Chapter 15
That night, lying next to a deeply sleeping Tom, I find it hard to wind down.
Usually I read before bed, but I’ve had my copy of The French Lieutenant’s Woman propped open on my chest for almost an hour before I quietly close it and set it on my nightstand.
I shut my eyes and replay everything that happened after class: the rapt look on Paul’s face as he reviewed my pictures, then his outburst of joyful profanity at the sight of my liquor store self-portrait.
Lying here in the dark, with Tom’s quiet presence nearly an absence, my head fills with Paul’s words, facial expressions, and the stark wonder and desire in his eyes.
Not desire for me, of course; I understand that.
But his desire for my photographs is a real, nearly palpable presence, one that sets a burning engine going in my chest. I turn on my side as if to keep Tom from sensing my excitement, and review my plan for tomorrow.
I’ll start from Penn Station in Midtown and head north, then loop back to catch the three o’clock train to make it home before Tom.
I’ll tell him about my day trip when it’s over, when I’ve come back.
No need to worry him, or risk having him tell me to stay home.
Though part of me—a small part—longs to be told exactly that, to let the trip go, to not put myself at risk of encountering the man.
But I don’t “encounter” him, do I? He hangs in the background, behind me somewhere, appearing only in my pictures. Or he calls and breathes into the telephone. He’s cowardly, I tell myself. And he’ll be lost in the commotion of the city. I’ll be safer there than I’ve been in small towns.
Tom shifts beside me, and I freeze. I stay rigid until I hear a light snore, then try to let my body relax. It doesn’t work. Pushing the covers aside, I rise creakily and walk to the bathroom for one of the sleeping pills the doctor prescribed after Tom’s incident. I need a full night’s rest.