Free Long Made Short by Stephen Dixon

breakfast table for their son and
     her. He pressed into her, put a hand on her breast through the nightgown, other hand
     between her legs. She had panties on. He hadn’t known. He started to pull them down.
     “What, huh?” she said, as if startled awake. “Don’t, dammit. I said I didn’t want
     to and I certainly feel less like it now. Do it to yourself if you’re so horny, but
     with me it’d be like with a corpse.” “A corpse isn’t warm.” “Please?” “And I’m not
     horny; I just want you.” “Sure,” she said. “Oh yeah, you bet, oh boy,” and moved a
     few inches away from him. “Bloody Christ,” he said and got out of bed. “Bitch,” he
     said softly but he thought loud enough for her to hear. She didn’t respond, eyes were
     closed, she looked asleep. Faking it maybe, but who cares? They didn’t talk at breakfast,
     which he ate standing up at the stove, she at the table he’d set. And he didn’t look
     at her when he left for work. Put on his coat, got his briefcase, kissed his son,
     left. The previous day during dinner they’d had an argument. Her mother had said to
     him on the phone “Are you treating my daughter nicely? Remember, she’s our only child,
     one in a zillion, and I always want her treated well because nobody in the world deserves
     it better.” “Have you asked either of us if she’s been treating me nicely?” he said.
     “What a question,” she said. Then “Let me talk to her if she’s there—it’s why I called.”
     His wife later asked him what he’d said that made her mother so mad, and it started.
     “She’s too nosy sometimes and she expects sensible gentle answers to these impossible,
     often hostile questions, and then she dismisses me as if I’m her houseboy-idiot.”
     “You don’t know how to talk to her and you never liked her and you don’t know how
     to act civilly to anyone you don’t like.” “Is that right,” he said, and so on. That
     morning he’d wanted to make love and they did. After, she said “Nothing really gets
     started with me when we make it lately, and I end up so frustrated. You—do you mind
     my saying this?—for the most part do it too quickly. You have to warm me up more and
     concentrate on the right spots, especially if you suddenly come on me unprepared,
     like when I’m asleep.” “Listen, we’re all responsible for our own orgasms,” he said.
     “The hell we are.” “I didn’t mean it the way it might have come out, but we are to
     a certain degree, don’t you think?” “You meant it and you show it,” she said. “Just
     get yours, buster, and let whoever it is burn.” “What ‘whoever it is’?” he said. “It’s
     only you.” “Don’t bullshit you don’t know what I mean,” she said, and so on. The previous
     day they fought about something, he forgets what: that she’s been letting the gas
     gauge go almost to empty, that she took his stapler the other day and now he can’t
     find it, that her personal trash in the bathroom wastebasket is starting to stink
     and it’s her responsibility to dump it in the can outside or at least tie it up and
     stick it in the kitchen garbage bag. “So I forgot.” “So from now on remember.” “Don’t
     fight,” their son said, “please don’t shout, please don’t yell.” They stopped but
     didn’t talk to each other for a few hours. The previous night, when he was reading
     and at the same time falling asleep, she got into bed naked and said “You don’t have
     to if you don’t want to—no obligation,” and he said “No no, I can probably do it,”
     and they made love and went to sleep holding each other, she kissing his hand, he
     the back of her head. Further back. The boy’s born, and he drops to his knees in the
     birthing room he’s so excited. Further. They’re getting married and they both break
     down during the ceremony and cry. Further. They meet. Sees her at a cocktail party,
     introduces himself: “You