Adam

ADAM

We sit in silence after dinner. The frozen curry wasn’t as grim as I expected, and the wine was considerably better. I could do with another glass. I notice Amelia’s hand close to mine on the sofa. I have an overwhelming urge to hold it and don’t know what’s come over me—affection has been absent without leave for a long time in our marriage. Just as I am about to reach for her hand, she withdraws it to her lap. Probably for the best, given what this weekend is really about, and what I plan to do.

Staring at the flames dancing in the enormous fireplace, my mind wanders down other paths to other things. Work, mostly. I’ve adapted three of Henry Winter’s novels for film over the past decade and I’m proud of each one. Getting those screenplays green-lighted was a real turning point in my career, but I haven’t spoken to the man for a long time. I don’t know why I’m thinking of him now. This room probably, it’s more like a library than a lounge, he would have loved it.

I’m between projects at the moment. I can’t seem to get excited about anything my agent sends my way, and I wonder whether it is time to start working on something of my own again. I’ve been meaning to do that for a while, but I guess I had the confidence kicked out of me. Maybe this is the right time to—

“Maybe you could revisit one of your own screenplays, if you’re not working on anything else for a while,” Amelia says, interrupting my thoughts as though she can hear them. I hate that she can always read my mind; how do women do that?

“It isn’t the right time,” I reply.

“What about that one you spent years working on, might that be worth another look?”

She can’t even remember the name of my favorite screenplay. I don’t know why it bothers me, but it does. She used to be far more interested in my work, and seemed to really care about my writing. Her indifference these days hurts more than it should.

“My agent said there was a new eight-part thriller I might be up for. Another novel adaptation. But an old one…” I look over my shoulder at all the bookcases “… there might even be a copy of it on one of these shelves.”

“We agreed no work this weekend,” she snaps, suffering a sense of humor bypass.

“I was joking, and you brought it up!”

“Only because I could hear you thinking about it. And you were pulling that vacant face you pull when you’re not really here, even when you’re sitting by my side.”

I can’t see what face she’s pulling, but I resent her tone. Amelia doesn’t understand. I always need to be working on a story or the real world gets too loud. I can’t seem to talk about anything lately without her getting upset. She sulks if I’m too quiet, but opening my mouth feels like navigating a minefield. I can’t win. I haven’t told her about what happened with Henry Winter because that’s something else she wouldn’t understand. Henry and his books weren’t just work for me, he became a surrogate father figure. I doubt he felt the same way, but feelings don’t have to be mutual to be real.

The wind rattles the stained-glass windows, and I’m grateful for anything that might drown out the loudest thoughts inside my head. I wouldn’t want her to hear those. My hands still need something to do—I no longer want to hold hers and my fingers feel redundant without my phone. I take my wallet from my pocket and find the crumpled paper crane between the leather folds. The silly old origami bird has always brought me luck, and comfort. I hold it for a while, and don’t care that Amelia sees me doing it.

“I’ve been carrying this paper bird around with me for such a long time,” I say.

She sighs. “I know.”

“I showed it to Henry Winter the first time I met him at his fancy London house.”

“I remember the story.”

She sounds bored and miserable and it makes me feel the same. I’ve heard all of her stories before too, and none of them are particularly thrilling.

I wish people were more like books.

If you realize halfway through a novel that you aren’t enjoying it anymore, you can just stop and find something new to read. Same with films and TV dramas. There is no judgment, no guilt, nobody even needs to know unless you choose to tell them. But with people, you tend to have to see it through to the end, and sadly not everyone gets to live happily ever after.

The snow has turned to sleet. Large, angry droplets pelt the windows before crying down the glass like tears. Sometimes I want to cry but I can’t. Because that wouldn’t fit with who my wife thinks I am. We’re all responsible for casting the stars in the stories of our own lives, and she cast me in the role of her husband. Our marriage was an open audition, and I’m not sure either of us got the parts we deserved.

Her face is an unrecognizable blur, her features swirling like an angry sea. It feels like I am sitting next to a stranger, not my wife. We’ve been together all day and I feel claustrophobic. I’m someone who needs space, a little time on my own. I don’t know why she has to be so … suffocating.

Amelia snatches the paper crane from my fingertips.

“You spend too long living in the past instead of focusing on the future,” she says.

“Wait, no!” I cry, as she throws my lucky charm into the fire.

I’m up and off the tartan sofa in a flash, and almost burn my hand retrieving the bird. One edge is singed, but otherwise undamaged. That’s it. The final act. If I wasn’t sure before I am now, and I’m counting down the hours until this is over once and for all.