At times what she felt was similar to what a father once felt, having convinced himself during her first few years that his only child was a genius, only for the next years to pass in a trickle of report cards pointing to something else. Instead, her school years had revealed her to be amiable, strong willed, athletic, and a remarkable sense of empathy for those that were feeling down. All those things, however, just wouldn’t answer for all the investment he had made on behalf of genius.

Although that investment had been a bust, his investment in disappointment was a cash cow. Disappointment bred disappointment, and he always reinvested its proceeds for future earnings. When he finally died, he had left it all to her, his lone survivor.

The profits would continue to multiply, and on some dark days she’d sit and count them. Unlike her father she was humble about her wealth, so she counted them alone and never spoke of the matter.

The man standing in the bathroom doorway loved her without knowing any of this, and wistfully thought afterwards that had he known he would have loved her even more. He wouldn’t have loved her more, of course, but perhaps he could have loved her better.

The report card may have adequately reflected her ability in comprehending school, but it was of no account in her capacity to comprehend the world outside it. She didn’t go to college, and this was a shame. Fools did, and they became educated fools. She would have had much more to show for it than that.

Her view of the world left her conflicted, with questions she could hardly phrase, let alone answer. Her inability to do either simply reinforced what she had been indoctrinated with from square one. Namely, that she was not a genius. Were she, she mistakenly dreamed, things would be so much easier. After all, she thought, it seemed easier for others. It never occurred to her that it was only easy for the cowards, and the rest just faked it.

Her old man had exactly what he had wished for, but he was too simple to understand it, and she had no one else to tell her she was profound.

Where she found herself now, however, was well past those long ago years. She was sitting at the head of his bed, wearing only one of his dress shirts, partly buttoned and hanging loosely on her. She sat on top of the covers with three pillows shoved behind her back, her knees pulled up to her chin, and her feet together. On each knee rested one of her hands, and between them were the loose papers representing the day’s output. She was read it intently as he stood in the doorway with his toothbrush hanging out of his mouth idle.

Looking at her in the lamplight, he remembered how he once believed that one day he’d grow older and find that beauty was only for the young. Here he was, approaching 50, and there beauty was, sitting at the head of his bed. Her long hair may have lost the color of its youth, but it had gained something more. It had aged gracefully. It spilled down in waves from her head, fell gently upon her shoulders and made its way down to her chest. It framed her long, slender fingers, which framed the dress shirt, whose plunging neckline framed a smooth, flat chest, all of which lied behind his few pages of the day’s work. It was a shame the day’s work was in its way.

Suddenly she looked up at him, a large grin affixed to her face, “Oh my God,” she said, “I love it! How do you do that?”

He resumed brushing his teeth. “Do you think it could actually happen that way?” he asked from the corner of his mouth.

She quickly shook her head side to side a little, as though she were in disbelief that he had asked, and said enthusiastically, “Well, yea. I mean I bet it has already happened this way, a hundred times I’m sure, and if not, then it will.” This was the reassurance he was looking for.

As far as writers go, he was okay. Most of the time he was too caught up in his own happenings to get the perspective really good writing required.  The times he wasn’t, he squandered.  But sometimes he wrote beyond what he was capable of. This was one of those times.

“You are absolutely beautiful, you know?” he said. “I couldn’t write the way you look now, sitting there on my bed.”

“This quit being your bed a few months ago,” she chided him, “though I could fix that for you, if you would like.”

“Absolutely not. I want you to stay right there.”

“I want you to finish brushing your goddamn teeth.”

Jesus Christ Almighty, he thought, please let us stay happy. I’ve done my work. I’ve put in my time. Let this work. Don’t let me screw this up.

Pulling the covers back, she was thinking the same thing. After they got into bed together, after they had made love, just before they closed their eyes, they spoke of their hopes, each taking their own turn. In them they were united, but in their silent, hidden doubts they were alone.