“Chuck was on the phone again last night.” Friday didn’t often get up before Owen left for work, but she had made the effort this morning. She wanted to give him some care. Some attention. That boyish look in the night reminded her that she loved him. But he was very soon annoying her. His morning routines, his silence. The internalisation of his existence. She was convinced that if he could make himself invisible, she would never see him. At least, not before lunch. He was like a low energy light-bulb, warming up noticeably slowly. It didn’t make sense for her to be fluttering around him like a moth when he was barely putting out any warmth or light, and she resented having to make an effort for his attention. He looked up from his book, disturbed perhaps by her dusty wings, beating lightly on the fringes of his awareness. “Huh?”
“That writer, he called again last night.” She could see it was going to take some time for the words to sink in, the neurones to make the connections. Owen wasn’t stupid but when he was somewhere else in his thoughts there was an interminably slow process for interfacing with the world around him. Friday often wondered if this was a deliberate ploy to put off all but the most dedicated communicators. To filter out all but the most vital information. She had planned to mention the sleep-talking, but it was a treasured moment and she didn’t want to spoil the memory by discussing it while annoyed with him. So she stuck to business. Telephone sex calls.
“I told you he’s been calling lately. I don’t like to name drop, but hey, I’m providing a service to the stars now.” He was still thinking about it. She didn’t know how far behind he was, how long it would take him to catch up. Sometimes he never did. Or he would answer with a completely unrelated statement, like he’d processed all the words she had spoken, and come up with a different conversation altogether. She was never sure how long to give him – if she carried on talking, she might just go beyond the point where he could memorise all the words she spoke, and any hope of creating meaning from what she said would be lost. He continued to stare, as if in thought. And then sometimes he would surprise her with a lucid moment: “Are you sure? Only I read he was gay. And he lives in Minnesota or somewhere. Any way, you specialise in men who don’t speak. How could you possibly know?” He could reason when it suited him. This annoyed her even more.
