The Terminal Experiment

I don’t know.

I don’t know.

I don’t know.

Fuck it.

“I’d like fish, myself,” said Peter, and again he stabbed the PgDn button.

“Whatever would make you happy,” she said.

It would make me happy if you’d talk to me, thought Peter. It would make me happy if you didn’t fucking dress down all the time.

“Maybe we should just order in,” said Peter. “Maybe a pizza, or some Chinese.”

“Whatever.”

He turned pages again, new words filling his screen.

Thirteen years of marriage.

“Maybe I’ll give Sarkar a call,” he said, testing the waters. “Go out and grab a bite with him.”

“If you like.”

Peter shut the reader off. “Dammit, it’s not just what I’d like. What would you like?”

“I don’t know.”

It had been building for weeks, he knew, festering within him, pressure increasing, an explosion imminent, his sighs never releasing enough of what was pent up, what was ready to blow. “Maybe I should go out with Sarkar and not come back.”

She stood motionless across the room from him. The staircase rose up behind her. It looked as though her lower lip was trembling a little. Her voice was small. “If that would make you happy.”

It’s falling apart, thought Peter. It’s falling apart right now.

Peter turned the magazine reader back on but immediately flicked it off again. “It’s over, isn’t it?” he said.

Thirteen years…

He should get up from the couch now, get up and leave.

Thirteen years…

“Jesus Christ,” said Peter, into the silence.

He closed his eyes.

“Peter…”

Eyes still closed.

“Peter,” said Cathy, “I slept with Hans Larsen.”

He looked at her, mouth open, heart pounding. She didn’t meet his gaze.

Cathy moved hesitantly into the center of the living room. There was quiet between them for several minutes. Peter’s stomach hurt. At last, his voice raspy, raw, as though the wind had been knocked out of him, said, “I want to know the details.”

Cathy spoke softly. She didn’t look at him. “Does it matter?”

“Yes, it matters. Of course it matters. How long has this…” he paused “…this affair been going on?” Christ, he’d never expected to use that word in this context.

Her lower lip was trembling again. She took a step toward him, as if she meant to sit beside him on the couch, but she hesitated when she saw the expression on his face. Instead, she moved slowly to take a chair. She sat down, weary, as if the tiny walk down to the living room had been the longest of her life. She carefully placed her hands in her lap and looked down at them. “It wasn’t an affair,” she said softly.

“What the hell would you call it?” said Peter. The words were angry, but his tone wasn’t. It was drained, lifeless.

“It was … it wasn’t a relationship,” she said. “Not really. It just happened.”

“How?”

“A Friday night, after work. You didn’t come that time. Hans asked me for a lift to the subway. We went back to the company parking lot together and got my car. The lot was deserted by then, and it was pretty dark.”

Peter shook his head. “In your car?” he said. He paused for a long time, then said, softly, “You” — and the next word came slowly, unbidden, released from his lips with a little shrug as if there were no other word that would quite do — “slut.”

Her face was puffy, and her eyes were red, but she wasn’t crying. She moved her head back and forth slightly as though trying to deny the word, a word that no one had ever applied to her before, but then at last she also shrugged, perhaps accepting the term.

“What happened?” said Peter. “Exactly what did you do?”

“We had sex. That was all.”

“What kind of sex?”

“Normal sex. He just dropped his pants and lifted my skirt. He — he didn’t touch me anywhere.”

“But you were wet anyway?”

She bristled. “I … I’d had too much to drink.”

Peter nodded. “You never used to drink. Not before you started working with them.”

“I know. I’ll stop.”

“What else happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Did he kiss you?”

“Before, yes. Not after.”

Sarcastic: “Did he tell you he loves you?”

“Hans says that to everyone.”

“Did he say it to you?”

“Yes, but … but it was just words.”

“Did you say it to him?”

“Of course not.”

“Did you — did you come?”

A whisper, “No.” And then a tear did roll down her cheek. “He — he asked me if I had come. As if anyone would have, in and out like that. He asked me. I said no. And he laughed. Laughed, and pulled up his trousers.”

“When did this happen?”

“You remember that Friday I came home late and had a shower?”

“No. Wait — yes. You never have a shower in the evening. But that was months ago—”

“February,” said Cathy.

Peter nodded. Somehow, the fact that this had happened so long ago made it more bearable. “Six months ago,” he said.

“Yes,” she said, and then, the words like a trio of bullets tearing into his heart, “The first time.”

All the stupid questions welled up in his brain. You mean there were others? Yes, Peter, that’s exactly what she means. “How many times?”

“Two more.”

“For a total of three.”

“Yes.”

Sarcastic again: “But ‘affair’ is the wrong word for this?”

Cathy was silent.

“Jesus Christ,” said Peter softly.

“It wasn’t an affair.”

Peter nodded. He knew what kind of person Hans was. Of course it hadn’t been an affair. Of course there was no love involved. “Just sex,” said Peter.

Cathy, wisely, said nothing.