Free The Shape of Desire by Sharon Shinn Page B

self-esteem issues. “How long have you guys been married?”
    “Seven years, but we dated for two years before we got married.” She smiles again, looking happy. “I met him at a baseball game. I was there with three of my girlfriends and none of them knew anything about sports.
They
didn’t care—they just wanted to drink beer and meet guys. But I was trying to figure out the game. Ritchie was in the seat next to me, and when he saw that I was really interested, he started explaining everything to me. You know, what’s a sacrifice fly, what’s a ground-rule double, when do you try to bunt. He was really sweet.” Now she laughs. “I was the only one of my friends who wasn’t trying to pick somebody up that night, and I was the only one who actually found a date.”
    I’m not really sure what to say in response to that. This is the longest conversation I’ve ever had with Kathleen, and already I feel it’s been extended beyond its natural life. “Well, good for you” is all I come up with, but she looks pleased.
    “What about you?” she asks. “I’ve never heard if
you
are dating anyone.”
    She could hardly have picked a topic I would be less interested in discussing, though on a normal day I’d have done a better job of dissembling. I have been lying about Dante for fifteen years; it’s become second nature to me now. I realized a long time ago, with a certain amazement, that no matter how important something is in your life, no matter how huge it is, how much space it takes up in your heart and in your thoughts, unless you mention it to other people, they have no idea it exists. They cannot simply look at you and realize,
Oh, Maria is in love with a shape-shifter.
They cannot even realize,
Oh, Maria’s in love with a strange, unpredictable, unreliable fellow, and he’s mysteriously disappeared again, and her heart is broken.
Unless you tell them, they simply don’t notice when something is wrong.
    That’s not entirely true, of course. Ellen has sharp eyes and she can usually guess when I’m moping over Dante, though she doesn’t seem to have put together the cause of my moodiness; she just knows I have down days on a recurring basis. My family members, who see me more erratically, have proved easier to fool. I have perfected the art of bright and airy conversation when I’m with them for holidays and birthdays and random outings. I have learned how to conceal my true emotions.
    As I say, it has been astonishingly easy. This has led me to wonder what secrets everyone else must be nursing behind cheerful or weary or unemotional masks. If I can hide the fact that half of my waking thoughts are consumed by my passion for a mythological creature, if I never mention his name at all to people who think they know me very well, how big could their own lies be? Are they serial killers, foreign spies, members of the Witness Protection Program? Have they been transgendered, bitten by vampires, kidnapped by aliens? Do they molesttheir daughters, have affairs with their neighbors’ sons, give blow jobs to strangers while their spouses record on video?
    No possibility seems too outlandish. And I would not blame any of them for refusing to spill their secrets.
    I have hesitated too long in answering Kathleen’s question. It’s possible my eyes have watered; at any rate, they’re burning. Kathleen’s delicate face puckers into a worried frown. “Maria?” she says uncertainly. “I’m sorry. Did I upset you?”
    “Oh—” I say, and I can hear the thickness in my voice.
Fucking tears.
I’m scrambling to think of a story that will explain my sudden despair while not giving anything away. “There used to be this guy, you know? And every once in a while he—he e-mails me. Or sends a birthday card. And it’s hard. Maybe I’m still in love with him, but he’s moved on. And for a while I think I’m over him, but then, there it is, another e-mail in my in-box.” I rub a finger over my eyelids. “I