Where or When Read Online Free Page B

the paper, the weekly literary supplement.
    He is thinking, as he turns the pages, of a book he has ordered at the bookstore and forgotten about; he must call to see if it is in yet. It’s a volume by the French philosopher Paul Ricoeur; it must definitely be in now: he ordered it—what?—in July, he is sure. Perhaps, he is thinking as he idly peruses the table of contents, the bookstore did call, and Harriet answered and has simply forgotten to mention it to him. And it is then, in the middle of this thought, that he turns the page and sees the photograph.
    His hand stops. He looks at the photograph. He lays the paper flat.
    He lets his breath out slowly. He looks at the picture, reads the print around it.
    It is Siân Richards. Of course he knows by the name. Another woman might conceivably have this name as well, though he thinks that unlikely. More than the name, it is her photograph that makes him certain. It is, without question, the same face, the same expression in the eyes. He brings his hand up to his face, smooths his jawline with the back of his fingers. He puts his hand down on the desk, on the newspaper, and notices that it is trembling.
    He studies the photograph. The woman in the picture is now forty-five, he knows, the same age as he is. Would he know this from the photograph? He cannot say for sure. Her hair is loose, wavy; he remembers it as a kind of pale bronze, particularly in the sunlight, with glints of fresh copper wire, though it seems from the black-and-white photograph that the highlights may have become muted over time. Her face is somewhat tilted, slightly turned, so that though she looks directly at the viewer, the sense is that her face is in profile. She is not smiling, but the gaze is steady—serious yet not sad. The suggestion from the eyes is that she is poised or waiting somehow, though he cannot imagine what precisely it is that she seems to be waiting for. She is wearing large gold earrings, simple circles, and what appears to be a black sweater or soft shirt with an open neckline, like that of a ballet dancer. The photograph stops just below her breasts. He remembers her mouth.
    The mouth is generous; he has not forgotten that.
    He reads the print again. She is a poet. She has a book.
    He holds the newspaper up—looks across the desk at the picture. He remembers the high white forehead. He cannot escape the feeling that she is looking at him.
    How many years has it been? The number staggers him. He remembers with absolute clarity the first time he ever saw her. He puts the paper down, again flat on the desk. He reads the smaller print about the book of poems. He notes the publisher’s name. He hears then a sound, the soft brush of fabric on wood, and he looks up to see that Harriet is in the doorway. She stands, arms crossed over her chest, resting against the jamb, observing him. Her face is not angry, but it is closed. She seems about to speak, to ask a question.
    He might lift up the literary supplement and show Harriet the picture. He might say to his wife, You’ll never guess who this is. Instead he does something that surprises him, that makes a faint blush of heat rise from his neck to his face and lodge behind his ears. He leans forward over the desk, arms spread, elbows cocked. With his left forearm, he shields the picture of the woman in the newspaper.

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    That night, when I had already entered your thoughts, I drove my husband home from the college. I had found him in a bar around the corner from the party. He’d been drinking Guinness and Bass, a string of half-and-halfs. He was sitting alone, and he tried a smile when I approached.
    I said, Stephen.
    He collected his change from the counter and slid off the stool. He was a gentle, brooding man, though large and muscular. He had pale blond hair, nearly white, and the high, pink color of a man who spends his days in the sun. On the right side of his face near his jaw was