Chapter 3

When you eventually emerge from the downstairs bathroom, you feel somewhat calmer, although the embarrassment of your private thoughts lingers. You wash your hands a second time at the kitchen sink, straighten your shirt, and examine your reflection as though there might be some visible evidence of what has been going through your mind.

You tell yourself that it was nothing more than an unexpected reaction to an outrageous story, an embarrassing curiosity that will disappear once you've had time to forget about it. Nevertheless, as you return to the living room and settle onto the sofa, you find yourself remembering the man's name. Grudge.

You silently repeat it, trying to reconcile that ridiculous nickname with the intimidating figure your wife has described. You wonder what he actually looks like, whether he is quite as enormous as she claims, and what sort of man possesses the confidence to speak to a married woman that way.

Several minutes later, you hear your wife's footsteps on the stairs. She appears wearing a loose T-shirt and comfortable shorts, her damp hair falling around her shoulders and the faint scent of her shampoo accompanying her into the room. She looks considerably more relaxed than when she arrived, although there is something faintly self-conscious about her expression.

She pauses in the doorway to ask what you're watching, and you realize that you haven't been paying the slightest attention to the television. You tell her you were just looking for something interesting, and she smiles before crossing the room to join you. What you cannot know is that she has spent several minutes upstairs rehearsing the same sort of ordinary behavior.

She has promised herself that she will not mention the incident again, particularly after the uncomfortable direction her imagination took in the shower. She wants to sit beside her husband, enjoy a quiet evening, and put the unpleasant stranger out of her mind. The fact that she has to make such a deliberate resolution troubles her more than she cares to admit.

She settles beside you, draws her legs onto the sofa, and rests her head against your shoulder with the easy familiarity of a woman who has done so thousands of times. You slip an arm around her and pull her a little closer, grateful for the reassuring normality of the gesture. The television provides a steady murmur of conversation, and the house seems comfortably removed from that afternoon.

Yet you are suddenly conscious of how little you actually know about the encounter. You weren't there to hear Grudge's voice or see his expression. You don't know whether your wife answered his final remark or simply walked away. You find yourself wanting to ask questions, but every possible question seems to reveal an interest that exceeds ordinary marital concern.

Instead, you gently squeeze her shoulder and ask whether she's feeling better. She assures you that she is, although she seems almost disappointed when you accept the answer without further discussion. For a while, neither of you mentions the gym. You watch television together, occasionally commenting on whatever happens to be on the screen, and gradually the evening begins to resemble any other.

Your wife laughs at something amusing, and you find yourself smiling along without knowing what prompted it. Beneath that comfortable routine, however, both of you remain preoccupied with the same encounter. She remembers the enormous stranger's unflinching stare and wonders whether his behavior was simply an attempt to embarrass her or whether he genuinely expected her to respond.

You wonder how she must have looked when he made his vulgar proposition, and whether she was frightened, furious, or merely astonished. Neither of you has any intention of admitting these thoughts. The silence between you is not uncomfortable, exactly, but it has acquired a peculiar quality, as though an unfamiliar subject has entered your marriage and is waiting patiently for someone to acknowledge it.

Eventually, your wife shifts against you and asks, in a voice so casual that it almost sounds rehearsed, whether you think Grudge will have the nerve to approach her again. You glance down at her, surprised that she has returned to the subject after apparently putting it behind her. She keeps her eyes on the television, but you notice that she is no longer paying attention to it.

You tell her that you certainly hope not, adding that the man sounds like someone who ought to be thrown out of the gym. She agrees immediately, although she then observes that people like him rarely seem embarrassed by anything. She wonders whether he will remember her the next time she comes in, and whether he might try to say something even worse.

You suggest that she avoid him if he does. She nods, then quietly remarks that avoiding someone that size might be easier said than done. There is nothing particularly remarkable about the observation, yet it leaves you wondering why she seems so certain that she will encounter him again. She finally lifts her head and looks at you, searching your face with an expression you cannot quite interpret.

For one uncomfortable instant, you wonder whether she suspects what you were thinking earlier, and whether your own curiosity has somehow betrayed you. She seems equally uncertain, as though she is considering a question she cannot bring herself to ask. Instead, she smiles, leans forward to kiss your cheek, and settles against your shoulder again.

You hold her a little more tightly, feeling an unexpected surge of affection mingled with something far less familiar. You love your wife, and you genuinely dislike the thought of anyone treating her disrespectfully. You also know, with a growing sense of unease, that some secret part of you wants to hear another story about Grudge.

As you snuggle, your wife has already decided that she will wear something different to the gym tomorrow, although she has not yet decided whether that means something more modest, or more revealing. Neither of you speaks again about the enormous stranger, and eventually the conversation turns to dinner. Somewhere beneath the comfortable silence, however, both of you are telling precisely the same lie.