Lying In Bed Read Online Free Page A

else is wrong though. What is it?” he asked when I’d finished.
    “What?”
    “Something other than the pain is bothering you.”
    “How did you know that?”
    He shrugged. “I can see it in your eyes.”
    “But you don’t know me.”
    “That’s true. But I do know what concern looks like. And you’re concerned?”
    I couldn’t tell him about all of the reactions I was having to him. So I chose the most innocent. “It’s only that you look like someone and it was driving me crazy who it was.” I’ve studied art and painted for years and still look at people as if I was going to draw them. I forget that it’s rude, intrusive and confusing. I forget people on the other end of it find it disconcerting.
    “So who is it? Have you figured it out?”
    I nodded. “You look like a man in a painting. A fresco in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Roman. 3rd century BC.”
    And he did. The same dark wavy hair, wide, almond, intelligent eyes: deep set and harboring a haunted expression. The same arrogant high cheekbones, aquiline nose and long neck.
    I pictured the portrait that I’d stopped in front of a dozen times on my way in or out of the Egyptian wing because the man’s gaze – even though it was only pigment on stone – demanded it.
    “Only your toga and crown are missing.”
    He tilted his head and looked at me as if he was figuring something out. Then he smiled. “I’ll have to go see him, then. I’d like to see how I look in a toga. And the idea of a crown is very appealing. I haven’t been to the Met in too long anyway.”
    “It’s a wreath really.”
    “Build up my ego and then dash it to bits in mere seconds. You’re heartless,” he joked.
    I don’t know what it was that gave me the feeling he was so secure, but listening to him, I didn’t think anyone could dash his ego. Except it wasn’t egotistical or obnoxious. It was a good thing that this man was sure of himself. It was as if he wore an invisible cloak that kept him slightly removed from the dangers and weaknesses that could attack the rest of us mere mortals.
    Or was I projecting what I felt about the man in the painting on to his 21st-century double?
    Some people’s faces are open. Their expressions easy to read, all their features following in a certain logic. Their lips and eyes and their facial lines declare the same emotion at the same time.
    This man’s face did not fall into one easy-to-read communication. Yes, he was smiling – his lips moved, the left side lifting a little higher than the right, and the grin showed irony and humor. But his eyes retained something more serious and deeply curious. At the same time they were rebellious. As if he didn’t only accept what he saw but challenged it.
    As he continued cradling my hand in both of his, I was aware of where we made contact but I didn’t know why.
    It was unexplained.
    And the unexplained troubled me.
    It occurred to me, standing there, in the store, with a man I didn’t know but felt as if I did, that it would be better if I disengaged my hand, stepped back, excused myself and asked Grace to help him.
    But I didn’t. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t run away.
    Instead I let him continue to hold my hand as a shiver of – what? recognition? pleasure? fear? – shot up my arms and down my neck and pushed my pulse into overdrive. How long did it last? Probably thirty seconds? Maybe ten minutes. A day? Two nights? I didn’t seem to be thinking straight.
    “Do you have a first aid kit here?”
    I said there was and that I’d clean up the cut.
    “You won’t be able to do it with only one good hand. Show me where the kit is.” He wasn’t asking, he was mandating.
    “No. I’m fine.”
    I had assumed he’d drop my hand and walk off. But he didn’t. He just stood there, his continued presence as clear a communication as if he’d spoken.
    “Okay, its this way.”
    I led him to the restroom, where I pulled out the first aid kit from under the sink and handed it to