The lamp in the shape of an ice cube. The dim orange light illuminating from within makes it look like a glowing igloo in the cold, blue night. She almost shudders at the thought of it. She picks up the glass of water next to it, and drinks a few sips, letting the cold, still chlorinated water from the tap to wash down her dry mouth and throat. The cold touch of the glass reminds her that it has been sitting here for a few hours now, in the cool, early summer night. There is no clock in the living room, but she figures it must be four in the morning. Besides the lamp is a smaller wicker jewelry box that he had given her as a surprise gift a year ago. She has forgotten that it came as a gift, until now. With the free hand she touches the surface of the wicker. She touches the metallic pin with a metallic butterfly welded on one end. She imagines that the pin is cold even though her fingers are too tired to really notice such subtleties.
With the hand still clutching the cold glass of water, she drinks a few more small gulps, without taking her eyes off the wicker jewelry box, but at the same time without really thinking about the object she is now caressing with the other hand. She is lost in thoughts as if the touch of each thread on the surface of the box reminds her of a thread of memory in the past three years they have been together. The wicker object, she now remembers, is the last thing he had given to her, and it is also the last surprise he had given her. After that, many things have happened, and not even on their anniversary and her birthday did he remember to give her anything. Still, she didn't mind. Somehow, however, she remembers the absence of presents.
She opens the wicker as she puts the glass of water back in nearly exactly the same place she had picked it up. Inside the box is a pile of jewelry and two foreign bills. One is from India, a big bill, the second largest denomination, worth about $10, or the monthly wage of many poor villagers. Who told her? No one. She was on the Continental flight back from Delhi; they were probably somewhere over Siberia, almost over the Arctic. She was woken up by something, one of the many sporadic noises in the sleepy airplane. She was reaching for a used tissue paper in her right pocket but instead she pulled out this 500 rupee bill that she didn't know she had. She thought she only had little coins left. She thought about the people she had met, her experience in that country of seemingly bottomless misery.
And she remembers it now.
It's a little too late for such contemplative thoughts. She notices the other bill is the two-dollar bill he had given her when they first met three years ago. He knew she was a foreigner, and he wanted to impress her with a two-dollar bill. She was, despite her nonchalant appearance, thoroughly impressed, less by the bill of questionable authenticity, but more by the light and depth of this man's eyes. She was quietly drawn to him the way he wanted but at the time failed to see.
And now he was sleeping, snoring, in that other room. She suddenly can hear him and feels a shudder again, a real one, and she looks to the glowing igloo in front of her. She lets out a sigh and takes the cold glass of water again. She reaches for the switch with the other hand and turns off the igloo. Her space suddenly becomes dark and empty, even though she knows exactly where everything was, including space. They've lived here for a little over a year but the space always makes her feel disconnection. She thinks it's them, but she doesn't want to think about it.
In the darkness she walks quietly the short corridor linking the living room to their bedroom. Every step taken she feels the different joints and muscles working at the soles of each foot. The one taking the weight, how it uses each part to absorb the light weight she is putting in, offset by the muscles of the trailing leg. And by doing she she walks extremely quietly, almost calculatingly. She isn't trying to avoid waking him up; he's now snoring so loud that dropping a pan on the tiled kitchen floor might not be able to compete. She is just trying to feel each step she is taking to return to this bedroom.
At the threshold of the bedroom her eyes, which by now have become accustomed to the low light coming through the windows, see the silhouette of the man she has been with for, well, only three years. The silhouette is familiar, but not necessarily in the warm and endearing way. That too, yes, but also in a vexing way that she can admit only in the safety of darkness where nothing and no one could see her face or read her heart. She stands there a little more, wiggling a little her toes, the ones she can wiggle, at least, in order to feel the floor, feel the interface between the corridor and the bedroom. She lifts her glass of water and drinks two more sips. She knows by the feel of the weight that there is probably just two more medium gulps left. She could turn around and go to the kitchen to get more water. But she knows that she would do so as an excuse.
Letting her right arm that's holding the glass of water fall slowly to her side, she enters the bedroom. A slight breeze enters, swaying her silk nightgown slightly. Tonight, like all nights in recent memory, he had not noticed how sexy she had made herself.
