Altered Light

From Tomorrow to Yesterday The tree trunks move in time with the rhythm of her rubber soles on the wet path, where the air is still cool after the night rain. The woodland floor is white with anemones; in one place, growing close to the roots of an ancient tree, they make her think of an old, wrinkled hand. She could go on and on without getting tired, without meeting anyone or thinking of anything in particular, and without coming to the edge of the woods. As if the town did not begin just behind the trees, the leafy suburb with its peaceful roads and its houses hidden behind close-trimmed hedges. She doesn't want to think about anything, and almost succeeds; her body is no more than a porous, pulsating machine. The sun breaks through the clouds as she runs back, its light diffused on the gravel drive and the magnolia in front of the kitchen window. His car is no longer parked beside hers, he must have left while she was in the woods. He hadn't stirred when she rose, and she'd already been in bed when he came home late last night. She lay with her back turned, eyes closed, as he undressed, taking care not to wake her. She leans against one of the pillars of the garage and stretches, before emptying the mailbox and letting herself into the house. She puts the mail on the kitchen table. The little light on the coffeemaker is on; she switches it off. Not so long ago, she would have felt a stab of irritation or a touch of tenderness, depending on her mood. He always forgets to turn off that machine. She puts the kettle on, sprinkles tea leaves into the pot, and goes over to the kitchen window. She observes the magnolia blossoms, already starting to open. They'll have to talk about it, of course, but neither of them seems able to find the right words, the right moment. She pauses on her way through the sitting room. She stands amid her furniture looking out over the lawn and the pond at the end of the garden. The canopies of the trees are dimly reflected in the shining water. She goes into the bathroom. The shower door is still spotted with little drops. As time went on they have come to make contact during the day only briefly, like passing strangers. But that's the way it has been since the children left home, nothing unusual in that. She takes off her clothes and stands in front of the mirror where a little while ago he stood shaving. She greets her reflection with a wry smile. She has never been able to view herself in a mirror without this moue, as if demonstrating a certain guardedness about what she sees. The dark green eyes and wavy black hair, the angularity of her features. She dyes her hair exactly the color it would have been if she hadn't begun to go gray in her thirties, but that's her only protest against age. Irene Beckman is fifty-six. She is taller than most women of her generation, slim, almost thin. Her dark hair is usually gathered in a ponytail; it bounces after her when she runs, so that at a distance she looks like a young woman. People found her exotic when she was young and beautiful. For decades, Martin had gazed almost devoutly at her unusual features. A gaze that created distance, even when it burned to the touch. Male admiration has always seemed like a subtle form of isolation. The closer they came, the stranger she felt. His stubble is stuck to the inside of the sink; she rinses it away and considers her body. She is satisfied on the whole: women's bodies don't come much better at her age. She turns on the shower, sets it to hot, and steps under the jet. The sharp lines of the cabinet dissolve behind the water running down the glass door. The thought that everything should remain the same gradually feels as unreal as the thought of a change. What was unimaginable has become real, but she's unable to visualize it. Perhaps it is banality that impedes her mind's eye. The all too common situation is almost more humiliating than the physical or emotional or, foGrondahl, Jens Christian is the author of 'Altered Light', published 0000 under ISBN 9780151010431 and ISBN 0151010439.