Banana Rose by Natalie Goldberg

me, that his ideas weren’t helpful.
    “It was just a suggestion.” He took another bite from his pizza.
    I switched the topic. “The problem with Anna is, she’s writing a book about the wrong subject. Who cares about cows? I say leave them for India. She should write a novel about me!” I stretched my neck and tilted my head toward the ceiling.
    Gauguin had just taken a gulp of water, and he sprayed it all over the pizza. I started to laugh, too.
    Gauguin said, “Why, Rose, it probably never occurred to her. You should mention it. ‘Oh, Anna, by the way, have you thought of me as the main protagonist of your novel? I know you’ve already written three hundred pages, but you can just toss them away.’ ” Gauguin shook his head. “Banana, you are too much.”
    “Well, what else should I do with my life if I can’t make it as a heroine? ‘Oh, Banana, wherefore art thou?’ ” I paused and changed my tone. “You know, I’ve been thinking about going backpacking alone in the Pecos. What do you think?”
    “Sounds great.”
    “Gauguin”—I waited until he put down his water glass—“I get scared. You have music, and Anna has writing, and sometimes I feel left out. Like who am I? And then I put all this pressure on painting, like that will define my life.”
    “Just do it if you want,” Gauguin said. “I think you’re great either way.”
    I decided not to say anything else about it. He didn’t get it. It wasn’t his fault.
    I was quiet the rest of the meal, just chewing pizza, gulping Coke. Gauguin was looking at a pamphlet about horseback riding on the pueblo that he found on the window ledge at the restaurant. I noticed the shape of his ear, and suddenly I felt a rush of love for him.
    The night before Gauguin had told me to sit perfectly still on the kitchen chair. He came over and began kissing me, but he said I couldn’t kiss back. Down my neck he went. Small, thick kisses and along my collarbone. He undid one button of my pale yellow blouse at a time and every once in a while he commanded in a soft voice, “Don’t move.”
    “Pleeese,” I moaned.
    “No,” he said.
    My breasts were aching, the nipples hard below the cotton. I had no bra on, just the thin fabric of my top. My blouse now was all unbuttoned, and he pushed the left side over and licked at my erect nipple with his wide tongue.
    “Oh, Gauguin,” I said, my hands pressing the wooden chair seat on either side of my buttocks.
    “No,” he said. “No talking.”
    He put the blouse back over my breast, slowly so I felt the cotton run along my nipple.
    Then he knelt in front of me and separated my legs, kissed my inner thighs. I was wearing my red short shorts. He kissed up to the brim of my underpants. He ran his finger inside the elastic, all along until his finger ran thump over my hardened clitoris.
    I groaned. “Shh,” he whispered. And he put his fingers inside me.
    My eyes rolled back.
    “You want me, don’t you?” he said.
    I nodded, now silent, still, and obedient.
    “I don’t know if you can have me.” He smiled, considering. He stood up. “Come with me,” and he took my hand and led me into the bedroom.
    I was all wanting. I lay down on the bed and he pulled off my shorts, leaving my blouse on, unbuttoned.
    He took off his pants, and his penis sprang out from the side of his undershorts. I reached up for him and he had no hesitation. He came down to me on the bed.
    I rolled an ice cube around in my mouth and smiled, remembering this. Gauguin was checking the bill. I rubbed my foot along his calf.
    He looked up, a hundred miles away, and took his wallet out of his back pocket. I watched his hands, long, freckled, delicate fingers, wrinkled around the knuckles. Those hands had touched me—I felt awe and desire. My breath became smoky. I ran my hand along the edge of the table and crossed my legs.
    He counted out two fives. “You owe me one,” he said.
    “I know,” I said, but I didn’t mean a five-dollar