speaking. Eva was sphinx-like, wrapped in stony silence. The driver kept his eyes fixed ahead. Marta was reengaged in her reverie, eyes closed. Ringer sniffed, hunting for food, and then settled on Jim’s lap. She looked back and forth among the friends, lost in their own worlds.
Jim and Marta and Eva were inseparable during their freshman year at Los Pobladores. The next year Eva and Marta spent less time together, and Jim divided his time equally between his two friends. As a third year began, he spent more of his time with Marta.
Jim Ecco was as skittish as a wren the day that Marta kissed him. When people stood close to him he was anxious, and when Marta moved into his intimate space to embrace him, he was unsettled. His repertoire of responses to members of the two-legged set had been limited to fight, flight, or wary distance, and the movement from impersonal space into a conjoined embrace was a slow journey.
Jim knew that Marta was willing—her pupils widened slightly, she positioned herself to face him squarely, open and inviting. Her head tilted back a fraction, inviting contact. He thought,
It’s taken me two years to kiss her,
a moment he’d wanted since meeting her.
Truth be told, she kissed him.
They had met after school on a warm day in early spring. A nearby park offered a few acres of green grass and a hedge of jasmine bushes. The jasmine lent an intoxicating scent and privacy. They’d decided to work together on a homework assignment. Marta had brought a blanket and a small lunch. They’d arranged the blanket and Marta set out a variety of fruits and cheeses, a small loaf of sourdough bread and sparkling water. She’d packed small plates, indistinguishable from bone china, but unbreakable, and two glasses. The place settings were compressible nanoplastics, shape-shifting materials that could organize and reorganize at a molecular level. The glasses collapsed into discs the width of a drinking glass but as thin as a coaster. Gentle pressure on the circumference of the plates allowed them to collapse into equally small discs so that the table settings occupied less space in Marta’s bag than a pack of cards.
“You think of everything,” Jim said as he took in the small feast.
“I wanted us to have a nice time. Hunger is distracting, don’t you think?”
Her words were matter-of-fact, but he heard the warm harmonics of affection in her voice. He was alert, senses aroused. She spoke with a quiet, measured cadence, almost hypnotic, and Jim had to lean in to hear her. As he leaned in, Marta closed the distance between them, an inch, and her movement drew him closer still. Marta’s lips parted and she moistened them with the tip of her tongue.
Jim heard blood pound in his ears. His heart sped and every capillary in his body dilated. He felt a flash of warmth like a corona of radiant sunlight. The heat was real but it was all generated from within. Without thinking—finally, without thinking!—Jim closed the tiny gap between them and touched his lips to Marta’s.
At first he feared that he’d committed an offense. Perhaps she read his anxiety, for she placed one hand behind his head and held him to her lips. They kissed again. At that moment, Jim Ecco began his life’s longest journey, the eighteen-inch passage from his head to his heart.
Seconds or hours later—who could be certain?—Jim and Marta backed up just enough to see each other’s faces. Her usual look of curiosity was creased with amusement. “Nice,” was all she said, and then pulled him back and kissed him again, slowly. “Like this,” she breathed. Jim brushed the plates and food aside and sank to an elbow. She followed in his embrace. He held her in the crook of his arm and played with her hair, stroking and pulling it gently. His hand explored the terrain of her face and he thought he saw something new in her familiar features.
Jim started to speak but Marta placed a finger on his lips. She kissed him
Jim and Marta and Eva were inseparable during their freshman year at Los Pobladores. The next year Eva and Marta spent less time together, and Jim divided his time equally between his two friends. As a third year began, he spent more of his time with Marta.
Jim Ecco was as skittish as a wren the day that Marta kissed him. When people stood close to him he was anxious, and when Marta moved into his intimate space to embrace him, he was unsettled. His repertoire of responses to members of the two-legged set had been limited to fight, flight, or wary distance, and the movement from impersonal space into a conjoined embrace was a slow journey.
Jim knew that Marta was willing—her pupils widened slightly, she positioned herself to face him squarely, open and inviting. Her head tilted back a fraction, inviting contact. He thought,
It’s taken me two years to kiss her,
a moment he’d wanted since meeting her.
Truth be told, she kissed him.
They had met after school on a warm day in early spring. A nearby park offered a few acres of green grass and a hedge of jasmine bushes. The jasmine lent an intoxicating scent and privacy. They’d decided to work together on a homework assignment. Marta had brought a blanket and a small lunch. They’d arranged the blanket and Marta set out a variety of fruits and cheeses, a small loaf of sourdough bread and sparkling water. She’d packed small plates, indistinguishable from bone china, but unbreakable, and two glasses. The place settings were compressible nanoplastics, shape-shifting materials that could organize and reorganize at a molecular level. The glasses collapsed into discs the width of a drinking glass but as thin as a coaster. Gentle pressure on the circumference of the plates allowed them to collapse into equally small discs so that the table settings occupied less space in Marta’s bag than a pack of cards.
“You think of everything,” Jim said as he took in the small feast.
“I wanted us to have a nice time. Hunger is distracting, don’t you think?”
Her words were matter-of-fact, but he heard the warm harmonics of affection in her voice. He was alert, senses aroused. She spoke with a quiet, measured cadence, almost hypnotic, and Jim had to lean in to hear her. As he leaned in, Marta closed the distance between them, an inch, and her movement drew him closer still. Marta’s lips parted and she moistened them with the tip of her tongue.
Jim heard blood pound in his ears. His heart sped and every capillary in his body dilated. He felt a flash of warmth like a corona of radiant sunlight. The heat was real but it was all generated from within. Without thinking—finally, without thinking!—Jim closed the tiny gap between them and touched his lips to Marta’s.
At first he feared that he’d committed an offense. Perhaps she read his anxiety, for she placed one hand behind his head and held him to her lips. They kissed again. At that moment, Jim Ecco began his life’s longest journey, the eighteen-inch passage from his head to his heart.
Seconds or hours later—who could be certain?—Jim and Marta backed up just enough to see each other’s faces. Her usual look of curiosity was creased with amusement. “Nice,” was all she said, and then pulled him back and kissed him again, slowly. “Like this,” she breathed. Jim brushed the plates and food aside and sank to an elbow. She followed in his embrace. He held her in the crook of his arm and played with her hair, stroking and pulling it gently. His hand explored the terrain of her face and he thought he saw something new in her familiar features.
Jim started to speak but Marta placed a finger on his lips. She kissed him
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