A Brief Affair by Alex Miller

Author:Alex Miller [Alex Miller]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Allen & Unwin
Published: 2022-09-15T00:00:00+00:00

She opened the back door and went in. She stood, absorbing the warmth and stillness of the house. The familiar smell of Tom’s reliable leek and potato soup in the kitchen. From where she was standing she could see him. He was sitting on the couch in front of the wood stove in the living room. He was asleep, his head fallen back, his mouth open. He was developing a small paunch. A bottle of their Blackjack shiraz was on the table, an empty wineglass beside it. She supposed both children were in their beds. A night-bird repeatedly called the single note nature had given to it. She went into the living room and stood in front of Tom and looked down at him. He had been reading last weekend’s copy of The Age. The pages of the newspaper were scattered on the floor at his feet. His feet were encased in the weird knitted raw wool socks with leather soles that he’d bought at the pharmacy. They were bunched at his ankles like ballet dancers’ leg warmers. Margie had teased him about them. Fran turned away and was about to tiptoe to the bedroom and get changed when Tom opened his eyes and sat up.

‘I didn’t want to wake you.’

He rubbed his face with his hands and got up. ‘You were quick.’

‘You’ve been asleep.’

‘I’ll heat the soup.’ He paused on his way to the kitchen and turned back to her. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m exhausted.’ She spoke calmly, and might have been saying, I like your socks. He was waiting to hear more. ‘It’s been another one of those days. That’s all. I won’t bore you. Go and get the soup. I’ll get out of these things.’

He stood, considering her.

‘What?’ she said.

‘I wonder,’ he said, ‘if you’re ever going to tell me you’ve had a satisfying day in that job of yours?’

‘Probably not.’

‘You used to. You used to love it. Remember?’

No, she didn’t remember. She refused to remember. She went on and opened the bedroom door and went in and closed it behind her. She had been naive then. Why did her home sometimes demand from her the last vestiges of her patience for the day? She had nothing more to call on. Nothing more to give. She sat on the bed. There was a persistent high-pitched whistling somewhere. She wiggled her finger in the left ear then the right. The tuneless whistling went up a half-tone. She was sure she was forgetting something important but knew she wasn’t going to be able to think of what it was. Her brain had decided to shut down. Whoever was in charge had closed the gate and run away. You couldn’t blame them.

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