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Date Posted: 20:03:23 03/25/10 Thu
Author: Nell
Author Host/IP: 201-211-228-130.genericrev.cantv.net / 201.211.228.130
Subject: Living the Normal Life 4 (oops! look here!)
In reply to: Nell 's message, "Living the Normal Life 4" on 20:02:49 03/25/10 Thu

***********

His office was so quiet Michael could hear the whirring sound of car tires swishing through the slushy streets, turning Sunday’s fresh snow into a messy, filthy stew before they dried it off the roads altogether in the day’s bright sunshine. He could hear the ticking of the second hand of the ancient, battery powered wall clock hanging overhead and the steam quietly hissing from the radiator in the corner. The creak of his equally ancient chair as he shifted his weight was so loud he flinched.

Slumping down again, he went back to idly spinning his pencil and trying to devise clever profiles to bring a painless end to his relationship with Marie.

The sound of the opening and closing of the back door of the storefront he rented in the brick industrial building, so old it was quaint, in an equally old factory district of St. Paul, followed by shuffling footsteps and distinctive thunk of a cane, brought him upright.

Michael looked over his computer to see Joe Knutsen, former owner of Knutsen Painting, appear in the hallway; wrapped nearly to his bushy white eyebrows in a muffler and parka.

Joe got his winter things off, waving Michael away with an impatient hand when Michael rose to help him, then he crossed to sit heavily in the chair behind the second desk in the small front office that overlooked the street. The back room, which was also a garage, housed all the variety of equipment that made up the inventory of a long-time painting business; disassembled scaffolding, ladders of various heights, sprayers large and small, boxes of tape and wall mud and caulk, brushes and rollers of all types, trays of all sizes, buckets and screens, putty knives, drifts of canvas drop cloths and uncounted numbers of paint flecked scrapers.

“No business today?” Joe asked, looking inquiringly at Michael with his bright gray eyes.

“Both crews are out.”

“Oh.”

Feeling some explanation of his presence in the office instead at a work site was owed to the man who was his business mentor, who had started the company he now owned, and his friend, Michael said, “I’m writing up some bids.”

“Without the computer on?”

“It’s on.” Michael banged the mouse to prove his claim, “just sleeping.”

“Ah.”

Eager to change the subject, Michael said, “Here to surf the web where Fanny can’t bother you?”

“Yep.”

Michael rose. “I’ll leave you in peace then.”

“No need.” Joe waved him back down. “Stay and have a cup of coffee with an old man.”

Michael, who didn’t really want to go paint anything this morning anyway, nodded and went to get coffee for them both.

Joe wrapped his arthritic old hands around the warm mug, sniffed appreciatively and sipped slowly. “Ahhh. Son, you make the best coffee.”

Joe leaned back to look up at Michael. “Hear she’s a real nice one, this college teacher you’ve found.”

“What? From who?”

“Adam.”

Adam. Of course it was Adam. Joe and Fanny were as close to grandparents as Adam had, and Adam knew Michael liked and trusted them both, so of course Adam talked with Joe about Michael and Michael’s relationship with Marie. He certainly talked with Michael about it. Fortunately, Adam had been too absorbed in some garishly covered science fiction novel when Michael got home Saturday night to question Michael as closely as usual about Marie, but he had more than made up for that omission on Sunday. He had relentlessly pursued all Michael’s evasive answers until he’d managed to deduce for himself a more or less accurate picture of the prior evening’s events, crowing a satisfied, and irritatingly self-congratulatory, “way-ta-go Dad!” when he realized that his father’s romantic life had hit a new plateau.

Thinking of Adam, Michael grimaced.

Joe looked slightly ashamed of himself. “I asked – pumped him really – after Father Jon asked me about it.” Perking up a bit, Joe continued, “Adam told me you really went all out for her on New Year’s, monkey suit and everything.”

Michael was swamped immediately by a sense of outraged astonishment.<i> All out</i>, he thought indignantly,<i> all out! </i> As if renting a cheap tuxedo at a strip mall and going to a public dance could possibly be measured up against truly going all out!

For Nikita, for Nikita he had gone all out. For Nikita, he had lied, seduced, manipulated, stolen, drugged, and betrayed. He had cheated, terrorized, blackmailed, begged, whored, threatened, bullied, and killed opponents and allies alike without hesitation or remorse. He had defied his superiors, his organization, his commitment to atoning for his own crimes, and what few principles he had had left. That was going all out.

