The time traveler's wife Read Online Free Page A

so...young."
She pinches my nipples, hard. The hell with virtue. I've figured out the
mechanics of her dress. The next morning:
    Clare: I wake up and I don't know where I am.
An unfamiliar ceiling. Distant traffic noises. Bookshelves. A blue armchair
with my velvet dress slung across it and a man's tie draped over the dress.
Then I remember. I turn my head and there's Henry. So simple, as though I've
been doing it all my life. He is sleeping with abandon, torqued into an
unlikely shape as though he's washed up on some beach, one arm over his eyes to
shut out the morning, his long black hair splayed over the pillow. So simple.
Here we are. Here and now, finally now. I get out of bed carefully. Henry's bed
is also his sofa. The springs squeak as I stand up. There's not much space
between the bed and the bookshelves, so I edge along until I make it into the
hallway. The bathroom is tiny. I feel like Alice in Wonderland, grown huge and
having to stick my arm out the window just so I can turn around. The ornate
little radiator is clanking out heat. I pee and wash my hands and my face. And
then I notice that there are two toothbrushes in the white porcelain toothbrush
holder. I open the medicine cabinet. Razors, shaving cream, Listerine, Tylenol,
aftershave, a blue marble, a toothpick, deodorant on the top shelf. Hand
lotion, tampons, a diaphragm case, deodorant, lipstick, a bottle of
multivitamins, a tube of spermicide on the bottom shelf. The lipstick is a very
dark red. I stand there, holding the lipstick. I feel a little sick. I wonder
what she looks like, what her name is. I wonder how long they've been going
out. Long enough, I guess. I put the lipstick back, close the medicine cabinet.
In the mirror I see myself, white-faced, hair flying in all directions. Well,
whoever you are, I'm here now. You may be Henry's past, but I'm his future. I
smile at myself. My reflection grimaces back at me. I borrow Henry's white
terrycloth bathrobe from the back of the bathroom door. Underneath it on the
hook is a pale blue silk robe. For no reason at all wearing his bathrobe makes
me feel better. Back in the living room, Henry is still sleeping. I retrieve my
watch from the windowsill and see that it's only 6:30. I'm too restless to get
back into bed. I walk into the kitchenette in search of coffee. All the
counters and the stove are covered with stacks of dishes, magazines, and other
reading material. There's even a sock in the sink. I realize that Henry must
have simply heaved everything into the kitchen last night, regardless. I always
had this idea that Henry was very tidy. Now it becomes clear that he's one of
those people who is fastidious about his personal appearance but secretly
slovenly about everything else. I find coffee in the fridge, and find the
coffee maker, and start the coffee. While I wait for it to brew, I peruse
Henry's bookshelves. Here is the Henry I know. Donne's Elegies and Songs and
Sonnets. Doctor Faustus, by Christopher Marlowe. Naked Lunch. Anne Bradstreet,
Immanuel Kant. Barthes, Foucault, Derrida. Blake's Songs of Innocence and
Experience. Winnie the Pooh. The Annotated Alice. Heidegger. Rilke. Tristram
Shandy. Wisconsin Death Trip. Aristotle. Bishop Berkeley. Andrew Marvell.
Hypothermia, Frostbite and Other Cold Injuries. The bed squeaks and I jump.
Henry is sitting up, squinting at me in the morning light. He's so young, so
before—. He doesn't know me, yet. I have a sudden fear that he's forgotten who
I am.
    "You look cold" he says. "Come
back to bed, Clare."
    "I made coffee," I offer.
    "Mmm, I can smell it. But first come and
say good morning."
    I climb into bed still wearing his bathrobe. As
he slides his hand under it he stops for just a moment, and I see that he has
made the connection, and is mentally reviewing his bathroom vis-a-vis me.
    "Does it bother you?" he asks. I
hesitate.
    "Yes, it does. It does bother you. Of
course." Henry sits up, and I