had no breath left, when she was breathless with desire. He
wanted to possess her, in all the ways his formal and distant wife had denied him, truly and deeply, in the ways of his youth.
He wanted to have her in his bloodstream like a drug, to sit in his office all day making money and contemplating the rush
of ecstasy in his blood.
He wanted to speak to her of his desire, of his desire for her, of the desire gripping his throat. He wanted to stand in front
of her naked.
He rarely spoke to her. He never touched her, even in passing. He was no fool. He knew that she was not what she appeared
to be, and he knew that what she was lay just beneath the surface of her clothes.
His loneliness was so deep. It made him feel, sometimes, as though someone malevolent were pulling on his hair. Relentlessly
pulling on his hair. He wanted to touch her, and he did not. It gave him a pain like a fever.
He saw her, and he wanted to undress her. He wanted to unbutton the many buttons of her severe black dress and pull it back
from her neck until he saw her white shoulders. He wanted to drop the dress on the floor, to see it lying around her feet
like a pool of black oil. He wanted to see her step out of it and stand before him in her slip, a slim woman in a thin cotton
chemise and dark stockings, cotton stockings he would unroll inch by inch until her delicate feet were naked on the floor.
The chemise would button up the back, and so he would turn her away from him, to slip each pearl button from its buttonhole,
and then the whole flimsy thing would drop, barely skimming her hips as it fell into the darkness of the mess around her feet,
and so the first sight of her, his first sight of her naked body would be from the back, the wisps of hair at the neck, glowing
like filaments of fire in the candlelight of a dark, cold room. He wanted to trace with his tongue the long line of her white
spine, glowing in the brightness from the moon on the snow spilling through the curtains, and she would not want to move,
would not turn of her own free will, and so he would grasp her shoulders and turn her toward him and then he would kiss her.
The sweetness of skin. The soft touch of his lips on hers. The moment before it all began. Just pure and kind desire.
He would kiss her very lightly, and her nipples would graze his shirtfront, and her lips would graze his lips, which hadn’t
been kissed in so many years he couldn’t count them. His tongue would touch her tongue. He would hold her face steady with
both his hands as he softly kissed her.
How could he have spent his life without this? How could his youth have passed, his body have aged untouched, unadmired, unloved?
His body was starting to leave him and it would not come back. In ten years he would be old.
He wanted everything. He did nothing.
One evening, a week after he had told her the story of his life, he said to her at dinner, “I thought we would marry on Thanksgiving
Day. If that’s all right. If it would suit.”
“That would be fine. Who would come?”
“Should people come?”
“I don’t know. People do. Usually. You must have friends. People you know. I haven’t seen anybody.”
“It seemed inappropriate, for you to go to town. People talk enough. And the weather . . .”
“There must be people.”
“A few.”
“So we’ll have people here? There will be food, a supper maybe. A wedding.”
The woman he wanted to undress, to see naked, was a stranger. Her conversation, her requests, were strange to him. Nobody
had asked anything of him for so long.
“I’m not . . . I’m not pure. You should know.”
He watched her in silence.
“I was a child. A friend of my father’s, a fellow missionary in Africa. He came to me one night and . . . I’m not pure. Not
without the sin of fornication. My father killed him. You should know.”
Mercy touched at his heart. He held her hand, just for a moment, for the first time.
“That
wanted to possess her, in all the ways his formal and distant wife had denied him, truly and deeply, in the ways of his youth.
He wanted to have her in his bloodstream like a drug, to sit in his office all day making money and contemplating the rush
of ecstasy in his blood.
He wanted to speak to her of his desire, of his desire for her, of the desire gripping his throat. He wanted to stand in front
of her naked.
He rarely spoke to her. He never touched her, even in passing. He was no fool. He knew that she was not what she appeared
to be, and he knew that what she was lay just beneath the surface of her clothes.
His loneliness was so deep. It made him feel, sometimes, as though someone malevolent were pulling on his hair. Relentlessly
pulling on his hair. He wanted to touch her, and he did not. It gave him a pain like a fever.
He saw her, and he wanted to undress her. He wanted to unbutton the many buttons of her severe black dress and pull it back
from her neck until he saw her white shoulders. He wanted to drop the dress on the floor, to see it lying around her feet
like a pool of black oil. He wanted to see her step out of it and stand before him in her slip, a slim woman in a thin cotton
chemise and dark stockings, cotton stockings he would unroll inch by inch until her delicate feet were naked on the floor.
The chemise would button up the back, and so he would turn her away from him, to slip each pearl button from its buttonhole,
and then the whole flimsy thing would drop, barely skimming her hips as it fell into the darkness of the mess around her feet,
and so the first sight of her, his first sight of her naked body would be from the back, the wisps of hair at the neck, glowing
like filaments of fire in the candlelight of a dark, cold room. He wanted to trace with his tongue the long line of her white
spine, glowing in the brightness from the moon on the snow spilling through the curtains, and she would not want to move,
would not turn of her own free will, and so he would grasp her shoulders and turn her toward him and then he would kiss her.
The sweetness of skin. The soft touch of his lips on hers. The moment before it all began. Just pure and kind desire.
He would kiss her very lightly, and her nipples would graze his shirtfront, and her lips would graze his lips, which hadn’t
been kissed in so many years he couldn’t count them. His tongue would touch her tongue. He would hold her face steady with
both his hands as he softly kissed her.
How could he have spent his life without this? How could his youth have passed, his body have aged untouched, unadmired, unloved?
His body was starting to leave him and it would not come back. In ten years he would be old.
He wanted everything. He did nothing.
One evening, a week after he had told her the story of his life, he said to her at dinner, “I thought we would marry on Thanksgiving
Day. If that’s all right. If it would suit.”
“That would be fine. Who would come?”
“Should people come?”
“I don’t know. People do. Usually. You must have friends. People you know. I haven’t seen anybody.”
“It seemed inappropriate, for you to go to town. People talk enough. And the weather . . .”
“There must be people.”
“A few.”
“So we’ll have people here? There will be food, a supper maybe. A wedding.”
The woman he wanted to undress, to see naked, was a stranger. Her conversation, her requests, were strange to him. Nobody
had asked anything of him for so long.
“I’m not . . . I’m not pure. You should know.”
He watched her in silence.
“I was a child. A friend of my father’s, a fellow missionary in Africa. He came to me one night and . . . I’m not pure. Not
without the sin of fornication. My father killed him. You should know.”
Mercy touched at his heart. He held her hand, just for a moment, for the first time.
“That
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