The Exact Distance

Now

Ana counts how many times I’ve been late this week. Three. Fifteen minutes yesterday, twenty on Tuesday, almost half an hour on Thursday. She keeps track as if it were a scoreboard.

—It’s not about the time—she says while chopping vegetables for dinner—. It’s about the lack of respect.

The knife hits the cutting board harder than necessary. Each chop sounds like an accusation.

—I called to let you know.

—You called when you were already late. That’s not a heads-up, that’s just reporting.

Ana speaks without looking at me, with that icy calm she has perfected in the past few months. It’s worse than shouting. Shouting ends; this coldness floats in the air for hours.

—How many times do I have to ask you the same thing?

I don’t answer because I know any answer will be wrong. If I apologize, she’ll say I don’t mean it. If I explain, she’ll say I always have excuses.

Two and a half years ago

I saw her for the first time in a bookstore. She was in the foreign fiction section, holding a book in each hand, comparing covers. Her hair was tied up with a pencil and her jeans fit perfectly at the hips.

She noticed me looking and smiled. Not a polite smile, but something closer to an invitation.

—Which would you choose?—she asked, holding up the two books.

—Depends what for.

—For a rainy afternoon in bed.

The way she said “bed” made something shift in my stomach.

—Then the one on the left. More pages.

—More pages means better?

—For a rainy afternoon in bed, yes.

Ana laughed, and the sound made me want to do whatever it took to hear it again.

—Do you always give literary advice to strangers?

—Only to strangers who read foreign fiction.

—And why’s that?

—Because they have good taste.

Ana looked at me for a long moment, as if deciding something.

—Want a coffee? To keep talking about my good taste.

Now

Ana opens the fridge and starts rearranging things that are already perfectly arranged. She moves the yogurt two centimeters to the left, turns a water bottle so the label faces forward.

—I’ve been thinking—she says, head still inside the fridge—. I think we need rules.

—What kind of rules?

—House rules. Schedules, responsibilities, basics.

She shuts the fridge and turns to face me. Her eyes have that look I know well: the look of someone who’s been preparing this conversation for days.

—For example, if you’re going to be late, you have to give me at least an hour’s notice.

—An hour seems like a lot.

—It seems fair. I also think we should alternate the weekly groceries and keep a shared expense list.

The word “shared” sounds like a threat.

—What if I don’t agree?

Ana looks at me as if I’ve said something obscene.

—Why wouldn’t you agree? It’s basic organization for two adults living together.

Adults. Lately she uses that word like a club.

Two years ago

At the café, Ana ordered a cortado and I got an Americano. We sat at a table by the window. It was raining, just as she had predicted.

—What do you do?—she asked.

—Graphic design. You?

—Psychology. I work at a family therapy center.

—Does that mean you can read my mind?

—It means I can tell when someone’s nervous.

—Am I nervous?

—You’ve been playing with the sugar packet for five minutes.

I looked down and realized she was right. I dropped the packet on the table and Ana laughed.

—It’s fine. It’s cute.

—Being nervous is cute?

—On you, yes.

There was something in the way she looked at me that made everything else disappear. The clatter of the café, the rain against the glass, the conversations around us—gone. There was only Ana, biting her lower lip when she was thinking.

—Can I ask you a personal question?—she said.

—Shoot.

—Do you have a girlfriend?

—No.

—Boyfriend?

—Nope.

—Why not?

—Because I hadn’t found anyone who made me nervous enough.

Ana smiled and leaned forward, elbows on the table.

—That’s a very good answer.

Now

Ana pulls a notebook from the drawer and sets it on the kitchen table. It’s new, with a blue cover and her name written on the first page in her perfect handwriting.

—I made a list—she says.

The list has ten points. I skim through them: schedules, expenses, cleaning, groceries, visits, phones, weekend plans, personal time, couple time, weekly review.

Weekly review.

—Weekly review of what?

—Of how we’re following the rules. To see what’s working and what needs adjusting.

I feel like I’m reading the operating manual for a machine.

—Ana, this is… a lot.

—It’s what we need. We can’t keep improvising.

—Improvising? Is that what we’ve been doing these past three years?

Ana shuts the notebook with a sharp thud.

—These three years brought us here. And here isn’t working.

Here. As if our relationship were a place you could leave.

A year and a half ago

The first night Ana stayed in my bed, neither of us slept much. We’d had dinner at my place after three weeks of dates, and when the wine was gone she didn’t make a move to leave.

