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The sea pushed in and in, roiling and then pulling away, roiling.
Louis said, “You will be nice to her.” “I will be nothing to her,” Isabel said, and when she cast him a glance he seemed tired with her. Seemed to have tired of the conversation, and her company, and then he left her.
Isabel had never known loneliness like that, one that arrived without the promise of leaving.
She belonged to the house in the sense that she had nothing else, no other life than the house, but the house, by itself, did not belong to her.
What was joy, anyway. What was the worth of happiness that left behind a crater thrice the size of its impact.
What did they know of not speaking for days, of not having known the touch of another, never having known, of want and of not having felt the press of skin to one’s own, and what did they know of a house that only ever emptied out.
Eva said, “You do that with such care.” It came out quietly. Isabel held the jug in the dip of her palm. The night had made the space between them odd, hushed. Isabel met Eva’s gaze and said, “A house is a precious thing.” Eva didn’t answer at first. She was looking at how Isabel was holding the little item—in a cloth, in her hand. There was something hazy about her eyes. Her mouth was slightly open, her tongue pushed behind her teeth. Isabel could see it, did not want to see it. “Yes,” Eva said at length, on an intake of air. “Yes.”
Eva’s reaction was a punched-out sound. It could have been amusement—it could have been frustration. It rolled through her once, twice.
