Paul, Chapter Two

            I was reading Kafka crossed-legged on the bed. It was ten. I knew I had to sleep but he was playing Liszt downstairs. I closed my eyes and counted the notes. I imagined his right foot pedaling. It was two when I woke to the sound of rain. His pillow was soft and cold. I walked out the room holding Kafka, turned the hallways lights on, and stood by the doorway rubbing my eyes. He was coming out of the guest room, I thought. He called my name. Was I all right? I’m okay, I told the wall. He took my Kafka. Something blinded me. It was not the light. It was his hand. Did he wake me? No, I told him. And then he hugged me. I blinked inside his hand. He never took anything from my hands, always was the one to be hugged. He smelled of coffee and he was shivering. I became lost. I must owe him so many apologies. I felt Kafka drop on my foot. I took away his hand to see, but he leaned on the wall, his head on my shoulder, shaking, so that the lights went off. I had not the faintest idea why he was awake at two, or why he had come out of the guestroom where there was nothing except my grandfather’s old rocking chair. I did not know what made him cry. He was saying my name, brokenly and incorrectly. Paul. Did you have a bad dream? I’m here. Please don’t cry. Paul? He was crying aloud. Tears and saliva and perspiration felt warm on my shoulder. I did not know what to do. I wanted to pat his back, but the wall was blocking. I held his hand. He hiccupped. Let’s go sit on the bed, I told him. Kafka felt wet under my bare feet.

            Please don’t cry. I said please like it would stop him from crying altogether. It was a word that became almost obsolete. It was thought as an antiquated symbol of man having to ask for something. But sometimes I would use the word, say things like “Please eat,” although he ate well. I got him a box of Kleenex and touched his ear. I waited, like he has always done with me, until he was done crying. I listened to the rain. I did not say anything. I studied his shirt become polka-dotted, thought of the day we married when I cried in the bathroom because everybody told me I was making a terrible mistake. Except grandfather, of course. He was always on my side.