The Song She Chose

Lavinia asked Hugo to put on the song before she could make the request smaller.

He was standing by the shelf with his phone in his hand. They had finished supper; the window was open to the mild June evening. Six weeks into their marriage, there were still boxes in the second bedroom, but only two, and neither contained anything they needed tonight.

“Which song?” he asked.

She gave him a look.

“Ah. That song.”

“Yes.”

“I was hoping marriage might improve your judgement.”

“You married my judgement. It chose you.”

“An argument with considerable force.”

He found September Again. The extravagant opening filled the sitting room, apparently undiminished by the passage of time or Hugo’s objections. Lavinia felt herself smile before the first voice began.

“Dance with me,” she said. “And stay for the whole thing.”

“Including the change of key?”

“Especially.”

He put down the phone and held out his hand.

Their room allowed more than three steps. It did not make either of them better dancers. She went the wrong way almost immediately, blamed him, and received a measured explanation of why the evidence suggested otherwise. She interrupted it by singing.

He laughed with his whole face, the laugh she had wanted at the centre before she knew what wanting would ask of her. She came closer and felt his hand settle at her back. The music was much too grand for two people in socks beside a chair with a worn arm. She liked it that way.

They moved slowly, occasionally finding the beat by accident. She knew the shape of his shoulder beneath her palm now, the warmth of him through an ordinary shirt, the way his expression softened when she stopped being funny and looked at him. None of that had made him a person she could take for granted. It had made the pleasure more specific.

At the change of key he closed his eyes in theatrical suffering. She sang the line more loudly. He opened them and joined her, so far from the melody that she lost her place laughing.

“Sabotage,” she said.

“Participation.”

“You’ll have to practise.”

“That sounds like a long commitment.”

She smiled and leaned her forehead against his. “It is.”

He stayed until the song ended, his cheek resting briefly against her hair. When the final, excessive note faded, he did not release her at once.

“Again?” he asked.

“No. I have limits.”

“Reassuring news.”

She kissed him. He answered with the slow attention she had learned to ask for, his hand warm at her waist, his body turning fully towards her. She liked the small sound he made when she drew him closer. She liked knowing she could affect him without becoming responsible for everything he felt.

When they parted she kept her hands against him.

“I wanted this,” she said.

“The song?”

“This evening. You in it.”

He looked around the room as if taking in its agreeable lack of distinction: two chairs, two abandoned water glasses, the orange lamp glowing in a corner she had ceased trying to disguise.

“So did I.”

She believed him. Not because he had no other life worth wanting. Because he had chosen this one and kept choosing it in ways she could live inside.

They sat together on the sofa. Her diary was open on the low table, and they had left next week unfinished because supper had been ready. Hugo reached for it only after asking whether she wanted to finish the arrangements now.

“Yes. Then put it away.”

His regular centre morning was the following Saturday. She wanted to see Benita on Wednesday; he planned to visit Bertram on Thursday. They found an evening for the cinema and disagreed over the film before either had seen it, which promised well. She wanted Sunday afternoon at home with no visitors. He wanted a walk first.

“Lunch out, then home?” he asked.

“I’d rather eat here. I want the whole lazy afternoon.”

He considered it. “A morning walk, then.”

“I’d like that.”

There had been a time when she would have accepted his first suggestion and later hoped he noticed she was disappointed. There had been a time when he would have made a good case for lunch out, then called it the sensible arrangement. Tonight they changed a plan. It took less than a minute.

She closed the diary.

“I’ve been thinking about the poster exhibition,” she said.

He looked at her, attentive rather than alarmed. The lost day remained part of their history, no longer a charge she must either prosecute or forget.

“There’s another one in the autumn,” she said. “Different artist. I want to go.”

“Would you like me to come?”

“Yes. I’ll show you the dates tomorrow.”

“Please do.”

That was enough for tonight. They had not recovered the old Saturday; the talk she wanted had happened without her. They had learned something at its expense and still had future Saturdays to arrange. She did not need the loss to become secretly fortunate.

Hugo put the diary on the shelf. When he returned, she moved so he could sit close, then stretched her legs across the sofa. He took the place she had made and let her rest against him.

“Are you happy?” she asked.

He did not flinch at the question as if every version of it concealed an examination. He considered it, then answered plainly.

“Yes. I am.”

“So am I.”

She could say it without demanding that every hour support the claim. There were mornings when she woke cross, evenings when he spoke too carefully, moments when she caught herself saying nothing mattered and had to begin the sentence again. There were also warm hands, good arguments, separate books and the pleasure of hearing his key when she had chosen to be alone for a while.

Her life had not become an answer to his. It had become shared with his, which was more untidy and more desirable.

He kissed her temple. “What would you like now?”

The question was ordinary. Her answer could be ordinary too, without being small.

“Come to bed with me.”

His smile warmed slowly. “Yes.”

She stood and held out her hand. He took it, rising to meet her, and she stopped him in the open space between their chairs for one more kiss. He understood that she was in no hurry. His hand moved along her back, familiar and still capable of making her close her eyes with pleasure.

“I love you,” she said when she could speak again.

“I love you, Lavinia.”

She had once moved a chair because she could no longer bear making distance look accidental. Now she left the chairs where they were and took her husband’s hand. Tomorrow would have its own wants, its own ordinary decisions. Tonight she knew what she wanted, had asked for it, and was walking with him towards the room they shared.