The Cranes Dance Read Online Free

caring and generous they are, their motives are far from altruistic. The whole time they are giving and giving, you can be sure that they’re secretly keeping an account book of services rendered and waiting for just the right moment to hand you the bill.
    During the breakup talk Andrew said he thought it best if we separated before anger and resentment set in, although from the length and fluid hostility of his monologue it was clearly too late for that. He said I could take my time moving out, but maybe I could stay at Gwen’s since she was currently in Michigan recovering from knee/psyche implosion. And oh, yes, since I asked, there
was
someone else, but that had nothing to do with his decision, which wasn’t really his decision, but rather something that was forced upon him by
my
behavior.
    “I just want to be honest with you,” he said.
    “That does not impress me,” I replied.
    Our apartment was Andrew’s apartment, so it made sense that I would be the one to move out. This didn’t take long. I came to him with very little, like a mail-order bride from the Ukraine. Well, I was living with Gwen before I moved in with Andrew and it would have felt wrong to take any of our jointfurniture or things. I already felt guilty enough for leaving her alone.
    There were things I bought for Andrew and me as a couple, but I left those for him and the mysterious “someone else” to enjoy. I hope her no doubt fascinatingly vulnerable self will be very comfortable on those Egyptian cotton sheets. Yes, before decamping I really did spray my perfume on the pillowcases. Also, all over his suits. He might not even notice. He was never good at reading my signals. He always wanted me to tell him everything.
    I packed up my books and clothes and a few pathetic boxes and I hired one of those “man with a van” guys to move it all for me, and now here I am. When Dad came he must have thrown some of Gwen’s clothes in a suitcase, and her toothbrush and contact lens case aren’t in the bathroom, but everything else is just where she left it, including the masking-tape Xs on some of the walls. (Don’t ask me to explain, it’s a Gwen thing, I don’t know what it means.) Also Clive isn’t here. Gwen’s neighbor is taking care of him. That she didn’t ask me to look after her cat is another sign of how furious she is with me.
    My boxes are lined up against the bedroom wall. “Sweaters,” “Kitchen,” “Reviews/Programs/Photos,” “Fiction A–F.” It doesn’t make sense to unpack and I don’t want to disturb anything. It’s a bit like living in a crime scene, actually, with the Xs and all.
    I need to take those down.
    I don’t want to touch them.
    My neck still hurt like a bitch today, and since I wasn’t supposed to be performing tonight, I decided to skip morning class and do therapy.
    First I went to see Dr. Ken to get an adjustment. Dr. Ken makes house calls to the theater three times a week when we are in season, but today wasn’t one of those days. He’ll always squeeze us in at the office, though.
    Dr. Ken’s waiting room is covered with pictures of the well-known individuals he has cracked to health: opera singers, boxers, dancers, musicians, and hockey players. Dr. Ken once said to me that ballet dancers are his favorite patients to treat, because we always do what we are told, and are very open to criticism. At the time Dr. Ken said this, I was facedown on the table and attached to an electric stimulation machine, so I just grunted affably, but I must say that upon reflection, being able to tell us that we aren’t great seems kind of a fucked-up reason for liking us.
    Dr. Ken wears polo shirts and pants with pleats in them. He has that smooth hair that doesn’t look like hair, but rather a sort of fibrous cap. I’m not at all attracted to Dr. Ken, what with the pleats and all, but he’s a man, and I did my girl thing anyway, as if him finding me charming or attractive would help. Help what? I don’t