Afterwards

When they were done, the memory of lovemaking moved quickly into a past just recently occupied by the memories of breakfast, a quick shower, and far too many questions about a future that was already residing with the dirty dishes and the bath towel. I don’t want to quarrel, one says, throwing a glance at the other, carelessly, like a discarded cigarette, mindless of the fire it might start, the damage it could cost. And I don’t want to think about it replies the other. You always do this. Do what? This. This? What’s this? You won’t commit to anything. I’ll commit to lunch. You’re infuriating. Why? Won’t you be hungry by then? You’re making me mad. Well, I don’t want to quarrel. And I don’t want to make up. You can always leave. I don’t want to leave. Well, then I’ll leave. No, I’ll leave, I’ll go for a walk. It’s raining. I hadn’t noticed. There’s an umbrella in the hallway Where are my shoes? There. Right. Well, I’m going then. Go. I may not come back. You’ll come back. Don’t count on it OK. OK.