bill.
As we walked outside, I was aware of my thighs touching each other under my long skirt. I wanted Gauguin.
When he got behind the wheel of Betsy Boop, I slid over to him. I said, “Okay, now it’s my turn.”
He turned to me. He didn’t know what I was talking about. I pulled his T-shirt out from his pants and put my hand on his belly. It was tender like I knew it would be. He caught on. “Not here,” he said. We were in the parking lot behind the plaza.
“Yes, here,” I said. “You just listen to me now.” I bit his shoulder. Then his earlobe. He took his hands off the steering wheel in an act of surrender.
I unzipped his pants, put my hand in them and whispered in his ear, “I’m going to take you.” I felt him harden and his breath thicken. Then I bent my head down to his lap.
“Oh, Nell,” he groaned.
I stopped a moment. “Shh,” and then I kept going.
Suddenly he grabbed me. “Get up.” We were parked near a rented car. “Here come some Texans.”
“Who cares,” I said. I sat up and began to pull off my shirt.
“I care,” Gauguin said, and yanked down my shirt, switched on the ignition, put the clutch in reverse, and peeled out of the lot backward.
“Oh, Gauguin.” I pouted.
He put his hand on my knee. “I’m sorry, Nell. I got scared.”
I was quiet for a while, feeling myself land back into an ordinary body again. “It’s okay. I’m just disappointed.”
“I hear you,” he said. “We can make love when we get home.” He made the turn to Talpa.
It was 8:30, but it was still semilight and there was that smell of summer, different from Brooklyn but summer just the same.
Gauguin pulled up to the house. “Ready for bed?” He kissed my cheek, his hand on the nape of my neck.
“Naa.” I shook my head. “I’m not interested now.”
Gauguin stood still in the kitchen for a few moments. I knew he was thinking, C’mon, Nell, you wanted me just a little while ago.
I got out a candle and put it on the kitchen table. “I think I’ll stay up awhile,” I said.
“I’m going to go to bed. You sure you don’t want to come?” He bent down and licked my ear. He knew I loved that.
I shook my head. “Nope, not now.”
He hesitated, then turned and stormed into the back room.
I lit the candle, turned off the overhead light, and sat at the kitchen table. Two moths were soon circling the wick. The white one’s wing began to burn and crackle in the flame. I blew the candle out and walked outside. I sat on the bench in front of the house. The sky was so big. I leaned back against the stucco, my legs straight out in front of me. The black horse whinnied in the corral around the bend.
I heard the screen door snap open. It was Gauguin. “I couldn’t sleep without you.”
“Come here beside me.” I patted the bench. “I was just sitting here and smelling.”
“What were you smelling?” he asked.
“Summer, the way it is in Talpa,” I said. “And then I was thinking how I’d like to get that smell down in a painting, how the smell feels in my lungs and muscles.”
“I’d like to feel your lungs and muscles, too.”
I chuckled and pushed his hand away. “You can only sit with me if you behave.”
“Okay, I’ll behave,” and Gauguin, too, settled into the night and its quiet.
The black horse whinnied again. Gauguin yawned and looked up at the sky. “You know, the first horse I loved was Dixie Sue. I was eight, on my grandmother Mary Ellen’s Iowa farm—the same place I saw those monarch butterflies. Remember?”
I nodded.
“Yeah, Dixie Sue had white stockings and a star in the middle of her face. Her eyes were deep brown and the size of golf balls. Together me and Dixie heard the sound of summer when we rode through the fields. The hills were filled with oak, scrub brush, and sumac. We commiserated over the heat as we sweated and swatted mosquitoes. We were best friends.
“My grandmother worried that I was too in love with that horse. She said
As we walked outside, I was aware of my thighs touching each other under my long skirt. I wanted Gauguin.
When he got behind the wheel of Betsy Boop, I slid over to him. I said, “Okay, now it’s my turn.”
He turned to me. He didn’t know what I was talking about. I pulled his T-shirt out from his pants and put my hand on his belly. It was tender like I knew it would be. He caught on. “Not here,” he said. We were in the parking lot behind the plaza.
“Yes, here,” I said. “You just listen to me now.” I bit his shoulder. Then his earlobe. He took his hands off the steering wheel in an act of surrender.
I unzipped his pants, put my hand in them and whispered in his ear, “I’m going to take you.” I felt him harden and his breath thicken. Then I bent my head down to his lap.
“Oh, Nell,” he groaned.
I stopped a moment. “Shh,” and then I kept going.
Suddenly he grabbed me. “Get up.” We were parked near a rented car. “Here come some Texans.”
“Who cares,” I said. I sat up and began to pull off my shirt.
“I care,” Gauguin said, and yanked down my shirt, switched on the ignition, put the clutch in reverse, and peeled out of the lot backward.
“Oh, Gauguin.” I pouted.
He put his hand on my knee. “I’m sorry, Nell. I got scared.”
I was quiet for a while, feeling myself land back into an ordinary body again. “It’s okay. I’m just disappointed.”
“I hear you,” he said. “We can make love when we get home.” He made the turn to Talpa.
It was 8:30, but it was still semilight and there was that smell of summer, different from Brooklyn but summer just the same.
Gauguin pulled up to the house. “Ready for bed?” He kissed my cheek, his hand on the nape of my neck.
“Naa.” I shook my head. “I’m not interested now.”
Gauguin stood still in the kitchen for a few moments. I knew he was thinking, C’mon, Nell, you wanted me just a little while ago.
I got out a candle and put it on the kitchen table. “I think I’ll stay up awhile,” I said.
“I’m going to go to bed. You sure you don’t want to come?” He bent down and licked my ear. He knew I loved that.
I shook my head. “Nope, not now.”
He hesitated, then turned and stormed into the back room.
I lit the candle, turned off the overhead light, and sat at the kitchen table. Two moths were soon circling the wick. The white one’s wing began to burn and crackle in the flame. I blew the candle out and walked outside. I sat on the bench in front of the house. The sky was so big. I leaned back against the stucco, my legs straight out in front of me. The black horse whinnied in the corral around the bend.
I heard the screen door snap open. It was Gauguin. “I couldn’t sleep without you.”
“Come here beside me.” I patted the bench. “I was just sitting here and smelling.”
“What were you smelling?” he asked.
“Summer, the way it is in Talpa,” I said. “And then I was thinking how I’d like to get that smell down in a painting, how the smell feels in my lungs and muscles.”
“I’d like to feel your lungs and muscles, too.”
I chuckled and pushed his hand away. “You can only sit with me if you behave.”
“Okay, I’ll behave,” and Gauguin, too, settled into the night and its quiet.
The black horse whinnied again. Gauguin yawned and looked up at the sky. “You know, the first horse I loved was Dixie Sue. I was eight, on my grandmother Mary Ellen’s Iowa farm—the same place I saw those monarch butterflies. Remember?”
I nodded.
“Yeah, Dixie Sue had white stockings and a star in the middle of her face. Her eyes were deep brown and the size of golf balls. Together me and Dixie heard the sound of summer when we rode through the fields. The hills were filled with oak, scrub brush, and sumac. We commiserated over the heat as we sweated and swatted mosquitoes. We were best friends.
“My grandmother worried that I was too in love with that horse. She said
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