Fragile by Lisa Unger Page B

battering, but instead his father deflated in the doorway. His eyes took on a kind of glassy quality, and he seemed lost in looking at something high above Marshall’s head. Then he turned and walked away. Marshall didn’t even feel strong enough to hate him.
    He turned back to the screen and was surprised to see he had a new message. When he saw that it was from Charlene, he almost couldn’t believe his eyes.
    Hey, Marshall, it read. Are you still good for that ride? Can you meet me on Persimmon and Hydrangea?
    When Charlie awoke, there was a moment before he remembered where he was and how he’d gotten there. He was aware of the sick pounding behind his eyes that came when he drank too much red wine. Then he was aware of the soft, clean bedding, so unlike the dirty, tangled mess he slept in at home. And then there was the measured breathing of a woman sleeping beside him. Slowly, the dawning, the memory ofthe evening, crept into his consciousness. This would usually be the moment when he rooted around on the floor for his clothes, crept naked from the bedroom, dressed hastily in the hallway, bathroom, living room—wherever—and got out as fast as possible.
    But he didn’t feel the urge to do that. He turned instead to look at her, the lines of her. The round of her shoulder, the swell of her hip beneath the sheet, the curl of her fingers and hollow of her palm resting on the pillow beside her face. Oh, she was pretty, in a real way. She didn’t need to dye her hair or wear so much makeup. She didn’t have the kind of beauty that washed off, got stale, smeared on the pillow. She had peaches-and-cream skin and washed-denim, kitty-shaped eyes. Maybe in the first blush of youth she’d been a killer, a bombshell. But age had revealed the mettle of her beauty; it would not fade with time.
    Her breath smelled of peppermint, which told him that she’d gotten up to brush her teeth after he’d drifted off. There was something about that, something nice.
    There’s something about you, Charlie. I always feel like I’m going to show up for work one day and you’ll be gone. You’ll have gotten on to that thing you’ve been meaning to do all the while you were doing this. Every day I see you, I’m a little surprised. You know what I mean?
    She’d said it with a certain kind of wistful sadness that touched him, that flattered him. He liked that she saw him this way.
    I do know what you mean, Wanda .
    So what is it? What is this thing you’ve been meaning to do?
    I write . He looked down and cleared his throat. It was embarrassing, as though he was in love with a movie star, or hoping to summit Everest. I’m a writer .
    When he looked back at her, she was smiling. Not laughing, not giving him that Good luck, don’t quit your day job derisive kind of smirk.
    I knew it , she said. I knew it .
    He felt something shift inside him, something move and start to grow. The look on her face made him want to be what she clearly thought he was, someone with a secret talent, someone who was marking time until he got his big break.
    In her sleep, she shifted closer to him. His bladder ached. He held it awhile, not wanting to break the spell of lying there beside her. But eventually, nature would not be denied. He moved quietly to the small bathroom. When he shut the door and turned on the light, he was greeted with his reflection in a full-length mirror. He was shocked by how bad he looked, how pasty and out of shape.
    He could have lived with fat. You had a passion for food, you got big because of it. Whatever. He, on the other hand, took no enjoyment whatsoever from the garbage he habitually ate—bags of chips and tubs of soda, all manner of fast food, Taco Bell and McDonald’s most often, Burger King in a pinch. And his physiology didn’t allow him to get fat exactly—not big and round, not pink and portly. His torso looked like a spent white pillar candle, flesh drooping. In the light he appeared as underdeveloped as an