far-fetched to expect him to understand me?
“I’m not a scary person,” he said. “I’m a scared person.”
Was he being earnest? Or was he simply skilled at saying what needed to be said in moments of impatience? He hadn’t been laughing or even smiling as he said it. Perhaps I’d become suspicious in middle age.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he answered, laughing a little of that gravelly laugh, the sound of which pressed a button somewhere within me. I was satisfied with his answer and resolved not to confuse him with anyone I had known before, to approach him with an open mind, as a book I had yet to read. Though the very thought, pathetically, reminded me of Var. I had to wonder if all our problems were in fact my problems, if I would carry them from bed to bed like a lady’s purse: the same tissues, the same compact, the same small bills. The matter of the stuck window asserted itself but I turned with even greater assertiveness away from it.
The house, which had seemed warm when we entered, now felt cold as a barn. I wished I could put my coat back on without sending the wrong message. We would have to touch soon, if only to keep our teeth from chattering. I didn’t want to hear his teeth chatter, nor did I want him to hear mine.
“Shall we get under?” I asked, eyeing the blanket, afraid he would decline. Surely a power differential exists between a highly attractive young man and a moderately attractive middle-aged woman. I felt frightfully unsure of myself.
As he nodded and bent down to remove his boots, I avoided seeing his feet. Even dressed in socks, feet are disconcertingly intimate. Though now there are moments at the library or in the apartment just before I drift off to sleep when I close my eyes and picture them—his feet, his teeth, any part of him, as clearly as I can just for the pleasure of it. My ability to do so, evidence of our intimacy. But then I had never seen him read a book or drink a glass of water or eat a piece of bread; only twice had I seen him sit in a chair. How could I possibly have seen his feet? I felt then the extreme disorder of things; I felt a compassion for us having gone about everything in such an unnatural sequence. I made my way to the mattress, (as if I could escape him there).
To cope with my mounting fear I examined the loft. Even as he lay down next to me, I was studying the rafters, the crude wooden pegs that had been used in place of nails, the stainless steel hook upon which I had neglected to hang my coat. There was a deep silence yet no sound of air in or out. It appeared that, like me, he was holding his breath. He kept his body at a polite distance, close enough so that I did not feel rejected but not close enough to touch mine. The blanket, which he had pulled up to his neck and whose olive green I could just make out, was, I realized with delight, virgin wool, incongruous with the ascetic’s house and perfectly suited to us. Perhaps the owner received it as a gift from someone with slightly more luxurious tastes than her own. Or perhaps her skin was very sensitive, someone like Var or Maria who suffered from psoriasis and could not wear common wool next to their skin. These were my quotidian thoughts as my young lover lay next to me for the first time. Despite my romantic notions about the two of us inhabiting an island separate from the main, in our first moments together we were two islands, near but not touching, each of us surrounded by perilous depths.
I was studying the zigzag stitch at the edge of the blanket when the young man cleared his throat. Had he intended to remind me of his existence or had a particle of the trespassed air caught in his throat? I turned toward him to find his head already turned toward mine. His eyes looked well-rested, expectant, like those of a second-string athlete waiting his turn. How long had I left him looking and waiting (his girlishly soft neck perhaps being scratched by the
“I’m not a scary person,” he said. “I’m a scared person.”
Was he being earnest? Or was he simply skilled at saying what needed to be said in moments of impatience? He hadn’t been laughing or even smiling as he said it. Perhaps I’d become suspicious in middle age.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he answered, laughing a little of that gravelly laugh, the sound of which pressed a button somewhere within me. I was satisfied with his answer and resolved not to confuse him with anyone I had known before, to approach him with an open mind, as a book I had yet to read. Though the very thought, pathetically, reminded me of Var. I had to wonder if all our problems were in fact my problems, if I would carry them from bed to bed like a lady’s purse: the same tissues, the same compact, the same small bills. The matter of the stuck window asserted itself but I turned with even greater assertiveness away from it.
The house, which had seemed warm when we entered, now felt cold as a barn. I wished I could put my coat back on without sending the wrong message. We would have to touch soon, if only to keep our teeth from chattering. I didn’t want to hear his teeth chatter, nor did I want him to hear mine.
“Shall we get under?” I asked, eyeing the blanket, afraid he would decline. Surely a power differential exists between a highly attractive young man and a moderately attractive middle-aged woman. I felt frightfully unsure of myself.
As he nodded and bent down to remove his boots, I avoided seeing his feet. Even dressed in socks, feet are disconcertingly intimate. Though now there are moments at the library or in the apartment just before I drift off to sleep when I close my eyes and picture them—his feet, his teeth, any part of him, as clearly as I can just for the pleasure of it. My ability to do so, evidence of our intimacy. But then I had never seen him read a book or drink a glass of water or eat a piece of bread; only twice had I seen him sit in a chair. How could I possibly have seen his feet? I felt then the extreme disorder of things; I felt a compassion for us having gone about everything in such an unnatural sequence. I made my way to the mattress, (as if I could escape him there).
To cope with my mounting fear I examined the loft. Even as he lay down next to me, I was studying the rafters, the crude wooden pegs that had been used in place of nails, the stainless steel hook upon which I had neglected to hang my coat. There was a deep silence yet no sound of air in or out. It appeared that, like me, he was holding his breath. He kept his body at a polite distance, close enough so that I did not feel rejected but not close enough to touch mine. The blanket, which he had pulled up to his neck and whose olive green I could just make out, was, I realized with delight, virgin wool, incongruous with the ascetic’s house and perfectly suited to us. Perhaps the owner received it as a gift from someone with slightly more luxurious tastes than her own. Or perhaps her skin was very sensitive, someone like Var or Maria who suffered from psoriasis and could not wear common wool next to their skin. These were my quotidian thoughts as my young lover lay next to me for the first time. Despite my romantic notions about the two of us inhabiting an island separate from the main, in our first moments together we were two islands, near but not touching, each of us surrounded by perilous depths.
I was studying the zigzag stitch at the edge of the blanket when the young man cleared his throat. Had he intended to remind me of his existence or had a particle of the trespassed air caught in his throat? I turned toward him to find his head already turned toward mine. His eyes looked well-rested, expectant, like those of a second-string athlete waiting his turn. How long had I left him looking and waiting (his girlishly soft neck perhaps being scratched by the
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