body, slowly enfold the heaviness of her breast, a globe of warmth, a cup from which honey could be drunk.
As he kissed her again, he felt the stir of her lips, felt, against his palm, the subtle tautening, stiffening.
All at once she stopped breathing. And then she took a vast shuddering breath. Her arms, which had been limp at her sides, slid up and around his neck, and she found his lips with an open, savage hunger.
He was a man who had picked patiently, gingerly, at the stones at the base of a dam. And suddenly the whole structure had collapsed, overwhelming him in the torrent.
She was torrent, and tempest, and whirlwind.
Broken bits of meaningless words glittered in the darkness.
On a dusty shelf in the back of his mind he found a distant childhood memory. They had been a gift—a lot of curiously shaped little wooden bits. The directions were on the box. He had worked at the puzzle until he had grown angry. And suddenly, when he was close to tears, the little wooden parts had fitted together perfectly. You knew at once that all the time they had been made to fit that way. You wondered how you could possibly have gone on that long without recognizing the essential and pure perfection of this part going here, and that part going there. It was such locked, perfect precision that it had taken him much longer to tire of that toy than the others that had arrived on the same birthday.
And now, again, here was a co-ordinated rightness, a fitted precision.
He was running up a long flight of black velvet steps. Each step was almost impossibly high, yet he was running with the buoyant fleetness that can be remembered only from dreams. He knew he had to run with perfect cadence. There was no top to the flight of stairs. They went on forever. They went on to the stars and beyond.
And suddenly there was a group of stairs far steeper than any of the others. In spite of their steepness, he ran even faster—ran up and then out into empty space, into a high, wild, airless place full of the shrillness of a scream.
As in dreams, he did not fall. He floated slowly down to a place where he could again feel the diminuendo of spasmed warmth under his hands, taste the metallic echo of blood on his lip.
After a time she was apart from him. He said, in a slow whisper, “Oddest damn thing. Was in a school play once. Rehearsed every day for a month. You know, you make me feel as if all I’d ever done is rehearse. And now this was for real.”
“Shut up!” she said tonelessly.
He stared at her. There was just enough light left so that he could see she was on her back, with her right hand, palm upward, resting on her forehead.
“What’s the matter?”
“God, God, God,” she said in the same flat, dull tone.
He reached for her and she thrust his hand away.
“Now look! Just what have I done?”
“You couldn’t possibly understand.”
“Why don’t you try me? Try to tell me, darling.”
“And don’t use that sappy, sticky, sentimental tone on me, Teed.”
“You sound like a psycho.”
“O.K., you get your explanation. Turn on the light.”
“Why?”
“Just turn it on.”
He sat up, groped for the ceiling-light pull, found it in the dark. He squinted at the harsh impact of the light. She got lithely out of bed, turned and faced him. She stood in an ugly way, feet spraddled, belly outthrust, shoulders slumped. On her face was a hard and bitter expression, and a look of careless violence.
“Take a good look at the stock in trade of a hundred-dollar-whore, my friend.” Even that posture could not make her body ugly. “Inspect the merchandise.”
“Don’t do that to yourself, Barbara. Stop,” he said softly.
Her voice coarsened. “Poor, poor, poor little Barbara. The delicate, sensitive little thing. Don’t make me laugh! Most of the customers want a good look at what they’re buying. What’s wrong with you? Shy, or something? I’ve been able to peddle this without fear or favor because it hasn’t
As he kissed her again, he felt the stir of her lips, felt, against his palm, the subtle tautening, stiffening.
All at once she stopped breathing. And then she took a vast shuddering breath. Her arms, which had been limp at her sides, slid up and around his neck, and she found his lips with an open, savage hunger.
He was a man who had picked patiently, gingerly, at the stones at the base of a dam. And suddenly the whole structure had collapsed, overwhelming him in the torrent.
She was torrent, and tempest, and whirlwind.
Broken bits of meaningless words glittered in the darkness.
On a dusty shelf in the back of his mind he found a distant childhood memory. They had been a gift—a lot of curiously shaped little wooden bits. The directions were on the box. He had worked at the puzzle until he had grown angry. And suddenly, when he was close to tears, the little wooden parts had fitted together perfectly. You knew at once that all the time they had been made to fit that way. You wondered how you could possibly have gone on that long without recognizing the essential and pure perfection of this part going here, and that part going there. It was such locked, perfect precision that it had taken him much longer to tire of that toy than the others that had arrived on the same birthday.
And now, again, here was a co-ordinated rightness, a fitted precision.
He was running up a long flight of black velvet steps. Each step was almost impossibly high, yet he was running with the buoyant fleetness that can be remembered only from dreams. He knew he had to run with perfect cadence. There was no top to the flight of stairs. They went on forever. They went on to the stars and beyond.
And suddenly there was a group of stairs far steeper than any of the others. In spite of their steepness, he ran even faster—ran up and then out into empty space, into a high, wild, airless place full of the shrillness of a scream.
As in dreams, he did not fall. He floated slowly down to a place where he could again feel the diminuendo of spasmed warmth under his hands, taste the metallic echo of blood on his lip.
After a time she was apart from him. He said, in a slow whisper, “Oddest damn thing. Was in a school play once. Rehearsed every day for a month. You know, you make me feel as if all I’d ever done is rehearse. And now this was for real.”
“Shut up!” she said tonelessly.
He stared at her. There was just enough light left so that he could see she was on her back, with her right hand, palm upward, resting on her forehead.
“What’s the matter?”
“God, God, God,” she said in the same flat, dull tone.
He reached for her and she thrust his hand away.
“Now look! Just what have I done?”
“You couldn’t possibly understand.”
“Why don’t you try me? Try to tell me, darling.”
“And don’t use that sappy, sticky, sentimental tone on me, Teed.”
“You sound like a psycho.”
“O.K., you get your explanation. Turn on the light.”
“Why?”
“Just turn it on.”
He sat up, groped for the ceiling-light pull, found it in the dark. He squinted at the harsh impact of the light. She got lithely out of bed, turned and faced him. She stood in an ugly way, feet spraddled, belly outthrust, shoulders slumped. On her face was a hard and bitter expression, and a look of careless violence.
“Take a good look at the stock in trade of a hundred-dollar-whore, my friend.” Even that posture could not make her body ugly. “Inspect the merchandise.”
“Don’t do that to yourself, Barbara. Stop,” he said softly.
Her voice coarsened. “Poor, poor, poor little Barbara. The delicate, sensitive little thing. Don’t make me laugh! Most of the customers want a good look at what they’re buying. What’s wrong with you? Shy, or something? I’ve been able to peddle this without fear or favor because it hasn’t
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