Words

Words

           It is in her apartment, with her gone for pizza, that he finds himself alone and prying. Looking around and admiring her tastes, her choices in furniture, her decorative abilities. It is a geometric apartment. All angles and edges. She is an accountant, and the home speaks of economy and order. But it is also soft. The colors warm, dark, with bits of highlights. Like her, he decides. He likes her things. Her leather couch. Television. Computer. He feels comfortable in the space.
           On an end table, near the couch, he sees a spiral notebook. He flips it open. It is filled with words. English words. His native tongue, not hers. The script is military precise yet dainty, light, the ends of letters punctuated with upturned curls. Next to the English word is its Chinese equivalent, and then, in English again, the definition. He scans the words, pages of them, and begins to see a pattern. The words, at the end of the notebook, the most recent entries, were spoken by him.
           The first one is 'possessive.' It is almost scratched into the paper. There is no curl at the end of the 'e'. He mouths the definition: a desire for ownership, occupancy, hold. The word 'hold' is underlined. He traces it with his finger and flushes. He remembers the conversation. Just days earlier, on the phone. She had questioned his whereabouts over the weekend. Doubted the veracity of his claim that he was with friends. Accused him of infidelity. "Some young girl," she had spat out, her accent thick. He said she was crazy, that she was being very possessive. He remembers the silence on the phone. Thinks: was she jotting down the word?
           After possessive is 'resolve.' The word is stretched on the page, the 'o' oblong, the 'v' wide and flat. She has written out two definitions. The first: to break up into separate elements or parts. The second is written all in caps. It says: TO MAKE A DECISION ABOUT, TO MAKE CLEAR. He winces. He has been using the word constantly with her. Always in reference to his pending divorce. Justifying why he has not pushed it through faster, why he still talks to his wife, "the woman," as she describes her, "who left you."
           "I'm just trying to resolve things," he had said, over and over to her, "I need to resolve some issues before I move on."
           His head starts to tighten. He flips a page. Sees the last word entered: 'content.' It is written so faint he has to hold the page up to his eyes to make out the definition: happy enough with what one has or is; not desiring something more or different. He smiles. Thinks of the night before. They had gone to a movie. And then back to her apartment. They had undressed each other. Played. Danced and wrestled their way to the bedroom. Then, on her low-lying bed, they kissed. And he was flooded with joy; it ripped through him. He had gripped her bare shoulders. Licked at her skin, off-white and flawless. Gripped tighter and tighter; absorbed her body. Later, as they lay sated, he looked at her and said: "I feel so content."
           He closes the notebook and walks to the lone window in the apartment's living room. He looks out and across at another building, sees people behind curtains, near sinks, in bedrooms, getting dressed, watching television, talking. He hears the door of the apartment crack open. She walks in, pizza box in hand. She sets it on a table and removes her coat. She smiles and looks at him. He walks toward her, searching for the right word.