The Answer Was Inside the Question

Simon stops pushing — “not because he agreed,” but because his hands, braced against the other’s chest, have stopped changing anything, “and keeping them there any longer was no longer resistance, only a pose.” The grip softens; a kiss on the temple, “in the same place as that morning.” “Say you’ll stay.” Over the shoulder he can see the kitchen door, the hallway, the front door: “Ten steps. Maybe twelve.” He counts — “and that was the only thing he could do on his own right now.” He wants this person and wants to walk out that door, “and one didn’t cancel the other.” “Only last night he’d been able to choose. Today he was being asked in a way that put the answer inside the question.” — “I’ll stay.”

A “yes” said when “no” is not on offer is not consent, and the book does not pretend otherwise. But the author also shows what is left to a person in such a situation: counting steps. Knowing where the door is, is the minimal form of agency that an embrace cannot take away; last night he fell asleep without checking it, today he “didn’t take his eyes off it again.” This is a relapse into the watchman — and at the same time the watchman’s healthy work: the alarm is accurate. Compare two nights in a row: “no work for him” and “ten steps, maybe twelve.” Between them lies the whole difference between a home and a place one cannot leave.