And what might make a person desire another’s life so much? Someone perhaps whose real name was Adele Kaczynski, a biracial woman born on the east side who turned out darker than her white mother could live with, and was left on the steps of the Northwestern Teaching Hospital. Someone who had grown up on the South Side moving from foster home to foster home. Someone who fell in love with her last foster father and who began dancing in strip clubs at sixteen to pay for his drug habit and who finally left him and fled to Las Vegas to pursue her dream of becoming a real dancer. Someone who changed her name first to Egypt, then Nile, before deciding they were too common, finally settling on Asia; maybe that kind of person.
She had a couple of dance auditions in the afternoon for some new shows that would open in the New Year that she was excited about. It was tough competition, though, and with each year it got tougher as she got older and her competition grew younger, a ridiculous thing for a twenty-six-year-old to be worried about, but this was Vegas.
Landing a role in a show like Zumanity would mean she could give up prostitution. It was possible to make fifty, sometimes sixty thousand a year in a show like that, minus tips. Perhaps then she could give in to Sunil, give in to her own feelings. But until then, there was breakfast.
When she’d first shared her dream with Sunil, about dancing in a big show, he’d asked: Why not just dance in one of the strip clubs until then? That way you can give up prostitution. She’d never told him about her past, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. Sunil’s impression of her was the only one she cared about, and the fact that he thought she was a prostitute through some thoughtless action on her part felt unbearable. She wanted to tell him all of this. Instead she’d said: What would we have if I weren’t a prostitute? And although she’d been happy to see the look of shame cross his face, she regretted saying it.
Today there would be no real fight, just the pretense of one, the kind that added to her fantasy of domestic ordinariness. Things like — I wish you’d take your head out of your paper and look at me once in a while. Or — Why do you always leave burned toast crumbs in the butter? Or — That’s way too much milk. You should watch your cholesterol. And he would reply in safe, predictable ways. That kind of fight turned her on and she would make sure she got one this morning.
Hey, he said, kissing her on the cheek before reaching for a cup and pouring some coffee — black, two Equals. The casual manner of that peck on her cheek turned her on, made her sticky and breathless. He sat at the table and turned on his Kindle to read the New York Times.
Sleep well, she asked, pouring the whipped egg whites into the melted butter in the pan.
Not really, he said, sipping loudly on the hot coffee. You?
I always sleep well when you hold me, she said. But the muttered words seemed stirred into the sizzling contents of the pan, drowned by the scraping of the plastic spatula on the Teflon.
He looked up briefly and then returned to the Times. The little electronic pad wasn’t the same as actual paper, but it was just as good in different ways.
Eat while it’s hot, she said. She put the eggs onto a plate, laid the toast next to it, and gave it to him.
Thank you, he said, scraping the toast slowly. The black granules of burned bread gathered in a small pile in the corner of his plate. A few black crumbs missed the pile and flecked his eggs like pepper.
She had her back to him, cutting the grapefruit, releasing a zest of citrus into the kitchen. The sun was higher now and the earlier deep-blue light was now much lighter. He studied her. Every movement she made seemed calculated — no, not calculated, deliberate. As though she was in total control of every muscle in her body.
What, she asked, blushing as she turned into his gaze. She placed the bowl of grapefruit on the table opposite him and sat. There was something in your look, she said.
There was, he asked, looking up from his toast.
Yes, she insisted, spoon poised like a snake ready to strike. He thought he’d never seen her look so beautiful. The whistle of the kettle reprieved him.
Well, she asked, and dunked a bag of green tea in the hot water. The mist reached in a thin column for her face as though in caress. He watched intently, and while part of him wanted to smile, the other felt lost. He had never felt less certain about anything than he did now. The last few days had proved unsettling. In the early years of his internship in Europe he’d had a stint as a family counselor and he always asked his clients what kind of animal their relationship would be, if it were an animal. Now he found himself thinking the same thing about him and Asia. A startled colt came to mind, a colt trying to find its way out of a paddock on a cold winter day. At once terrified and thrilled by the moment and all that it had to offer.
I don’t know what you mean, he said, and his voice trailed off as he shoved some toast into his mouth.
In any other context she would have left the comment where he had, dangling. But this was breakfast and she had made it and it was, well, it was different. This was what couples did, she thought. Fought over nothing.
It sounds like there’s something, she said.
He shoveled the last of the eggs into his mouth, swallowed some coffee. Asia always made him feel this way. Like he had done something wrong, like if he wasn’t careful, he would break this thing between them. He wanted to tell her he loved her. But she knew that. He wanted to have a different life, but he couldn’t articulate what that would be. So he said nothing, gazing into his coffee with resolve. The cup was almost empty, but he didn’t think it was a good time to push back from the table and get some more.
You say you love me, but you keep things from me, she said.
This was getting ridiculous. Might as well get more coffee, he thought, standing.
This was such a nice breakfast, she said. Her grapefruit sat untouched, the cooling green tea clutched in her fist.
I love breakfast with you, he said, pouring coffee into his cup. He returned to the table, where he stirred the fine white powder from the Equal packets into the dark cup. Some of the sweetener spilled around the cup. He thought it looked too much like top-grade heroin and wondered if that was what they used in the movies — all those scenes where actors heaped fingers of uncut heroin into their mouths to test the drug. That much uncut heroin would probably kill a person, he’d said to Asia as they sat watching The French Connection one rainy Saturday. Shh, she’d said. It’s just make-believe.
You’re not eating, he said.
Not much of an appetite, she said, and stood up. At the sink she emptied the fruit down the garbage disposal and ran the tap. He wanted to tell her that the rinds would gum up the works, but the noisy whirring made it impossible and he thought it was probably just as well. He wasn’t sure why they were fighting, not sure if it was just what he’d said or if there was something else, something he would never guess at. Psychiatry wasn’t much use in a relationship.
She turned the garbage disposal off but left the tap running, playing her fingers through the water. With her back to him, Sunil couldn’t see the small smile forming on her lips. She was ridiculously, unaccountably happy. She loved him, that was true, but she loved these moments more, where she got to play at being normal, fights and all. The way it felt in her body. Like an itch that released deliciously under a slow scratch.
Asia, he said. I’m sorry.
She was so happy, she thought she would cry. Don’t be, she said. I’m just being foolish.