What he had done for Marie was so small, so tiny, so pathetic by comparison it was laughable.

At that thought Michael checked himself abruptly. That Adam should think such a paltry thing was going all out was properly viewed as a miracle, as a measure of his success in creating a normal life for his son. Abashed at his outrage of a second before, he looked down at his hands and said, “yes.”

“Like her?”

Michael looked up to find his old friend gazing at him with some concern. Just to be sure, he asked, “Marie?”

Joe looked expectantly at him.

Michael forced a warm smile. “Yes. Very much.”

“Ah.” Joe paused for a bit. Then, “love her?”

“I don’t know.” This was a lie, but it was also the only acceptable answer.

They finished their coffee in silence. Setting down his empty mug, Joe smiled a little wickedly, “Well, the fun is in the finding out, isn’t it?”

Michael did the only thing he could. He chuckled and said, “absolutely.”

************

Squinting behind his sunglasses at the blinding sunlight reflected off the fresh snow, Michael dialed Marie’s number on his cell phone as he navigated his SUV through the busy Monday streets on his way to one of his work sites to check on Friday’s progress.

“Allo?” It was Marie’s professional voice, clipped and brisk.

“Marie?”

He heard her quick intake of breath, then a hesitant, “Mike?”

“Oui. Cest moi.”

“Bon jour.” Marie sounded cautious and uncertain and Michael mentally kicked himself for waiting so long to call.

He switched back to English, ruefully recognizing even as he did so that almost none of the difficult conversations of his life had taken place in his native tongue – and that after all these years, he preferred it that way. “I’m sorry I didn’t call yesterday.”

Marie followed his lead. “Oh. That’s okay.”

He made his voice warm and sincere, as he said, “No. It isn’t. I should have called to thank you again for a wonderful evening.”

Michael was certain he heard her smile when she replied, “You’re welcome.” She lowered her voice, sounding slightly husky as she said, “It was pretty spectacular, actually. At least, I thought so.”

Michael refused to dwell on the concept of spectacular first sex, when he had known it, and when he had not. He kept his voice light. “I’m flattered you thought so.”

Marie only giggled nervously, so Michael continued. “Would you like to join me for an early supper tomorrow evening? Adam will be at school, he’s in the pit orchestra for the winter show and they’re rehearsing then.”

“Sure – that would be great!” Marie paused briefly, then said, “and after?”

Michael knew what she was asking, so made his answer very clear. “And after I’ll drop you off before I go get Adam.”

“Oh.” Marie’s voice hardened with disappointed anger. “I guess nothing’s really changed then.”

Her tone stung and Michael snapped, “Everything has changed Marie. But Adam hasn’t gone anywhere. He’s still thirteen. His mother is still dead.”

Michael winced as soon as he said the words. He hadn’t intended to say such a thing, but he had been irritated by the note of bitter hurt in Marie’s voice and his concentration was split by the need to slip the SUV past a semi-truck making a delivery to small storefront from the narrow street, and so he had been unable to check himself.

Marie’s reply was a subdued and chastened, “Of course.”

There was a long beat of uncomfortable silence, when Michael had a flash of inspiration. “You teach on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, Yes?”

Marie was obviously confused by the change in direction. “Yes?”

“So, tomorrow’s Tuesday. Where will you be around ten o’clock tomorrow morning?”

“Um – at my office on campus. Why?”

Michael let his voice carry all the suggestion and promise he could muster. “Well, then, I will visit you there.”

There was silence, then Marie squeaked, “In my office?”

Michael smiled at her discomfiture. “Yes. Why not?”

“I, oh God, I don’t know Michael.” Marie giggled again, obviously equal parts thrilled and terrified by the idea. Her voice rose in pitch with her nervousness. “I don’t think I’m ready to be that adventurous. What if the department secretary guessed? Oh God, I’d die of embarrassment!”

Michael resolutely banished the unbidden memories of all the various locations he and Nikita had resorted to in their bad-old sneaking around days, and sometimes even later on, because they couldn’t wait to get to one of their apartments, they were on a mission, or just for the thrill of it. He said, “Your apartment, then?”

Marie’s voice was low again, and full of excited anticipation as she answered, “my apartment then.”

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