Intimations by Alexandra Kleeman

dishes, Ned Regan would sit down at the table with a cool glass of fresh whole milk squeezed from his favorite cow, Lainey. Ned used to say that it was this daily glass of milk that reminded him why he should get up the next morning and do it all over again. He also said that it had cured him of acid reflux and sleep apnea. Ned was a picture of health, his cheeks ruddy and tanned, his teeth straight and the strong hands clutching a column of pure thick white. But as he brought the glass to his mouth and began sucking up the creamy, frothy top with his sun-chapped lips, Karen always fought the desire to look away. She could hear the wet slap of tongue againstliquid, the greedy glug of the throat as it tried to swallow as much as it could and then swallow more. When he had finished the entire glass and breathed a sigh of relief, she saw the white ghost of milkfat on his upper lip and couldn’t help but think of him as an infant, a gigantic callused infant.
    The apartment opened up onto the disorderly kitchen. The kitchen was as she knew it would be: dishes undone, sliced cheese splayed out in the open. There was a bowl of cereal sitting out on top of the stove that she had forgotten to eat. Martin was looking at the spices on the rack and nodding at them. He pointed at one.
    â€œVery nice,” he said.
    â€œWhat?” asked Karen.
    â€œTurmeric,” he answered.
    Karen crumpled the pile of paper and cheese into a ball and stuffed it in the trash.
    â€œWould you give me a tour?” asked Martin. From where he stood he could already see almost the entirety of the apartment, which was arranged in a straight line from the door toward a large back window. The only thing he couldn’t see into was the bedroom, a small closed-in room with walls all around. It had a small window onto the rest of the apartment. “Like a cave,” the realtor had said.
    â€œSure,” said Karen, washing her hands. She dried them on a paper towel.
    She showed him the kitchen table and the bathroom with its goldfish-printed shower curtain. She showed him the couch and the heating duct and the bookshelf with its array of old schoolbooks and novels. She showed him a plant that she had been given by a friend when she moved into thisapartment. She stood outside the bedroom and explained how it was very difficult for light to find its way inside, which made it a good place to sleep and write. Her desk was inside the small lightless room, and sitting at it occasionally made Karen feel so desperate that she went over to the bed and fell asleep instead.
    â€œWhat do you think you’d like to watch?” Karen asked.
    â€œWhat?” asked Martin.
    â€œWhat kind of movie do you want to see. I have some of everything,” she said.
    â€œOh,” said Martin, “I’ll watch what you want.”
    â€œI don’t have any Dreyer,” she said.
    â€œDo you usually watch in bed?” he asked, pointing up at the lofted mattress.
    â€œSometimes I watch at the desk,” she said, pointing at the desk.
    â€œOkay,” he said, “the desk.”
    â€œThere’s another chair in the kitchen,” Karen said. She went to get it, but Martin stopped her.
    â€œShould I take off my shoes?” he asked.
    â€œOh,” she said. “Yes.”
    He bent over and untied each shoe before pulling it off. His shoes were leather sneakers with a letter B on the side. As she watched him, Karen could see that his hands were shaking badly. He had trouble holding the little ends of the shoelaces as he tugged to undo them. He straightened his body up.
    â€œI think one chair is fine,” said Martin, sitting down in the rolling desk chair. It squeaked. They looked at each other.
    â€œI’d like to sit, too,” Karen said, her arms stiff.
    Martin leaned forward and took her hands in his, pulling her toward him. His hands were shaking so much that her hands shook too. Their hands jittered together like