Keith is a somewhat silent man, and Marnie mistook that for strength. They met when they were young and he was frisky; she didn’t notice in all the excitement that he was boring. After they settled down Keith did what he always did with his dullness; he hid it in quiet service. He made himself useful by fetching and repairing things, industry that familiarized him with all the consumables that now inhabit his weekends. He didn’t reveal himself.

Unfortunately, revelation is what Marnie’s always wanted. She arrived with a mission and she has never let it go; she hungers to understand. Keith had that itch too, early on, but just enough grownups disparaged his questions for him to give up the game. “You mean you don’t know . . .?” was a response he heard too often as a questing child. And neither of his parents taught him how to be embarrassed, so he retreated into silence. He chose to appear to know and so gave up learning.

Marnie heard the toxic phrase but it didn’t stop her. She was raised by an energetic foolish mother and a didactic indignant father, and she early learned to push through any sneer or awkwardness, to get an answer. Her parents’ mistakes were obvious to her always, and she was able to overlook those mistakes, mostly, while she asked her questions and basked in their boggled pride.

She works to know herself, and she says she wants to understand her mate. She keeps pushing at Keith’s silence, and he, depending on his momentary love or hate for her, either tries to placate her with the answer he thinks she wants, or baits her with half-amiable passivity. He wants to be unbothered.

Marnie is easily animated by ideas, and Keith mistook that for gaiety. She gets so excited in a good debate that she trembles and her nipples harden; Keith misunderstood that for sex. He grew up alone and silent, and all he ever wanted was a talkative partner. He met, mated and married Marnie, and he figured as long as he was nice to her she’d be happy.

She starts on him again, after he changes lanes without signaling and two other drivers honk their objections. “Gad,” she begins with a mutter and increases her tone as she speaks. “It’s really a matter of elegance,” and she isn’t aware of the disparaging look on her face. “Remember the zipper?” We all recall the event: a chaotic afternoon commute; a mess of traffic trying to merge from four lanes to two as half the city workers aimed for their homes; horn honking and finger flipping and acceleration lunges when any space opened up; and one driver, a young attractive black man in a big old American sedan, who opened his door and rose to stand on what would be the running board of an older car and almost sang to the crowd: “People! People! Let’s all just make like a zipper!” It was classic, wise, humorous. It happened long enough ago that Keith and Marnie agreed about it, but now she’s brought it up so often when complaining about Keith’s driving that of course it’s one of the sore spots.

(concluded tomorrow)