Moonlight

Fifteen

Over the next few weeks, she went back. Twice, sometimes three times a week. Full shifts.

There were times when she told herself that she had never worked with her hands, that she had always been so far removed from real life and real people, that this was her penance. Other times, she believed this was her way of gaining power over men, of emancipating herself. Or was it revenge towards Tom? Or had she become a totally different person who needed to be fucked by multiple strangers each night to be satisfied?

She slept again with Phil. She got to know his body, what brought it to the edge of pleasure. She got to know his tastes, often anticipating them, sometimes suggesting new ideas that surprised him and intrigued him.

Then, one day, it was gone. She had no desire for him any longer. It was all just a bunch of happy memories.

She had become more familiar with the girls. She was one of them, after all.

Back at home, some of the ice had melted: doing things together brought her and Tom closer. While they still tiptoed around each other, Alice felt more inclined to forgive him and give them another chance.

Of course, he still didn't know about her secret life. He knew she had to disappear from time to time, and he let her. Alice thought he probably worried she was running around with another man and was getting ready to leave him. She wasn't resentful anymore. Instead, it saddened her to think Tom worried about this possibility, but she knew that the reality would have been harder to understand. She didn't even understand it herself. Also, this worry that was gnawing at Tom was healthy for him: Alice noticed that all the bottles of wine and spirits had disappeared from the house, and Tom never touched the stuff, not even at parties or dinners with friends.

'Have you dropped some weight?' she asked him, once day.

He seemed pleased and mumbled something about hitting the gym a few times a week.

'Take me for a drive this weekend: you and I,' she told him one day. 'I'll get a babysitter for the kids.'

It was a beautiful day. The sky was a pale blue, fluffy clouds were racing high in the sky. The sun was warm on the skin, but the air was pleasantly cool.

They got in the car. No driver. Alice was liking a less ornate lifestyle, devoid of maids and helpers to ensure you never grew calluses on your hands. She liked the roughness that comes from doing things for themselves: it proved to her that she was capable, that she was the maker of her own life, not just a spectator.

They drove out of the city.

The fields were empty patches of dug-up earth. The wheat and the corn had been harvested. Various birds were pecking the ground, looking for seeds. The leaves on the trees were starting to brown.

The car followed a canal for a while. It was wide and blue like the sky, segmented by the long shadows of the poplars that ran along the levy and by the floodgates.

'Doesn't it look like a painting?' Tom asked.

'I think some of the Impressionists came here to sketch.'

A fragment of a normal conversation.

Tom found a little patch of grass, a little far away from the main road. It was protected from view by a large hedge, and large oaks shaded it. Further down, the land sloped towards a little stream where ducks glided in a file. Now and then, in a little splash of water, one of the birds disappeared under the surface in search of its lunch.

It was like a little private garden that morning.

'How did you find this place?' she asked.

'I don't know. Do you like it?'