Michele Forbes - Ghost Moth

He has every right to be even a little frosty with me, Katherine was thinking, as she had obviously forgotten that they had made arrangements to meet up, but George rose immediately with a smile and offered her a chair.

“Sorry.” Her voice sounded strangely timorous now, after the laughing, after the singing, after the cold ice cream. She looked slightly confused. “I forgot about tonight. I had a costume fitting…. It took longer than I thought…. I. .”

“No, no.” George’s voice soothed the rising ripples of apology. “No, we didn’t make any plans for tonight, Katherine. I just called by because I wanted to see you.”

She was stopped in her tracks.

“Oh,” she said.

“So,” George continued tenderly, “you’ve just come from the costume fitting? That was a late one.”

Katherine looked at George, at his kind face and his gentle eyes, and heard herself say, “Yes.”

She walked slowly over to the chair by the parlor table that George had offered her and sat down, absentmindedly brushing a thin sprinkle of sugar dust from the folds of her skirt onto the parquet floor of the parlor. The soles of her shoes slid across the tiny, glistening grains, as though the floor were slipping from under her.

Her mother, having returned from the kitchen, was wearing a slightly embarrassed smile and was twisting the beads of her necklace in polite agitation.

“What a long time you had to wait for this young lady, George!” Mrs. Fallon said, shaking her head. With a sudden impatience, she turned to Katherine. “Katherine, do you want some tea?”

“No thanks, Mummy.”

“And you’ll hardly want a sandwich this late.” Her mother was giving her the answer with the question.

“No, I’m fine, thank you.”

“Well, I’m hitting the hay now. Frank will be home in a minute. Vera has already gone to bed. George, give my regards to your mother and father.”

“I certainly will, Mrs. Fallon. Good night.” George remained standing.

“Good night, George.” Then quietly to Katherine: “You shouldn’t have kept that poor man waiting so long.”

Katherine lifted her head to her mother, hoping her face would not betray the confusion she was feeling inside.

“Good night, Mummy.”

“And say a decade of the Rosary as usual before you go to bed,” Mrs. Fallon offered quietly.

“Don’t worry, Mummy, I will,” said Katherine.

Mrs. Fallon gave a series of small head nods, then closed the parlor door behind her with a gentle click.

George immediately moved over to Katherine and swept his hand against her hair, then kissed her on the forehead, taking in the smell of her skin and the unfamiliar odors that now perfumed her. He pulled his chair closer to her and sat down. He took her hand, beginning, absentmindedly, to stroke his fingers along the elongated soft hollows between her knuckles.

“You must be tired.”

“No,” she replied simply. She looked at George. His black hair was brushed back from his forehead in a smooth, soft wave, his deep brown eyes each ringed with a tired gray smudge. She removed her hand from George’s gentle hold.

The silence between them hung heavily. She could not help feeling that she should not have told George a lie about why she had been late in getting home. The lie now sat like another presence in the room, expecting to be fed.

Then George smiled.

“Talk to me,” he said. She was being uncharacteristically quiet. She wanted to say so much to George, but her mind was strangely still. And something within her began to feel a little desperate. Familiarity defined her relationship with George. They had been together for two years and at this stage could almost predict each other’s behavior. George was a good man, considerate and thoughtful and a little afraid of passion. But when she had been with Tom that night, everything had felt buoyant and possible and vital.

She breathed deeply to blot out these thoughts of Tom and then opened her eyes wider to George; she did not want to exclude him. He reached and squeezed her hand, which was now resting on her lap. His touch warmed her; his tender confidence reassured her. If she ignored the lie, she told herself, if she chose not to feed it, it would go away.

“How did your fitting go?” George was rubbing the tips of his fingers across her nails.

“The fitting?” she said almost sharply. She could sense her heart beating faster. She had spoken too quickly, she realized. Her voice sounded too abrupt, her tone too shrill, too defensive.

“Yes. Your fitting.” George said slowly and emphatically. “You said you were late because of a costume fitting.”

“The fitting went fine.” She was shaking her head as she spoke, as if to denote that there was nothing, no, nothing different or unusual to report. “It’s all just a mock-up at the moment. There’s no real costume yet, but some adjustments to the sleeves need to be made, and to the length and to the waistband, and the neckline needed reshaping, and something at the back needs realigning; that was all.” She was shaking her head again.

“Not a lot needs changing, then?” George retorted wryly.

She looked at George, unable to respond to his irony. Her forehead creased a little. She could feel her mouth filling with saliva. She wanted to swallow.

“Seems like a lot of carry-on just for a show,” he continued.

“George. . I’ve something to tell you,” she mumbled, unsure of how much she wanted to tell.

George swept his hand across her hair again.

“You look a little tired, Katherine.”

“I’m fine.”

“What is it?” George, although cautious, could not, however, hide the impatience in his voice. “Is everything all right?”

“Fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“You seem a little—”

“A little what?” She looked at George as she cut him short. Her tone was defiant now.

“You just seem a little annoyed at something, at me perhaps.”

“Why should I be annoyed at you?” She looked at George with such coldness that it took him aback. He felt himself automatically pulling away from her.

And everything seemed to be falling around her. The nicer George was being to her, the more difficult she was finding it to tell him what she wanted to tell him and the more hardened she grew. Something has altered. Let me tell you. We are altered. . .

From below them, they could hear the last customers leaving the fish and chip shop, muffled voices traveling down the street and then vanishing into the evening. The fug that had risen from the constant frying of fish and chips throughout the day and had hung between her and George as they sat in the parlor now settled heavily on the furniture, on the tablecloth, and on their clothes, with a spreading, greasy odor. George stood up from his chair and reached forward to lift the teacups from the table. He was suddenly feeling dispirited now and thought it best that he should go.

“I’ll clear those away. Just leave them.” Katherine’s voice was sharp.

“It’s no trouble, Katherine.”

“No, please, leave them.” She was biting the air.

“Just what is it that has you so angry?”

Katherine fell silent for a few moments as she tried to gather her thoughts.

“I’m not angry — you’re right, I’m tired, that’s all.” She lifted her head to look at George.

“What do you want me to say, Katherine?” George could not disguise the chagrin in his voice.

“I don’t know. Nothing. There’s nothing to say.” For the first time that evening, her tone was imploratory.

George looked down at her hands, which were clenched into fists on her lap. He lifted each hand in turn and pulled the fingers gently open.