—Show me the rest of the apartment?—she asked.

The rest of the apartment was basically the bedroom. Ana sat on the edge of the bed and ran her hands over the duvet.

—Is your bed always this perfectly made?

—I made it this morning because I knew you were coming.

—And if I hadn’t come?

—I’d have made it anyway, but without a reason.

Ana kicked off her shoes and lay down, stretching her arms over her head. Her shirt rode up, exposing a strip of skin at her waist.

—Come here—she said.

I lay down next to her. Ana turned toward me and placed a hand on my chest.

—Nervous again?

—A little.

—Of what?

—Doing something wrong.

Ana moved closer until her face was inches from mine.

—Like what?

—Like this.

I kissed her. Her lips were warm and tasted of red wine. Ana let out a soft moan against my mouth, and that sound lit up my whole body.

—That’s not wrong—she whispered—. That’s very right.

Now

—I don’t want rules—I say.

Ana looks up from the notebook. In her eyes there’s something like disappointment, only colder.

—Then what do you want?

—I want us to go back to how we used to be.

—Which “used to be”?

—When you weren’t keeping lists of my lateness. When we didn’t need rules to live together.

Ana folds her arms.

—We were different then. Back then you showed up on time without me asking. Back then you listened when I spoke.

—I do listen.

—No, you don’t. You hear me talking, but you don’t hear what I’m saying.

Ana starts pacing the kitchen, touching things for no reason—the coffee maker, the microwave, the sugar jar.

—Do you know what it’s like living with someone who doesn’t listen to you? It’s like talking to yourself all the time.

—That’s not true.

—Isn’t it? What did we talk about at dinner last night?

I can’t remember. We ate watching the news, like always. Ana said something, but I was thinking about work.

—We talked about… your job.

—We talked about how my mother’s sick and going in for surgery next week.

The silence drops between us like a slab of stone.

A year ago

One April night, after making love, Ana told me she loved me. We were sweaty and spent, legs tangled under the sheets.

—What did you say?—I asked.

—That I love you.

She turned her head to look at me. Her hair stuck to her forehead, her lips swollen from kissing.

—I love you too—I said.

—Really?

—Really.

Ana smiled and snuggled against my chest.

—Since when?—she asked.

—Since the first moment. Since the bookstore.

—Liar.

—It’s true. Since you said the thing about the rainy afternoon in bed.

Ana laughed and bit my chest gently.

—That was an invitation.

—I know.

—So why did you take so long to accept it?

—Because I wanted to be sure it was real.

—And now?

—Now I’m sure.

Ana lifted her head and kissed me long and deep. When she pulled back, her eyes were shining.

—I like being sure with you—she said.

Now

—I’m sorry—I say—. I forgot about your mother.

—It’s not about forgetting. It’s about not even hearing me when I told you.

Ana leans against the counter and looks at me like I’m a stranger.

—You know what’s worst?

—What?

—That you act like it’s my fault. Like I’m nagging you just because I want your attention.

—I don’t think you’re nagging.

—Don’t you? Then why, every time I tell you something important, do you change the subject or grab your phone?

—I don’t do that.

—You do it constantly. And when I tell you, you look at me like I’m crazy.

Ana runs her hands through her hair—a gesture she makes when she’s exhausted.

—I’m tired of feeling invisible in my own home.

—You’re not invisible.

—I am to you. I’m just another piece of furniture. Something that’s there, that serves its function, but doesn’t need attention.

Her words hurt because I know they’re partly true.

Eight months ago

Ana officially moved in on a Saturday in August. There was no ceremony, no grand gesture—she just showed up with two suitcases and a box of books and we decided that was it, this was her home too.

—Are you sure?—I asked as I hung her clothes in my closet.

—Sure about what?

—About this. Living with me.

Ana turned from the closet. She was wearing one of my t-shirts and a pair of black lace panties. Her legs were tanned and still summer-long.

—Aren’t you sure?

—I’m completely sure. I just want to make sure you are too.

Ana came closer and wrapped her arms around my neck.

—Do you know why I’m sure?

—Why?

—Because with you, I feel at home.

—At home?

—Like I’ve finally arrived where I was supposed to be.

She kissed me slowly, savoring every second.

—Also—she said against my lips—, I like how you smell in the mornings.

—How do I smell?

—Like a sleeping man. Like sex and coffee.

—That’s good?

—That’s perfect.

Ana pushed me onto the bed and climbed on top of me.

