The Words That Didn’t Exist in His Language

His palm stops on the darkest bruise, “as if the mark could be covered by his own body, the way you put a palm over a crack in glass.” Jacob doesn’t know how to say sorry — “the word came from another language — the one where you admit a debt and call things by their names.” And he asks: “Where did you get them, baby?” The warmth “drained away all at once, to the bottom.” The answer — even, frozen: “Why are you asking… when you know the answer.”

A question in place of an admission is a typical move for someone who wants to show that “he cares” without taking authorship of the pain. It seems safe, but for the injured person it is a blow: he is being asked to name what the one who hurt him does not dare to name himself. Next comes the only thing Jacob knows how to do — pull him closer and promise: “Everything is going to be different now.” That promise comes from the same reconciliation phase as “give me time”; it is sincere and costs nothing until it is backed by a “sorry” that calls things by their names (see “I Needed You Alive”). Two phones lie on the dresser, face down — and one of them buzzes. Nobody moves.