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“But you did talk about me, right? Hours and hours?”
“Ten minutes, maybe fifteen.”
“How I was good at this and that and you couldn’t bear to live without me?”
“I’m living without you now and free as a bird!”
“I can tell by that fake laugh.”
“It’s not fake. You just don’t want to hear it.”
“Continue.”
“What?”
“Go on with your grocery list.”
“That’s all.”
She laced and unlaced her fingers.
“Well, one other thing …”
“What?”
She took out a tissue and blew her nose.
“Every time we made love, it hurt.”
“What?” I cried, stunned.
“It did,” she said, not looking at me. “From the start. Always.”
“You mean to say,” I gasped, “that every time we took a trip to the moon on gossamer wings, it was painful?”
“Yes.”
“And all those shouts and cries of joy were cover-ups for your discomfort?”
“Yes.”
“All those years, all those hours, why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to make you unhappy.”
“Good God!” I cried.
And then, “I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true.”
“I don’t believe you,” I said, fighting to control my breath. “It was too wonderful, it was too great, it was—no, no, you couldn’t have lied each time, every time.” I stopped and stared at her. “You’re making this up to tie it in with this Father Reilly thing. That’s it, isn’t it?”
“Honest to God—”
“Watch it. You’re certified now! That’s blasphemy!”‘
“Just ‘honest’ then. No lie.”
