She serves him an early breakfast in the easing dark, as light on her feet as dancing. All sins forgotten in the slicing of toast, all foolishness in the hot, real grounded smell of good cheese, and won’t they have a day, the two of them, strolling the parks, checking on their squash blossoms and snap peas and olives in the Community Garden, carefully helping the pollen along with paintbrushes if need be, poor lazy squashes. And then they’ll go to the show. Mrs. Palfrey and Mrs. Moray and Mrs. Wolfe’s summer spectacular! How considerate of him to come home in time. Sophia will sit in the amphitheater as a cool silvery evening breeze relieves the heat and the fireflies begin to click on in the trees, snuggled into the safety of him, treasured as gold, waiting for the lights to go down and the music to start.
I was made for him, she thinks, and that is all that matters.
Sophia reaches for the little paring knife to slice off last night’s still-moist chicken to crosshatch over the toast. Her hand stops all on its own. It hovers.
Yes, there is a show tonight, and ice cream and dancing and a million fireflies like wishes, but there is also a bone in the knife block. There is a bone in the knife block because Sophia put it back where she found it, not knowing what else to do. There is a bone in the knife block and someone’s hair in the upstairs drawer. The egg yolks wriggle wetly on the half-prepared plate. She will not ask him. She will not. She trusts him. She is happy. Sophia is happy.
He roars for his breakfast and she hurries. Sticks the carving knife back in where it will not fit because someone’s fingertip is in there, leaves the blade jutting halfway out, trembling slightly in its slot even after she’s gone.
Sophia watches her man eat. His appetite is as enormous as their bed, their table, their chairs, their candlesticks. It gratifies her deepest being. She would rather watch him eat than eat herself, in perfect honesty.
“Your work has gone well, my love?” she asks warmly.
“Very well! It always does. It is hard going but I never give up. My supervisor is very pleased with me. I may even get a bonus soon.”
“Oh, how wonderful!” Sophia exclaims, and claps her hands.
“Yes, it is,” he agrees between mouthfuls of chicken and toast.
She kisses his forehead. “You are wonderful,” she whispers.
“Yes, I am!” he laughs. “But you’re only buttering me up like an ear of corn because you want to go to the pantomime tonight.”
Sophia frowns. Her brow furrows. She does not understand.
“No, I’m not. You are wonderful. You are my whole heart.”
“Yes, yes.” He rolls his eyes. “But you do want to go to the amphitheater, don’t you? See all your friends, dance and applaud and all that sort of nonsense?”
“Well, of course I do, but…” Sophia struggles to comprehend what he can mean. She believed in his wonder, so she said it to him. How could such a thing have purpose other than itself?
“I knew it!” her husband crows triumphantly. Sophia’s chest feels tight. Her shoulders tense against her spine, little spasms of dissonance.
“You think it’s nonsense?” she says quietly.
“Only because it is nonsense. That stuff’s all for you, darling. Dancing, theater, music, fraternization—women’s work! Me, I’d be happy sleeping out on the ground among the herds, eating what falls off the vine, never seeing another soul. Other than you, of course!” Sophia casts her eyes down. “Oh, don’t look so stricken! I like that you like it! Keeps me civilized. We’ll go, I promise. You watch the show, I’ll watch you. And we’ll both be happy.”
Sophia does not look up. She will not ask him. She will not. She will not.
“My love,” she says into her chest.
Her husband wipes the crumbs and grease of his breakfast off on his knees. “What is it now? I’ve already said we’ll go.”
“My love, when we are apart, what do you do?”
His great bright eyes narrow. “What are you talking about? I work. I work hard. I do it for us, Soph.”
“I know! I know, beloved. But what I mean is … what else do you do? Do you have friends, outside Arcadia?”
“My supervisors, if that’s what you’re on about.”
“No, I thought, perhaps … new people. New women?” Women with long, coarse, dark, wild hair. Women missing a fingertip …
He laughs. Sophia adores his laugh. When her dearheart laughs, nothing dark can stay. “Is that what you’ve got your little heart in a knot over?” He grabs her in his arms and swings her around as easily as a clean sheet. He is so big and she is so small. He can make her fly. “Not possible. You are the only woman in the world, Sophia,” he says, pressing his cheek to hers. “You were made for me.”