Karen Van Der Zee - An Inconvenient Husband

She moved over further to the very edge of the mattress, feeling the T-shirt twisted up around her waist. She yanked it down as she struggled out of bed. It was four-thirteen, she read on the digital clock next to the bed. In the bathroom she drank a glass of water, wishing she could just walk out of the place, away from Blake, away from the nightmare of being with him again. Her eyes in the mirror looked dark and huge in her pale face.

How could this possibly have happened? How could she still feel like this about him after all these years, knowing it was useless, knowing he could never give her what she really needed ...

She closed her eyes, feeling tears burn behind her lids, seeing his face, the humor in his eyes. Maybe it would have been better if he hadn’t controlled himself, if they had made love. Then at least she could have had the comfort of not having been the only one losing control.

She groaned inwardly. What was she thinking!

A knock on the door. “Nicky?” Blake’s voice, low but insistent.

“Go away,” she said thickly, remembering she hadn’t locked the door. “Leave me alone.”

He opened the door. He had a kain wrapped around his waist, a sarong with colorful stripes. “Come back to bed.”

She blinked away the tears. “Don’t come barging in here!”

“Just making sure you’re not trying to sleep in the tub,” he said casually. “You can have the bed. I’ll do some work. I’m usually up early anyway.”

She knew that. She knew too damn much for her own comfort. She stared down at her hands gripping the cold edge of the sink, gathering her composure. She raised her head and looked at him. “All right, thank you.” Spoken like a lady. She was proud of herself.

Nothing more was said. She slid back into bed, and he sat at the desk and began to type on his laptop computer. The staccato rhythm was oddly relaxing—a dry click-clack that had nothing to do with emotion and desire.

Bright sunlight awoke her, streaming over her face and body. She struggled against it briefly, turning around and burying her face in the pillow. But consciousness claimed her and with it the knowledge of reality. She lay still and opened her eyes. Blake had pulled back the curtains, and was pouring coffee at the small room-service table that must have been wheeled in while she was still asleep. She’d been dead to the world.

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