Free Relativity by Antonia Hayes Page A

sat at a bar overlooking Campbell’s Cove. Across the water was a row of identical storehouses, a sandstone procession of triangular rooftops. Claire twisted her napkin with her hands and ordered another drink.
    â€œTell me about being a ballerina,” Simon said.
    Claire tried to laugh off the request. “It was so long ago. I don’t really remember anymore.”
    She knew all about being cast as that mystical object—the dancing figurine in the music box spinning on its axis. It used to annoy her, the fetish and fixation that went hand in hand with her career. She wanted to be taken seriously, to have her dedication and discipline acknowledged, not be degraded to some spectacle of bodices and tulle.
    Mark never saw Claire that way; they shared this unspoken drive. He loved her perfectionism and hunger, how she’d practice and practice until her hips crumbled and feet bled. He was just as obsessive about his work, chasing some elusive original idea so he could challenge existing theories, change the world. Ambition and mastery—that was the foundation of their relationship. Their common ground.
    â€œDo you miss it?” Simon asked.
    â€œNot really,” she lied.
    â€œI’m sure nobody could take their eyes off you when you were onstage.” He leaned forward and touched her elbow.
    Claire felt embarrassed by how much she enjoyed the thrill of being desired. It seemed trivial, superficial, but there was something restorative about Simon’s attention. Like coming up for air. Nobody had touched her since Mark. In those solitary years since their divorce, Claire knew she was lonely. But she’d instinctively brush the constant hum of loneliness away, as if it were a whining mosquito buzzing at her ear.
    Under the table, Simon pushed his knee against hers. “Would you like another drink?”
    Claire shook her head. She already felt a little drunk. “Maybe we should go.”
    He seemed to take that as a challenge. “Or maybe we could stay?” His proposition hung in the air for a moment, resting between them, waiting for someone to react.
    Something inside Claire just wanted to run with it, to be choreographed, to be pliable, to have someone else tell her the sequence of steps. It was unlike her to be this passive, but perhaps that was the point. She knew she’d play a role for Simon—the star, the ingénue—where embodying his fantasy was like wearing a mask. He didn’t know her; she didn’t need to be herself. Getting into character meant shedding her genuine skin. It was anesthetic.
    Î©
    IT WAS ONLY MEANT to be a one-night stand. Simon was clever, made Claire laugh, but he was such an unexpected choice for a lover. She enjoyed speaking to him about politics, sparring over word games, but any conversation that wasn’t flirtatious felt strained. She couldn’t let her guard down. And it was such a relief he went home to someone else. Even though sour rushes of guilt often shot up the back of her throat, Claire didn’t feel like a threat to their marriage. She kept Simon at arm’s length; she couldn’t get hurt that way. Even though Simon was married, Claire was more unavailable. Her heart had been trampled enough.
    Occasionally they’d meet after work at the Observatory Hotel. The bleached hotel light—snow-colored and cool Egyptian cotton sheets, pale silver embossed wallpaper—made the trysts feel incandescent. But there was always something wretched about these rendezvous, the wide gloom of the king-sized bed and sterile modern amenities. After the white heat of sex cooled, their mood did too. While it was still exciting—though it had become monotonous, routine—Claire could never push aside the colorless melancholy of those long Thursday evenings.
    Simon ran his hand down Claire’s back. They were both naked and she hated this part: the exposed vulnerability that came after sex. She sat up in