Free Wife Living Dangerously by Sara Susannah Katz Page B

listening two weeks ago when I told him about the whole Mendelsohn controversy.
    (2) The question has a subtext. It is Michael’s way, conscious or not, of diminishing my work on the committee; the hidden
     word is “nutty,” as in “what kind of nutty committee is this anyway?”
    Though Michael says he’s proud of my career, I sometimes wonder whether he believes that his commitments are implicitly important
     while mine are more like hobbies and inherently dispensable. This has been a live issue between us since we were newly married.
     While my husband was in law school, I worked at a school for dyslexic kids during the day and taught English as a second language
     four nights a week, yet I was the one expected to stay home and wait for the electrician.
    “Never mind,” I say. “I’ll put the kids in extended day.”
    “Okay, sweetie. Catch up with you later.” Pause. “Hey, listen. I’m thinking, maybe we can get the kids to bed early tonight.
     How does that sound?”
    It sounds like a fine idea in theory but nearly impossible given my older daughter’s circadian rhythms that invariably manage
     to foil our sexual intimacy. Only after 10:00 P.M. does Lucy ponder the existential questions: Why was I born? What happens after we die? How long before I can get my ears
     pierced? Only after 10:00 P.M. does Lucy feel motivated to sort all of Flatsy Patsy’s tiny flat plastic accessories, or plan her next birthday party, or
     examine her body for birthmarks—all of which somehow require my counsel, admittedly given freely while my husband sighs and
     waits and, eventually, falls asleep.
    By 4:00 P.M. I am climbing the steps to Whitehead Hall, wondering if my marriage is disintegrating or I’m just in the throes of premenstrual
     syndrome. I tell myself: I’m happily married. I’m happily married. I’m happily married. I’m happily married. I’m happily married.
     The mantra bellows in my head as I walk down the waxed tile corridor that smells strongly of Pine-Sol and old wood, as I heave
     open the heavy door, as I step into the cavernous conference room, as I see Evan Delaney sitting at the table, smiling at
     me. DEAR GOD, I’M HAPPILY MARRIED.
    Evan jumps to his feet when he spots me and gestures for me to sit beside him. “You got roped into this too?” he whispers,
     and I can feel his warm cinnamony breath on my neck.
    I see that he has been doodling, not the assertive squares within squares that my husband draws in the white space around
The New York Times
crossword puzzle, but little cartoon faces, the kind you learn to draw when you’re a kid. A puppy with big floppy ears and
     whiskers. A bald-headed guy with horn-rimmed glasses and bulbous nose. I can’t explain it, but these silly little pictures
     make me want to kiss him. I’M HAPPILY MARRIED. I’M HAPPILY MARRIED. I’M HAPPILY MARRIED. I’M HAPPILY MARRIED. I’M HAPPILY
     MARRIED. I’M HAPPILY MARRIED.
    “Yeah, they roped me in too.” I try to sound resentful of this new obligation, but suddenly I am not sorry that I agreed to
     serve on the Mendelsohn mural committee. I suspect that Evan Delaney isn’t sorry either. He eases back in his chair and moves
     his arm a fraction of an inch closer to mine; he isn’t touching me, but he is definitely in my air space, and I think I can
     feel the heat radiating off that sinewy arm, though I may be imagining it. It may just be my own heat, is what I’m saying.
     I don’t let myself inhale the scent of him. I don’t let myself see how his dark curly chest hair peeks above the crew neck
     of his soft gray sweater, don’t let myself notice his strong fingers, the raised bumps where he’d shaved his jawline this
     morning, the flecks of gold in his softly hooded green eyes, the fringe of dark lashes. No, I do not notice anything at all
     about Evan Delaney.
    Art history professor Donatella Pope, who has a mustache and smells like chicken salad, stands at the head of the long, highly