We Do What We Do in the Dark

by Michelle Hart

“I wish I could have been here with you,” Mallory said. “You would not have wanted to be with me then,” said the woman. “I was not a very lovable person.” “I don’t think I’m a very lovable person either.” She wanted the woman to tell her she was, to tell her she could be. But the woman said, “No one is lovable at your age.”

Mallory loved thinking of the woman as selfish because she felt it granted herself permission to be selfish; the woman’s willingness to behave badly, even in middle age, absolved Mallory of a lot of guilt. Now, the woman’s drunken remorse made Mallory feel as though she needed to protect this person—this woman—from something. She didn’t know how to take care of the woman. She knew only how to take care of herself.

When she glanced back at Mallory, she said, “That’s not the comfort you think it is.” Mallory felt skinned. “I meant it as a compliment.” “I know you did.” Mallory tried to brighten her voice in a way that belied the sense of dread that had crept in. “You say such funny things.”

She had once gotten so much pleasure thinking of herself as a character in the woman’s life, as if she weren’t really a person at all but words on a page awaiting further instructions, yet in the years since their affair she just felt blank.