Pasha Malla - The Withdrawal Method

Sitting there under the window, the computer glowing across the room, he could hear Adriane's breathing from behind the curtains. This is what their weekdays had become: dinner or the occasional outing, Adriane falling asleep hours before him, then up early the next morning and off to the counselling centre. Womack would sleep until noon, get up, drink too much coffee, and eventually make it to the computer, to his novel.

In the summer, when they had moved in together, they had bought tropical houseplants and named them: Hangy, the bushy one dangling from the ceiling above the dining table; Jules Fern, whose leafy tendrils spread out over the couch; and, guarding the bedroom, sombre and violet: Jacques Laplante. Back then, Adriane would arrive home and it would be sex, first thing, almost before she was even in the door. Her clothes would come off and so would Womack's and they would romp for a while on the bed, if they made it that far, and afterwards have a nice meal wearing only housecoats and slippers. Then there might be more sex and snacks made in the toaster oven, gobbled dripping cheese over the sink, and finally, clinging to each other in bed: Goodnight Adriane, I love you, and, Goodnight Womack, me too, and Adriane would go in bleary-eyed to work the next morning.

Now this, every night: Womack wide awake at his computer and Adriane asleep behind the curtains. This was the life of couples, he assumed, of partners — functional, pragmatic, a pattern established and repeated with someone who found it mutually tolerable. Womack thought of his parents, marching together through their marriage like soldiers in a military parade. Partners. Life.

But Womack was writing a novel, and he was doing good work. He had written more than one hundred pages. The words were coming. Sentences spilled into paragraphs spilled into chapters, while on the periphery Adriane came in and out of the apartment like the mechanical bird in a windup clock.

AT THE HOUSE where Womack volunteers, there are two other children, the boy's sister and brother: Jessica and Andrew. They are younger, nine and six, and often play The Game of Life on the den floor while Womack carries their dying older brother around nearby. Womack and the boy step over the two children and their board game, which it seems only Jessica understands and wins convincingly every time, and Womack says, Excuse us, and watches as Jessica takes advantage of the distraction to steal three five-hundred-dollar bills and a husband from the box. Nice characterization, notes Womack.

ONE COLD EVENING a week into November, Adriane came home from yoga class, which she had recently taken up and went to twice a week straight from work. Womack was at the stove, making dinner. Outside, the first snow of the season came sifting down like wet flour from the clouds. It lit briefly on the streets before melting into the grey puddle that soaked the city.

Adriane hung her coat and came into the kitchen. Through the doorway to the other room drifted the sound of the stereo in the next room, playing music. Ah, there's a good Womack, she said, nodding. My little housewife. Her face was pink; icy droplets had collected in her hair and eyelashes.

Womack laughed, stirring a creamy sauce. How were The Youth today?

The Youth were troubled, said Adriane. She pulled the Dictaphone she used for interviews from her pocket, placed it on the kitchen table.

Any good stories?

Adriane snorted, shaking her head. This again, she said.

Oh, come on, said Womack. Who am I going to tell?

Adriane started rifling through the stack of mail on the dining table. Hangy drooped down from above, lush and green. What did you do all day?

What do you think?

She fingered Hangy's foliage. Did you water the plants?

I watered them like a week ago. They're fine.

And the RSVP to Mike and Cheryl about the wedding?

Oh, come on, Ade. They know we're coming.

She held up an envelope. How about the phone bill?

Oh, shoot. Womack stopped stirring.

Adriane looked up. You're kidding, right?

I got busy.

Busy doing what? You were home all day!

Home, working. The spoon stood erect in the coagulating sauce. It's not like I'm just sitting around picking my ass.

I guess if you ever called anyone, you'd probably care if the phone got disconnected.

Was this a fight? wondered Womack. Were they fighting?

Adriane looked at him, the look of an executive evaluating an employee at a time of cutbacks and layoffs. Womack wore the cut-off sweatpants and T-shirt he had gone to bed in the night before. Adriane reached out and pocketed the Dictaphone, then spoke before he could: When was the last time you went outside?

Two nights ago. I picked up sushi, remember?

During the day. For more than errands.

Ade, this is what I do. I'm writing a book.

A novel, she corrected him, smirking.

You go to work with The Youth, I work at home. Okay?

Adriane said nothing. Womack returned to his sauce, which had developed a rubbery skin he now began to churn back in. After a minute, Adriane stood, moved to the front door, and put on her coat.

Where are you going? asked Womack.

To the ATM, said Adriane. She held up the envelope. To pay the phone bill.

WHAT THE BOY likes is doors. He and Womack stop in front of a closed door in the house, a bedroom or a closet, and the boy takes Womack's hand in his and places it on the doorknob, and Womack opens the door and the boy laughs. When Womack closes the door the boy moans and takes Womack's hand again and places it on the doorknob, and this continues until the boy becomes restless, and then they move to a new door in the house. Womack watches the boy delight in the doors and thinks to himself, I should be able to use this as a metaphor for something.

A FEW DAYS later, Adriane came home from yoga and Womack was wearing a shirt and tie. Dinner was on the table: meatloaf and green beans and rice. She disappeared into the den, turned off the music that was playing, then re-emerged in the kitchen.

What's the occasion? asked Adriane. You look like a dad.

No occasion, said Womack. But thank you.

They sat and ate.

How was yoga? he asked.

Good. You should come some time.

Ha! Womack nearly choked on a green bean. Yoga! God, like one of those New Age creeps in a unitard and a ponytail, some white guy named Starfire or Ravi. No thanks.

Adriane looked at him, opened her mouth to say something, but seemed to reconsider and instead filled it with meatloaf.

I've been thinking, said Womack, chewing.

Oh yeah?

Yeah. I've been thinking about maybe volunteering somewhere. You know, getting out and doing something, getting involved. In the community. With people.

Adriane took a sip of water, put the glass back down, waited.

Maybe something with kids, Womack said.

That's a great idea, said Adriane. Womack detected something in her voice, though: hesitancy, maybe. Doubt?

After dinner, Adriane washed the dishes while Womack retreated to his computer. He took off his tie and typed and deleted and typed some more. Adriane did paperwork at the dining table, the murmur of voices playing from the Dictaphone as she made her transcriptions. Eventually she came into the den, rubbing her eyes, tape recorder in hand.

I'm pooped, she told Womack. Stood there while he stared at the computer screen.

He looked up. Sure, he said. I'm just going to finish this bit, okay?

Adriane turned and disappeared between the curtains. Womack could hear the whisper of clothes coming off and pajamas going on. And then the bedroom light clicking off and the bedside lamp clicking on. He typed these two sentences into his computer.

I'll come kiss you goodnight, Womack called, cutting and pasting the pajama line into another section of his novel. Let me know when you're in bed.