Free Long Made Short by Stephen Dixon Page B

runs upstairs. He gets on the floor, puts the—what do you call them? isolated,
     or incomplete, or unassembled or just-not-put-in-the-puzzle-yet—pieces in their box,
     doesn’t know what to do with the partly completed puzzle, carefully slides it against
     the wall. Hears water running in the tub, lots of padding back and forth on the ceiling.
     “He’s growing up so much,” he says. “You haven’t noticed before?” she says. “Of course,
     but the way he phrases things, and just now—no remonstrating.” He sits beside her.
     “Mind?” “Go on.” Puts his arm around her shoulder, pulls her to him. She looks at
     him. “Yes?” “This is the life,” he says, “everything but the kid asleep.” “Yes, it’s
     very nice,” and kisses his lips and goes back to reading. He continues looking at
     her. Wants to say “You’re beautiful, you know; beautiful.” Takes his arm away, for
     he feels it might be bothering her. She wants to concentrate. Good, she should. He
     leans his head back on the couch, looks at the ceiling. I go upstairs, he thinks.
     My son’s in bed reading. He smells washed, his room’s neat, he tidied it up without
     anyone asking. “All done for now?” I say. He puts the book on the floor and says “Forty-six;
     please remember the page for me?” “Will do. Goodnight, my sweet wonderful child,”
     I say and kiss his lips, make sure the covers are over his shoulders. “Pillows all
     comfortable?” and he says “You could get them right, I don’t mind.” I fix the pillows,
     rest his head on them, turn the light off and go downstairs. “Like a beer or glass
     of wine?” I say. “If you’ll share a bottle of beer with me,” she says. We do. “I’m
     tired,” I say. “Let’s go to bed then,” she says. We do. I’m in bed, naked, clothes
     piled beside me on the floor, glasses and book on my night table. She’s still in—she’s
     sitting on the other side of the bed, taking her clothes off. She was just in the
     bathroom a few minutes. “Dear,” I say. “Not to worry,” she says, “it’s all taken care
     of. What’s on your mind’s on mine.” All her clothes are off. I breathe deeply to see
     if I can smell her. I can: a little fresh cologne, cream she put in, something from
     her underarms. Or mine. I smell one when she’s looking away. Nothing. “Can I shut
     off the light?” I say. “Please, I’m finished.” I shut it off. She gets under the covers
     with me. We hug, kiss, rub each other very hard. She grabs me and I grab her. Something
     tells me it’s going to be one of the best for me.
    “Like a glass of wine, some beer?” he asks. “I don’t want to get too sleepy,” she
     says. “Maybe I can read a couple of more papers than I thought I could, so I won’t
     have to do too many tomorrow.” “Dad?” his son shouts from upstairs. “We’re all out
     of toilet paper up here.” “You checked the bathroom closet, the cabinet under the
     sink?” “Everyplace.” “To the rescue.” And he gets a roll out of the downstairs bathroom,
     runs upstairs, puts the roll in. He goes into his son’s room. The boy’s drawing at
     his desk, and he says “Don’t you have to use the toilet?” “I did, but I was thinking
     of you and Mom.” “That’s very thoughtful, very. Come on now, though, you have to go
     to bed.” The boy gets into bed. “Teeth all combed?” “Everything,” the boy says. “You
     don’t want the night light on?” “I don’t need it anymore.” “Good, that’s fine, but
     if you change your mind, okay too. Good night, my sweet wonderful kid,” and he bends
     down and kisses him on the lips, turns the light off.
    He undresses, brushes his teeth, flosses, washes his face, washes his penis and behind
     with a washrag, washes the washrag with soap and hangs it on the shower rod, walks
     a few steps downstairs and says softly “Sweetheart, I’m going to bed now, to read—you
     coming up soon?” “No. And