The Behavior of Others
One night, my father and I stayed to drink in the autumn air after dinner on the patio. He was a whirlwind man when he chose to be, and so tonight’s shared silence was, for the first time, calming. As his wife cleared the dishes from the table, the quiet passed into mutual seduction by a shadow of will each one had caught passing the other’s face. He nodded the woman off to bed and a six-year-old sense of triumph stole over me.
A new night fell upon us. He poured two glasses of some sweet Italian dessert wine. He lit a cigar, puffing at initiation. I reached for the tobacco that would take the edge off of the ceremony, which he eyed with concern but preferred the sense of equality. At first, the conversation dribbled down our chins, gathering speed until it poured from our glasses, spilling off of the table and onto the floor. He spoke of love. Tears filled his eyes, and I asked of invisibility. His face held firm and gestured to the stars.
When we drifted back into the house at the end of the night, we passed looming doorways, black as pitch and filled with dancing shadows. We pushed through them, unaware of the faces they made as we made our way up the stairs and down opposite ends of the hall to our bedrooms. I stood in my window and I heard his door shut behind him. I leapt over the bed to close mine but at my open door I was met with a warm and weighty breeze, to which I closed my eyes and spread my arms. Downstairs, its low whistle tumbled into the house, through the patio doors my father had forgotten to shut and lock behind us.