Knitting Under the Influence

knitting for hours in front of Sam's TV set, whether he was home or not. Her choice of project echoed her newfound sobriety: she was knitting a fisherman-style throw made out of an expensive brown cashmere mix.

She hadn't intended to make something so uncharacteristic, had, in fact, gone to the yarn store with the intention of knitting herself a little glittery evening bag with lots of fluffy fringe on top, but she had seen the yarn piled up in a barrel and the sight and touch of it had called to her in some weird way and she had leafed through all of the yarn books and magazines at the store until she found a pattern that seemed right for it. It had cost a fortune, but she wasn't spending money on going out, so she figured she could spring for it.

The growing afghan felt warm and soft as it piled up on her lap. She frequently admired how well the color went with Sam's den and thought that maybe she would just leave it there when she was finished-for her own use, of course. She spent a lot of time there.

The afghan was one more element to add to the general comfort and coziness of Sam's den, and Kathleen almost always found herself lingering there on long dark winter evenings, watching TV-turning the volume down or off when Sam was around, since he would only join her there if he could work- and on equally long Sunday afternoons, when she'd lie on the sofa lazily skimming the Style and Art sections of the newspaper while Sam read all the business articles sitting upright in the leather armchair. At some point they would realize they were hungry, and Sam would go into the kitchen, where a half an hour later the smell of garlic or roasting chicken would reach out and pull Kathleen in there with him to chop up vegetables or set the table or do something equally unchallenging and basic that he would still accuse her of somehow botching up and insist on redoing himself.

One late afternoon, early in February, Kathleen let herself into Sam's apartment. He wasn't back from work yet. She foraged through his cabinets, found a bag of pistachios and a bottle of iced tea, took her provisions into the den, and turned on the TV. There wasn't anything good on, but she had nothing else to do, so she stayed where she was, cracking pistachios and dropping their shells on the shiny dark wood coffee table, while she flipped aimlessly through the channels.

She intended to clean up the mess she'd made, but the drone of the changing channels made her sleepy, and she snuggled down into the length of the sofa, thinking she'd just rest a few minutes before getting a towel.

She woke up when Sam came into the den. “I thought I heard the TV,” he said. He flicked on the lights. It had grown dark while she slept.

“Hi,” she said hoarsely, blinking and pushing herself into a sitting position. “What time is it?”

“Seven-thirty.” He looked down at her. “Were you asleep?”

“I’m not sure. But it was five-thirty just a few seconds ago, so maybe.” She yawned.

His eyes fell on the coffee table. “Oh, for Christ's sake, Kathleen,” he said. “There are shells everywhere.”

“I’ll clean it up.” She arched her back in a big stretch that ended with a grunt of pleasure. “I’m hungry. What are we having for dinner?”

“You're on your own tonight,” he said. “I’m heading out in a few minutes. You can stay if you want to, but you'll have to cook for yourself. I think there's some pasta left from last night.”

“Where are you going?”

“A Thai restaurant in Santa Monica.”

“Can I come with you?”

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m meeting people.”

“Who?”

“Patricia and a couple of her friends.”

Kathleen made a face. “Oh, come on.”

“Come on what?”

“Don't go out with her.” She was sort of joking, but sort of not. She really didn't want him to go. She wanted him to stay there with her like he usually did. His going out felt like a betrayal.

“I can't cook you dinner every night, Kathleen,” he said. He adjusted his right sleeve cuff minutely. “Much as I’d like to spend all my free time waiting on you hand and foot, I do occasionally like to broaden my horizons.”

“I don't care about the food.” She stood up. “I’m just saying you shouldn't keep going out with Patricia.”

“Why not? I enjoy her company. And it gets me out.”

She took a step toward him. “But don't you think it's time you moved on?”

“’Moved on?”

“To still be clinging to your ex-wife…” She shook her head.

“Come on, Sam. I’ve never seen you with anyone else. But you're not that old.”

“Thank you.”

“You know what I mean.” Her hair had fallen into her eyes, and she shoved a couple of strands behind her ears with fingers that twitched with a sudden nervousness. “You're still in the game. Or could be if you tried. It's time you found someone new, put some excitement into your life.”

“I like that you're giving me advice about my love life,” Sam said, unsmiling. “You sure you're an expert on how to do it right?”

“I never said I was an expert, but at least I know how to move on.”

“You only know how to move on,” he said. “From what I’ve seen.

Their eyes met directly for the first time, and Kathleen said, “Don't knock it until you've tried it.”

“It's time for you to go.” She had never heard his voice unsteady before. “I have to finish getting ready.”

“No, you don't,” she said. “Stay with me tonight, Sam.” She came closer, a little scared of him, but confident in her youth and her beauty and the strength of her long arms and legs. They'd never failed her before.

He didn't retreat, but he didn't welcome her, either, just held his ground. “Go away, Kathleen. Before you ruin everything.”

She laughed a little. “I’m not going to ruin anything. This is a good idea. It'll be fun.”

“Go away,” he said again and when she kept advancing on him he turned away from her.

She caught at his arm. She was almost his height and when she made him face her, their eyes were at a level. “What are you afraid of?”

There was a pause. Then: “Losing this” he said quietly. “Not having you here to mess up my place and watch TV.”

Her heart suddenly thumped. “That's important to you?”

“Maybe,” he said in a voice so low she could barely hear him.

She drew closer, close enough that she could feel the heat of his body near her skin. She was only wearing shorts and a tank top, and she was cold, but he would be warm against her, she knew. “You won't lose anything,” she said. “This will be even better. I promise.” She caught him around the neck and put her mouth against his. It felt wrong-like she was breaking the rules.

She liked that feeling.

He responded the way she knew he would, his mouth first closed and uncertain against hers and then finally giving in to her insistence. She opened her eyes just in time to see him close his, and triumph flashed through her. She pressed herself against him.

But then he was pulling back, away from her. He pushed her to arm's distance. “I just can't help wondering,” he said, “whether I left a bank statement lying open around here recently.”

“What?”

“I’m talking about you figuring out that I’m as rich as Kevin Porter.”

She thought he was joking. She laughed a little. “Nothing wrong with that,” she said and reached for him again.

This time, there was real anger in the shove he gave her. “Jesus Christ, Kathleen, what kind of an idiot do you think I am?”

She stumbled but caught herself against the back of a chair.“What are you talking about?”

“You really expect me to believe that a beautiful girl twenty years my junior with no income who's already told me she's on the make-” He stopped and shook his head hard, like he was getting rid of something buzzing around it. “You really expect me to believe that she-that you-have anything but money on your mind?”

“It's not like that,” she said. Horrified. “I’m not like that.”