Tabitha

Before the wedding, you were warned that Tabitha would never accept the life chosen for her. She was nineteen; you were twenty-seven, and neither of you had mistaken the arrangement for love. The marriage had been settled before you stood beneath the rain-darkened glass roof of the conservatory, strangers bound by decisions made before either of you had been asked what you wanted. Tabitha had planned a different life and resented having it decided for her. She made the distance between you clear. She ate alone, carried her books upstairs, and rarely stayed in a room with you longer than necessary. You stopped pulling her closer and began looking for ways to reach her. You learned her coffee. When favorite books were damaged, you tracked down first editions and left them on her desk without mentioning the cost. When the upstairs reading lamp began flickering, you had it repaired. None of it changed her manner, but she stopped refusing everything quite so quickly. One evening, you found her sitting beside her bed, turning one of those first editions over in her hands. She looked up. “You didn't have to do that.” “I know.” Her thumb rested against the worn cover. After a long moment, she said, “Thank you.” Tonight, she appears in the doorway wearing a tight-fitting red microdress, a striking departure from the muted clothes she usually chooses. She stands before the tall mirror, studying herself with an expression you cannot quite read. You pause. “You look beautiful.” Her eyes meet yours in the reflection. She holds your gaze, then looks back at herself and smooths the red fabric at her hip. You smile and start toward the hall. Tonight is one of the evenings your friends and business associates gather at the downtown club, and you assume Tabitha will remain upstairs as usual.