Tim’s facing the window, the curtains are drawn apart. It’s open. Someone starts to mow their lawn. The constant humming noise distracts him. He pushes his chair back and gets up to see where the sound is coming from. He sees a guy in a dirty t-shirt, shorts, dark shades and a cap mowing the lawn of Glenn Crow, his squash partner. His house is to his left. His neck starts aching, so he closes the window and positions himself on his chair, his right leg folded under his left, his slippers resting on one side of his chair. He's still in his night gown and has his socks on. “Asshole,” he mutters to himself. He begins to type again.

Laura knocks at the door. Tim had given her instructions to make sure no one disturbed him, including her, till he’s done with his article on the situation in Burma. He pokes his fingertips onto his face and drags them all the way down.

“I cut myself,” Laura says from outside in a child-like voice, which she used when she wanted to sound cute. Tim thought she did that to gain attention. He grits his teeth and lets out a silent scream.

“Apply some antiseptic and put a band-aid,” He says without getting up.

“Won’t you even have a look?” she says, frowning.

He shuts his eyes tightly and bites on his knuckles. He opens the door and goes back to his chair. She comes in after him and stands behind him. She clears her throat, but Tim doesn’t look. She clears her throat again, louder this time, and Tim says “What?” He continues to type. 

She makes a baby face and says, “I cut myself, see.” Tim takes a deep breath, turns around and smiles.

“Honey, how many times have I told you to be careful?”                       

“I was cutting beans and some onions to make soup for both of us. The knife slipped and I cut my finger,” she says and offers her thumb for inspection.

“Aww,” Tim frowns. “You’ll be alright sweetheart. Just apply some Soframycin. That’ll take care of it.”

“Will you get it for me sweetie?” She asks. Her thumb is standing upright, while the rest of her fingers are curled up.

“Of course.” 

As Tim leaves, she looks at her thumb, brings it close to her mouth and blows on it. Tim shuts the door behind him and stands against the wall. His face looks like he’s about to cry. He turns around and pretends to bang his head against the wall. He comes back with the first-aid box and hands it to her. She looks at him and blinks several times. She pouts.

“Why not honey? Why not?” Tim says and sits down next to her. He applies some Soframycin, rolls a bit of bandage around her finger, and ties the ends.

“There. Don’t worry. Your thumb will be as good as new.” He smiles and sits on his chair. She lays the box on the floor and lies on the bed, on her back. She starts to hum the song they danced to on their wedding day. “…and words are all I have to take your heart away.” She looks up from her position, smiling, but Tim’s busy typing. He hits the keys harder for her to get the hint.    

“What’re you writing about?” she asks, yawning, which she always ended with a yodeling sound.  

Tim rubs the sides of his temple.

“Umm, about the cyclone in Burma. It’s really bad out there. People are struggling to find food and shelter. Everything is ruined.”

“How long do you think it’ll take my thumb to heal?” She looks at the ceiling and follows the contours, before fixing her eyes on the walls. She holds some of her hair between two fingers and examines the split ends.  She makes a face.

“But the political situation is such that they still haven’t accepted the offer of assistance from our Government. It’s ridiculous,” Tim continues. He turns his chair slightly, to his left and looks at his collection of dvd’s stacked neatly in alphabetical order on the small wooden cabinet. Some days when he had to work late, he slept in this room. It had a small fridge, a single bed and a punching bag that hung from the ceiling at the far end of the room.  

“A week?” She says, now looking at the nail polish on her fingers.

“I mean, think about it. Their economy is nothing to boast about, their social...”

“Here I’m in pain, and you can’t stop ranting about the social, economical, and political state of Burma. Who cares about Burma anyway? Stupid name, stupid place.”

“Unbelievable,” he says and gives a wry smile.

“Why? A week is all this should take to heal.” She moves her bandaged thumb and says, “Ouch.”

He looks at her, while she starts to sing another song. She was far from how she looked when he’d first met her. Gone were the pretty skirts and evening dresses. Presently, she wore ankle length, shapeless gowns - the kinds they give to patients in hospitals. She has her hair into a loose bun. Without make-up, her face looks puffed-up and her eyes have bulging bags under them. He couldn’t figure how or when she gained so much weight. The one time he’d spoken about separating, she’d popped in a dozen sleeping pills, and had to be admitted. When he told her he was having an affair, she’d said, “Can I see her picture?” She always insisted on seeing photos of people he spoke about, including his parents, his sisters, and his friends. “I like to give a face to the people you like to talk about,” she said, when he’d asked her why. “She’s pretty,” she’d said.

He puts his hand over his mouth. “Will you please stop singing, love?” He says in a low voice.

“Why do you think we’re like this, Tim?” She says, sitting up, staring at him.

Tim swings around his chair to face her. “I don’t know Laura. I really don’t. “

“When do you think you stopped loving me?”

“Laura.”

“No, tell me. I want to know.”

“I don’t have an answer for that either.”

Without another word, she walks over to the kitchen and comes back with a gash in the other thumb. “Tim, I cut myself again.”

“Sit down, honey. Let me bandage it for you.” Neil turns his computer off and sits next to her with the bandage in his hand.

“Blow on it. I’ll feel fine if you’ll blow on it,” she says. He sits quietly. She rests her head on his lap, and moves her thumbs, like puppets and speaks in different voices.

“Honey, you’ve got to stop this,” he says.

“Stop what?”

“Nothing.”