He lit a single candle and placed it on the floor beside his futon bed. Except for the thick stuffed sleeping mat, some books piled against the wall, a Tizio lamp and the Zuni Indian sculpture of a bear that Kate had given him one birthday, his bedroom was bare, like the rest of the house.
He tossed his clothes onto the floor and sat in the lotus position on the soft cotton mat. Kate had introduced him to the basics of meditation when they had first started dating, teaching him to lead himself into natural, peaceful sleep. He closed his eyes and concentrated on relaxing the muscles in his neck and shoulders. Gradually he worked his way down, through the rest of his body. His breathing slowed, and he imagined whiteness, weightlessness. The whiteness slashed into a black surface and he thought of Ivy and the dining room table, her playing with the little blue packet. He pushed this away and brought back the pure white. After a short period, the soft whispering snowstorm turned to warm earth tones, to Kate's lovely hair…
The sound of footsteps broke his concentration. He opened his eyes.
Ivy stood before him, wearing a lightweight cotton kimono. Her face glowed warmly in the candlelight. Her voice was a mere whisper. "I want to be with you."
Peter remained seated in the lotus position, unable, it seemed, to move. He became sharply aware of her delicate physique, his nakedness. He felt their vulnerable auras bending toward one another, reaching. He thought about what he'd come to realize at the dinner table, the feeling of dread inside him that seemed to suddenly threaten everything in his life. He thought of telling her about the few close calls he had had over the past couple of years, how they had ended in tears and shattered dreams for the students. He thought of telling her that in all their years together he had never been unfaithful to Kate. He thought of telling her that in all their years together, Wallaby had never been unfaithful to him, and it was the same thing. Was, he wanted to say aloud and tell her, tell anyone who'd listen, why.
But he told her none of these things. Instead he said to himself, without uttering a word, I had a lot to drink, it was the wine. But was he really that drunk, or was it something else? Something worse? That he even considered this excuse, that he was actually entertaining a defense for something that had not even happened, not yet, presaged the guilt that would follow if he were to allow them to come together. And apart. And it was all the same thing, he told himself. Today, tomorrow, and the next day and every day after that.
He considered her. She was an angel whose mission was to ease him into the hereafter. He concluded, when he noticed a powdery white substance encircling the inner edge of her nostrils, that she was already "there," perhaps even farther, some point beyond recognition. As if she interpreted this, she brushed her nose with the back of her hand and sniffled.
"Peter," she pleaded, her voice husky, "You've empowered me.
You've given me a whole new meaning. It's my future."
Somehow her words had breaking effect on him. He was both repulsed and beholden by her sentiment. By himself. He turned his face toward the window, fighting the urge to reach out and pull her down by the waist. It was not as if he were in love with this young girl. And the way she made it sound, he was acting on her behalf, like she needed him. Not the other way around. No, not that at all. He didn't need her. She was nothing to him. Just another worshipper in a long string of subjects.
And, as if to prove his cruel pretense, she knelt before him. Her soft knees touched his shins. He smelled the peppery sweetness of her breath, and his eyes lingered on her radiant golden hair. He looked into her shining, anticipating eyes.