The New Thieves

by Thaisa Frank

 
One night my husband said: You must learn to be like one of the new thieves—they never steal, they add. They enter rooms without force and leave hairpins, envelopes, roses. Later they leave larger things like pianos; no one ever notices. You must learn to be like that woman in the bar who dropped her glove so softly I put it on. You must learn to be like that man who offered his wife so gently I thought we'd been married for seventeen years. You must learn to fill me with riches—so quietly I'll never notice. After saying this he took a couple of my scarves, put them around his neck, and lay back in bed. What can I give you? I said, what do you really want? Nothing, I can tell you about, he said.
 

The next day I brought home a woman in camouflage, and made her lie on top of our bed. She looked just like me and talked just like me and that night while I pretended to sleep, she made love to my husband. I thought I'd accomplished my mission, but as soon as she left, he said to me: I knew she wasn't you. I knew by the way she kissed.

I tried other things, but nothing fooled him—new shoes just like his old ones, scuffed in the same places, photographs from his mother, books he'd already read. He recognized everything and threw it away.

One rainy fall afternoon, when I was sure I couldn’t find anything else to give him, I went into an bar with leather chairs and soft lights. I ordered a glass of chilled white wine, and suddenly, without guile, there was an instant understanding between me and the bartender. That night, while my husband slept next to us, he and I made love, and the next morning he hung up his clothes in my husband's closet. Eventually he moved in with us, walking like a cat, filling our rooms with his books and shoes. My husband never noticed, and now at night he lies next to us, thinking that he's the bartender. He breathes his air, dreams his dreams and in the morning when we all wake up, he tells me that he's happy.