Wounded in the house of a friend - short story - excerpted from the book, 'Wounded in the House of a Friend

The unspoken word is born. I see it in our eyes dancing.

She hadn't found anything. I had been careful. No lipstick. No matches from a well-known bar. No letters, cards, confessing an undying love. Nothing tangible for her to hold on to. But I knew she knew. It had been on her face, in her eyes for the last nine days. It was the way she looked at me sideways from across the restaurant table as she picked at her brown-rice sushi. It was the way she paused in profile while inspecting my wolfdreams. It was the way her mouth took a detour from talk. And then, as we exited the restaurant, she said it quite casually: "I know there's another woman. You must tell me about her when we get home."

Yeah. There was another woman. In fact, there were three women. In Florida, California and North Carolina. Places to replace her cool detachment of these last years. No sex for months. Always tired or sick or off to some conference designed to save the world from racism or extinction. If I had jerked off one more time in bed while lying next to her, it woulda dropped off. Still, I wondered how she knew.

Am I dressed right for the smoke? Will it wrinkle if I fall?

I had first felt something was wrong at the dinner party. His colleague's house. He was so animated. The first flush of his new job, I thought. He spoke staccato-style. A drink in each hand. His laughter. Wild. Hard. Contagious, as smoke enveloped the room. He was so wired that I thought he was going to explode. I didn't know the people there. They were all lawyers. Even the wives were lawyers. Glib and self-assured. Discussing cases and colleagues.

Then it happened. A small hesitation on his part, in answer to a question as to how he would be able to get some important document from one place to another. He looked at the host and said: "They'll get it to me. Don't worry." And the look passing back and forth between the men told of collusion and omission. Told of dependence on another woman for information and confirmation. Told of nights I had stretched out next to him, and he was soft. Too soft for my open legs. And I turned my back to him, and the nights multiplied out loud.

As I drove home from the party I asked him what was wrong. What was bothering him? Were we okay? Would we make love tonight? Would we ever make love again? Did my breath stink? Was I too short, too tall? Did I talk too much? Should I wear lipstick? Should I cut my hair? Let it grow? What did he want for dinner tomorrow night? Was I driving too fast? Too slow? What is wrong, man? He said I was always exaggerating, imagining things. Always looking for trouble.

Do they have children?

One does.

Are they married?

One is.

They're like you then.

Yes.

How old are they?

Thirty-two, thirty-five and thirty-four.

What do they do?

An accountant and two lawyers.

They're like you then.

Yes.

Do they make love better than I do?

I'm not answering that.

Where did you meet?

When I traveled on the job.

Did you make love in hotels?

Yes.

Did you go out together?

Yes.

To bars? To movies? To restaurants?

Yes.

Did you make love to them all night?

Yes.

And then got up to do your company work?

Yes.

And you fall asleep on me right after dinner. After work. After walking the dog.

Yes.

Did you buy them things?

Yes.

Did you talk on the phone with them every day?

Yes.

Did you tell them how unhappy you are with me and the children?

Yes.

Do you love them? Did you say that you loved them while you were making love?

I'm not answering that.

Can I pull my bones together while skeletons come out of my head?

I am preparing for him to come home. I have exercised. Soaked in the tub. Scrubbed my body. Oiled myself down. What a beautiful day it's been. Warmer than usual. The cherry blossoms on the drive are blooming prematurely. The hibiscus are giving off a scent around the house. I have gotten drunk off the smell. So delicate. So sweet. So loving. I have been sleeping, no, daydreaming all day. Lounging inside my head. I am walking up this hill. The day is green. All green. Even the sky. I start to run down the hill, and I take wing and begin to fly, and the currents turn me upside down and I become young and childlike again, ready to participate in all children's games.

She's screwing my brains out. I'm so tired I just want to put my head down at my desk. Just for a minute. What is wrong with her? For one whole month she's turned to me every night. Climbed on top of me. Put me inside her and become beautiful. Almost birdlike. She seemed to be flying as she rode me. Arms extended. Moving from side to side. But my God. Every night. She's screwing my brains out. I can hardly see the morning, and I'm beginning to hate the night.

He's coming up the stairs. I've opened the venetian blinds. I love to see the trees outlined against the night air. Such beauty and space. I have oiled myself down for the night. I slept during the day. He's coming up the stairs. I have been waiting for him all day. I am singing a song I learned years ago. It is as pretty as this night. As his eyes.

I can hardly keep my eyes open. Time to climb out of bed. Make the 7:20 train. My legs and bones hurt. I'm outta condition. Damn it. She's turning my way again. She's smiling. Damn it.

What a beautiful morning it is. I've been listening to the birds for the last couple of hours. How beautifully they sing. Like sacred music. I got up and exercised while he slept. Made a cup of green tea. Oiled my body down. Climbed back into bed and began to kiss him all over ...

Ted. Man. I'm so tired I can hardly eat this food. But I'd better eat'cause I'm losing weight. You know what, man? I can't even get a hard-on when another woman comes near me. Look at that one there with that see-through skirt on. Nothing. My dick is so limp only she can bring it up. And she does. Every night. It ain't normal, is it, for a wife to do it like she does? Is it, man? It ain't normal. Like, it ain't normal for a woman you've lived with for 20 years to act like this.

Honey. It's too much, you know?

What?

All this sex. At lunch. On the train. On planes.

Why?

You know why. Every place I go, you're there. Standing there. Smiling. Waiting. Touching.

Yes.

In bed, I can't turn over without you there. Lips open. Smiling, all revved up.

Aren't you horny, too?

Yes. But enough's enough. You're my wife. It's not normal to screw as much as you do.

No?

It's not, well, nice, to have you talk the way you talk when you're making love.

No?

Can't we go back a little, go back to our normal life when you just wanted to sleep at night and make love now and then? Like me?

No.

What's wrong with you? Are you having a nervous breakdown?

No.

If I become the other woman, will I be loved like you loved her?

And he says I don't laugh. All this he says while he's away in California for one week. But I've been laughing all day. All week. All year. I know what to do now. I'll go outside and give it away. Since he doesn't really want me. My love. My body. When we make love his lips swell up. His legs and arms hurt. He coughs. Drinks water. Develops a strain. Yeah. I know what to do. Go outside and give it away.

Hello there, Mr. Mailman. What's your name again? Oh yes, Harold. Can I call you Harry? How are you this morning? Would you like some cold water? It's so hot out here. You want a doughnut, a cookie, some cereal, some sweet Black pussy? Oh God, man. Don't back down the steps. Oh my God, he fell. The mail is all over the sidewalk. Hee. Hee. Hee. Guess I'd better be more subtle with the next one. Hee. Hee. Hee. He's still running down the block. Mr. Federal Express Man. Hee. Hee. Hee. C'mon over here.

I know what to do now. I shall become his collector of things. Become his collector of burps, biceps and smiles. I shall bottle his frowns and creases. I shall gather up his moans, words, outbursts, wrap them in blue tissue paper. Get to know them. Watch them grow in importance. File them in their place in the scheme of things. I shall collect his scraps of food. Ferret them among my taste buds. Allow each particle to saunter into my cells. Climb into these sockets golden with brine. I need to taste him again.

I shall become, I shall become a collector of me. And put meat on my soul.

Poet, playwright, author and activist Sonia Sanchez teaches English and creative writing at Temple University. This story was adapted from her most recent book, Wounded in the House of a Friend.

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