on his shoulder and arm curved across his chest. Though she is still, the drip of hot tears onto his skin betrays her weeping. She says nothing, and neither does he.

In time, she sleeps.

He does not.