Dream of the Blue Room by Michelle Richmond

discontent.
    “I never get horse accidents in Manhattan, you know,” Dave says, laughing. “An equestrian disaster would pose a new and interesting challenge.” He rolls over and kisses me on the cheek. “Good night.”
    “Good night.”
    The kiss is platonic, but it is a kiss nonetheless, the kindest gesture he has made toward me in months. I can’t help feeling that we’ve reached an unspoken truce.
    And then, unexpectedly, he sits up in bed. “You know I’m just trying to help Stacy. Don’t you?”
    “Yes.”
    “Good,” he says, lying down. Moments later he is asleep. In the low light I look at him, the clean lines of his face, the gentle way his hair falls over his forehead. The boat rocks softly. It’s Red Bingo night, and I can hear the faint hum of the party upstairs. I imagine Graham in his cabin, which is probably identical to ours, save for a slight difference in color scheme. I picture him in bed, turned on his side, his arm hugging a pillow. I wonder if he wears socks to bed. I wonder if he showers before turning in. Does he sleep in his underwear? Does he talk in his sleep? Then I remember him saying that he suffers from insomnia, and I rearrange the picture: he stares out the porthole at the pale orange glow of the moon.
    Dave is snoring softly. The ship sways gently, a giant cradle rocking through the night.

EIGHT
    In the night the river turns silver, the mountains shine down upon it, the air goes cool and wet. This is the China Amanda Ruth wanted, her moonlit landscape, her Land of the Dragon. The villages we pass become magical in darkness, carnival-like and throbbing, though in the day they seem filthy, overcrowded, rubbed raw by industry. Rows of shabby apartment buildings crouch along the riverfront, and in the air there is a stench of coal. The mist mingles with black ash and factory smoke. It takes all of my energy just to breathe.
    The daytime is for Dave. With Elvis Paris as our guide, we tramp through ancient villages, allow ourselves to be dragged from one bizarre tourist trap to another. We could be any married couple, viewing bright Buddhas and crumbling temples, parks gone stiff with cement. Stacy is always at our side. One afternoon, passing through what was once a famous opium den, she tells us that she’s had her own addictions, drugs and alcohol. “Sober six months,” she says. “That’s the real reason I’m here. My parents wanted to get me away from everyone I knew.”
    Dave livens up when she says this, looks her over the way he might scan an emergency case, and I know he’s sizing her up for track marks, bloodshot eyes, visible signs of decline. After that, he pays her even closer attention, keeping her always in his sight, as if at any moment he might be called to pull her back from the abyss.
    Every now and then Dave shares with me a private joke or remembers some moment from our past, calling up our common history. In these moments, as we walk through the crowded streets, keeping the green flag in our sight so as not to become lost from the group, I almost forget how things have become between us: that we do not make love, that we choose words with edges. For a moment I allow myself to believe that Dave might be coming around. But back in our cabin, when I try to kiss him, he allows the kiss for only a couple of seconds before closing his mouth and backing away. It is the fifth night of the cruise. Time is running out.
    “So what’s the schedule like tomorrow?” he says, turning his back on me to undress.
    I thumb through the tour pamphlet. “Temples. World famous hanging coffins. A traditional Chinese opera.”
    He places his shoes side by side at the foot of the bed, folds his used socks before dropping them in the laundry bag. “I wish I were in New York.” Then, seeing my disappointment, he says, “Sorry. I’m having fun. Really. It’s just—you know, travel. Hard on the system.”
    I unbutton my blouse to reveal a new black bra, trimmed with red