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Show 183 "Hunt: What's all that liver doing in the refridgerator?" Leah called after him. Before dawn, Hunt slipped again, this time from the couch, wandering various rooms. He stood naked before a wall, looking out to where he could see lights from the Tucson airport. "This house is too big," he said to the drapes. He wondered if the marten were alive or dead. In a crossing gesture with his hands, he wrapped his abdomen. He felt flabby. Hunt lay down on the wool pile of the carpet and began doing twisting situps. "I don't understand this," he heard Leah suddenly behind him. Hunt turned. "You won't sleep with me. So J. can't sleep. And then at 5:30, I hear sounds, and you're doing body building in the livingroom. Hunt: What's happening? I swear to God - if you can do it - some day you'll sacrifice us all to some notion. Hunt framed the image of his wife. He'd been trying, almost systematically, not to concern her with his things: his moods, needs, excesses, his sense of a diminished universe. "It isn't body building," he said. "It's just doing situps." "Why?" Leah asked. Something - he had done it again, however - had her near tears. Or was it fury? "Why?" she repeated. "I'd lost my body," Hunt heard himself saying. And though he knew Leah would be rolling her eyes, he plunged on: "It's an essential thing, and, particularly since I'm not getting younger, I'm just trying to get a goodly part of it back." "'A goodly part of it back.'" Hunt could see Leah nodding with the repeated |