—Now this is our bed—she said—. Our home, our life.

—Our life—I repeated.

And in that moment, Ana straddling me, sunset light spilling through the window, I thought we were invincible.

Now

—You’re not furniture—I say, but the words ring hollow.

—Then prove it.

—How?

—Ask me something. Anything. Something you don’t know about me.

I go blank. Ana and I have been together three years and I can’t think of a single question.

—How’s work?—I finally say.

Ana laughs, but it’s not a happy laugh.

—That’s not a question, that’s small talk.

—Then what do you want me to ask?

—I want you to want to know something about me. To feel curious about my life, my thoughts, what worries me, what makes me happy.

Ana sits at the table and looks at me hard.

—Tell me one thing I’ve told you this week.

I replay our conversations in my head. Ana talked about work, about a fight with her sister, about a show she was watching. But the details slip away, as if I’d heard them from another room.

—You talked about your sister.

—What about my sister?

—She was… mad at you.

—She wasn’t mad at me. She was mad at her husband and called me to vent. I told her to consider couple’s therapy.

Ana looks at me as if I’ve just confirmed something she already knew.

—You didn’t even listen to that conversation.

Four months ago

One May night, Ana woke up crying. It was three a.m., her sobs pulling me out of sleep.

—What’s wrong?—I asked, pulling her close.

—I dreamed you died.

Ana shook against my chest. Her face was wet with tears, hair stuck to her cheeks.

—It was just a nightmare.

—It was so real. You were in a hospital and I couldn’t get in to see you.

—I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.

Ana lifted her head to look at me in the dark.

—Promise?

—I promise.

—How can you promise that?

—Because there’s nowhere I’d rather be than here with you.

Ana slowly calmed. I stroked her hair until she fell asleep again. I stayed awake a long time, wondering what it would feel like to lose her.

Now

—You’re right—I say—. I don’t listen like I should.

Ana nods, not surprised.

—Why do you think that is?

—I don’t know.

—I do. It’s because you don’t see me anymore.

Ana walks to the window. She rests her hands on the glass and stares outside.

—At the beginning you looked at me like I was interesting. Like I was someone worth discovering.

—You’re still interesting.

—Not to you. To you I’m predictable. You know what I’m going to say before I say it, you know how I’ll react, you know what will upset me. There are no surprises left.

She turns toward me.

—And without surprises, there’s no curiosity. And without curiosity, no attention.

Ana speaks with the calm of someone who has been analyzing the problem for a long time.

—Are you curious about me?—she asks.

I think about the question for a long time. When was the last time I wondered what Ana was thinking? The last time I wanted to know something new about her?

—No—not anymore.

Ana nods as if confirming a diagnosis.

—Me neither.

Silence stretches between us for several minutes. Ana keeps looking out the window; I sit at the table with the rulebook in front of me.

—What do we do?—I finally ask.

Ana turns. There’s a strange calm in her face, like she’s already decided something.

—I think we already know.

—We do?

—We’ve been preparing for this for months. The fights, the rules, the silence. It’s all been leading here.

Ana walks to the bedroom. I follow. She goes to the dresser and pulls out a travel bag I hadn’t seen before.

—How long have you been packing this?—I ask.

—Two weeks.

—And you weren’t going to tell me?

—I’m telling you now.

Ana opens drawers and starts putting clothes into the bag. Her movements are mechanical, practiced.

—You’re leaving?

—I’m going to my sister’s for a few days. To think.

—Think about what?

Ana stops and looks at me.

—Whether this can be fixed, or if it’s too late.

—What do you think?

—I think we’re so tired of trying that we’ve forgotten why we tried.

Ana zips the bag and slings it over her shoulder.

—How long do you need?—I ask.

—I don’t know. A few days. A week.

Ana walks to the apartment door. I follow, hands useless at my sides.

—And after?

—After we talk.

Ana opens the door and turns to me one last time.

—You know what’s saddest?—she says.

—What?

—That we both knew this was inevitable, but neither of us had the courage to say it sooner.

Ana leaves and closes the door softly, not with a slam. It’s worse than a slam. It’s like she left on tiptoe so as not to wake something already dead.

I stay standing in the entryway for a long time, listening to the apartment’s silence. A silence that no longer feels like peace, but absence.

I go to the kitchen and pick up the rulebook. Flip through it one more time before dropping it in the trash. Then I put water on to boil for a tea I don’t even want.

Outside the window, the afternoon light is turning gray.