well,

excerpt from the hours by michael cunningham

she always surprises you this way, by knowing more than you think she does. louis wonders if they're calculated, these little demonstrations of self-knowledge that pepper clarissa's wise, hostessy performance. she seems, at times, to have read your thoughts. she disarms you by saying, essentially, i know what you're thinking and i agree, i'm ridiculous, i'm far less than i could have been and i'd like it to be otherwise but i can't seem to help myself. you find that you move, almost against your will, from being irritated with her to consoling her, helping her back into her performance so that she can be comfortable again and you can resume feeling irritated.
"so," louis says. "richard is pretty sick."
"yes. his body's not in such terrible shape anymore, but his mind wanders. i'm afraid he was a little too far gone for the protease inhibitors to help him the way they're helping some people."
"it must be terrible."
"he's still himself. i mean, there's this sort of constant quality, some sort of richardness, that's not the least bit different."
"that's good. that's something."
"remember the big dune in wellfleet?" she says.
"sure."
"i was thinking the other day that when i die i'll probably want my ashes scattered there."
"that's awfully morbid," louis says.
"but you think about these things. how could you not?"
clarissa believed then and she believes today that the dune in wellfleet will, in some sense, accompany her forever. whatever else happens, she will always have had that. she will always have been standing on a high dune in the summer. she will always have been young and indestructibly healthy, a little hungover, wearing richard's cotton sweater as he wraps a hand familiarly around her neck and louis stands slightly apart, watching the waves.
"i was furious at you then," louis says. "sometimes i could hardly look at you."
"i know."
"i tried to be good. i tried to be open and free."
"we all tried. i'm not sure the organism is fully capable."
louis says, "i drove up there once. to the house. i don't think i told you."
"no. you didn't."
"it was right before i left for california. i was on a panel in boston, some awful thing about the future of theater, just a crew of pompous old dinosaurs they'd trucked in to give the graduate students something to jeer at, and afterward i was so blue i rented a car and drove out to wellfleet. i hardly had any trouble finding it."
"i probably don't want to know."
"no, it's still there, and it looks pretty much the same. it's been gussied up a little. new paint, you know, and somebody put in a lawn, which looks weird out in the woods, like wall-to-wall carpet. but it's still standing."
"what do you know," clarissa says.
they sit quietly for a moment. it is somehow worse that the house still stands. it is worse that sun and then dark and sun again have entered and left those rooms every day, that rain has continued falling on that roof, that the whole thing could be visited again.
clarissa says, "i should go up there sometime. i'd like to stand on the dune."
"if that's where you think you want your ashes scattered, yes, you should go back and confirm."
"no, you were right, i was being morbid. summer brings it out in me. i have no idea where i'd want my ashes scattered."
clarissa wants, suddenly, to show her whole life to louis. she wants to tumble it out onto the floor at louis's feet, all the vivid, pointless moments that can't be told as stories. she wants to sit with louis and sift through it.
"so," she says. "tell me some more about san francisco."
"it's a pretty little city with great restaurants and nothing going on. my students are mostly imbeciles. really, i'm coming back to new york as soon as i can."
"good. it'd be good to have you back here."
clarissa touches louis's shoulder, and it seems that they will both rise, without speaking, go upstairs to the bedroom, and undress together. it seems they will go to the bedroom and undress not like lovers but like gladiators who've survived the arena, who find themselves bloody and harmed but miraculously alive when all the others have died. they will wince as they unstrap their breastplates and shin guards. they will look at each other with tenderness and reverence; they will gently embrace as new york clatters outside the casement window; as richard sits in his chair listening to voices and sally has her lunch uptown with oliver st. ives.
louis puts his glass down, lifts it, sets it down again. he taps his foot on the carpet, three times.
"it's a little complicated, though," he says. "you see, i've fallen in love."
"really?"
"his name is hunter. hunter craydon."
"hunter craydon. well."
"he was a student of mine last year," louis says.
clarissa leans back, sighs impatiently. this would be the fourth, at least of the ones she knows about. she would like to grab louis and say, you have to age better than this. i can't stand to see you make so much of yourself and then offer it all to some boy just because he happens to be pretty and young.
"he may be the most gifted student i've ever taught," louis says. "he does the most remarkable performances pieces about growing up white and gay in south africa. incredibly powerful."
"well," clarissa says. she can think of nothing else to say. she feels sorry for louis, and deeply impatient, and yet, she thinks, louis is in love. he is in love with a young man. he is fifty-three and still has all that ahead of him, the sex and the ridiculous arguments, the anguish.
"he's amazing," louis says. to his complete surprise, he begins to weep. the tears start simply enough, as a heat at the back of his eyes and a furring of his vision. these spasms of emotion take him constantly. a song can do it; even the sight of an old dog. they pass. they usually pass. this time, though, tears start falling from his eyes almost before he knows it will happen, and for a moment a compartment of his being (the same compartment that counts steps, sips, claps) says to itself, he's crying, how strange. louis leans forward, puts his face in his hands. he sobs.
the truth is that he does not love hunter and hunter does not love him. they are having an affair; only an affair. he fails to think of him for hours at a time. hunter has other boyfriends, a whole future planned, and when he's moved on, louis has to admit, privately, that he won't much miss hunter's shrill laugh, his chipped front tooth, his petulant silences.
there is so little love in the world.
clarissa rubs louis's back with the flat of her hand. what had sally said? we never fight. it was at a dinner somewhere, a year ago or longer. there had been some kind of fish, thick medallions in a puddle of bright yellow sauce (it seemed everything, just then, sat in a puddle of brightly colored sauce). we never fight. it's true. they bicker, they sulk, but they never explode, never shout or weep, never break a dish. it has always seemed that they haven't fought yet; that they're still too new for all-out war; that whole unexplored continents lie ahead once they've worked their way through their initial negotiations and feel sufficiently certain in each other's company to really let loose. what could she have been thinking? she and sally will soon celebrate their eighteenth anniversary together. they are a couple that never fights.
as she rubs louis's back, clarissa thinks, take me with you. i want a doomed love. i want streets at night, wind and rain, no one wondering where i am.