The Breezes by Joseph O'Neill

Hmm?’ She kissed the corner of my mouth. ‘Don’t look so glum. Come on, cheer up, you’re making me feel sad.’ I stayed seated, holding her, drawing strength from her heat.
    She said, ‘Johnny, it’s not good. It’s not good.’
    Like a deer emerging from forest into a space of light, a truth enters a mental clearing: there is no way that Angela will ever become a Breeze.
    I crush out my cigarette and go to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water. Then I remain standing there like a man recovering from a run, both hands pushing against the edge of the work surface, head down, shoulders hunched.
    I go to the lavatory. I wash my hands. I find myself back in the empty living-room.
    When I telephoned her at work on Friday, I didn’t press her for a timetable of her movements this weekend. I wasn’t going to ask her to account for her activities – why should I? Angela would go her way and I would go mine, and we would meet up at her flat at nine o’clock.
    So why isn’t she here?
    She could, I suppose, be working. This past fortnight has seen her going flat-out on one of her projects – don’t ask me which one – and in fact I haven’t laid eyes on her for a week.Every time I have rung her at the office to fix something up, an obstacle has arisen.
    â€˜I don’t think so, darling, not tonight. I’m working late.’
    â€˜OK,’ I say. ‘How about tomorrow night?’
    â€˜Darling, I’m working tomorrow night, too. I’m not sure when I’ll be back. And I just wouldn’t be any fun, I’d just come home and flop out.’
    I swallow my disappointment. I cannot bring myself to say anything. These are not easy times and I need her. I need every hand on deck.
    Angela detects my upset. ‘How’s work going?’ she says.
    â€˜OK,’ I say shortly. ‘Same as ever.’ There is a silence as I compose myself. Then I say, ‘Well, then, how about …’
    She interrupts me. ‘I’ve got to go now,’ she says in the flat voice she uses when someone comes into her office. ‘Speak to you later, OK?’
    That is how it has been all week.
    She could be seeing someone else. At this very moment she could be seeing another man.
    No. There is no way that she would ever two-time me. Not Angela. If there’s one person in the world I can bank on not to let me down, it’s her. I know her: she’s not the type to cheat. She’s open and straightforward. Any time that there has been a problem, she has come straight out with it.
    But maybe she has changed. Maybe she has hardened, like her body. This year, thanks to her work-outs at the fitness club, Angela’s physique, like land visited by a glacier, has been smoothened, transformed from soft bumpy terrain into an unfamiliar plain of muscle. Normally, of course, this would be cause for erotic celebration and renewal; but there’s something aloof about that revamped body – the taut, independent stomach, the unmalleable buttocks, the tense, untrembling thighs – which makes me nervous. That body is under new management, and I’m not the reason why.

7
    It doesn’t bear thinking about.
    But then, right now, what does? This afternoon – does that bear thinking about?
    Too shaken up by the incident with the midget to drive the car, Pa let me chauffeur him home. ‘Just take it easy on the gear changes,’ he said as I removed the keys from the pocket of his anorak. He eased himself into his seat with difficulty and tiredly strapped his belt across his chest. ‘Go slowly,’ he said, then fell back and closed his eyes. By the time I had accelerated into the main road and found a niche in the traffic, he was fast asleep. He sat in a sideways slump, his head knocking slightly against the shivering window, his breath expelled in a slow, regular gasp. I felt a warm gladness that he was