Cyclops among these ridiculous women.
Stooping to pick them up at will, devouring female flesh. Oh, and Marina Troy was among them! She began to slap and tear at the photos, cards, letters, gifts, as Roger, squatting beside her, tried to calm her. “Marina, no.
Don’t. You can’t know what any of this actually means.”
“I know! I’m not a fool.”
“Women liked Adam: you knew that. He was friends with both women and men, but women are inclined to write, and to be effusive. This will all remain confidential, of course.”
“Augusta Cutler! That woman has grown children .”
This was the true horror, worse than Adam’s suspicious finances: a low sexual comedy, where Marina in her grief had hoped to find pathos, pure cleansing emotion.
Roger may have thought this was funny, a comedy, or he may have been upset like Marina, startled and disoriented; it was difficult for Marina to interpret his behavior, except that it oppressed her, and her nostrils pinched at the cloying odor that wafted from his skin of cologne and male underarm sweat. She hated this man! This man who was a witness to her humiliation! He wouldn’t even let her claw at the evidence, he kept seizing her hands, restraining her gently, yet firmly too, as if she were a child, and he the child’s father, the male, supremely in control. Marina had begun to cry now, angrily. There was nothing of grief in these tears. She was flammable material, and Roger was a lighted match leaning dangerously close.
Marina said, “Leave me alone, God damn you! Don’t touch me. I hate you,” and Roger said, “You don’t hate me. That’s bullshit.” She felt his breath against her face. He was gripping her hands more tightly. Without transition they were struggling, in a grunting sort of silence. There was an air of the improbable and the fantastic about what was happening. A blazing light seemed to illuminate them, as on a stage, before an invisible audience. They were in Adam’s house, and where was Adam? Why were Middle Age: A Romance
they in Adam’s studio, alone together? Why on their knees, on the floor?
There could be no explanation. The previous morning at this exact time, Marina could not have comprehended such an event. I don’t even like Roger Cavanagh. He dislikes me . Yet Roger was kissing Marina, pressing his bared teeth against her mouth and neck; as if he wanted to hurt her, and Marina was in a mood to be hurt; overcome with longing for him, or for whoever he was; a man, a sexual being, in Adam’s place; in the exigency of the moment, stricken with desire like a violent thirst, she could not have recalled Roger’s name. Yet her hands groped over him. Her hands clutched at him.
There was the surprise of his hard-muscled back, his superior size and weight. She heard herself moan, in misery. In sexual longing. Was this, so suddenly, a love scene? Had the pathos yielded to frenetic comedy, and that in turn to a frenetic love scene? It has been so long . I’ve forgotten how .
What was happening was clumsy, harried, blind; she and the man blundered together like swimmers in a rough surf. Roger pulled at Marina’s clothing, nearly tearing it, and Marina’s dazed grasping fingers pulled at his shirt, and at his trousers, where he was guiding her hand. Marina had not remembered how quickly excited a man becomes, sexually aroused with a woman for the first time; the hot, accelerated breath like a dog’s panting; the strength of the arms, and the urgent thrusting body; between his legs, the wondrous thing-come-alive which Roger brought her hand to touch, to caress; even as he unzipped his trousers. They were kissing, groaning. They would have made love then on the floor, the hard hurting stained floor, the floor that smelled of clay, paint, turpentine and the ancient cellar beneath, except as Roger pushed apart Marina’s thighs, hoist-ing himself upon her like a flag, he must have had a glimpse of something in her face that alarmed
Stooping to pick them up at will, devouring female flesh. Oh, and Marina Troy was among them! She began to slap and tear at the photos, cards, letters, gifts, as Roger, squatting beside her, tried to calm her. “Marina, no.
Don’t. You can’t know what any of this actually means.”
“I know! I’m not a fool.”
“Women liked Adam: you knew that. He was friends with both women and men, but women are inclined to write, and to be effusive. This will all remain confidential, of course.”
“Augusta Cutler! That woman has grown children .”
This was the true horror, worse than Adam’s suspicious finances: a low sexual comedy, where Marina in her grief had hoped to find pathos, pure cleansing emotion.
Roger may have thought this was funny, a comedy, or he may have been upset like Marina, startled and disoriented; it was difficult for Marina to interpret his behavior, except that it oppressed her, and her nostrils pinched at the cloying odor that wafted from his skin of cologne and male underarm sweat. She hated this man! This man who was a witness to her humiliation! He wouldn’t even let her claw at the evidence, he kept seizing her hands, restraining her gently, yet firmly too, as if she were a child, and he the child’s father, the male, supremely in control. Marina had begun to cry now, angrily. There was nothing of grief in these tears. She was flammable material, and Roger was a lighted match leaning dangerously close.
Marina said, “Leave me alone, God damn you! Don’t touch me. I hate you,” and Roger said, “You don’t hate me. That’s bullshit.” She felt his breath against her face. He was gripping her hands more tightly. Without transition they were struggling, in a grunting sort of silence. There was an air of the improbable and the fantastic about what was happening. A blazing light seemed to illuminate them, as on a stage, before an invisible audience. They were in Adam’s house, and where was Adam? Why were Middle Age: A Romance
they in Adam’s studio, alone together? Why on their knees, on the floor?
There could be no explanation. The previous morning at this exact time, Marina could not have comprehended such an event. I don’t even like Roger Cavanagh. He dislikes me . Yet Roger was kissing Marina, pressing his bared teeth against her mouth and neck; as if he wanted to hurt her, and Marina was in a mood to be hurt; overcome with longing for him, or for whoever he was; a man, a sexual being, in Adam’s place; in the exigency of the moment, stricken with desire like a violent thirst, she could not have recalled Roger’s name. Yet her hands groped over him. Her hands clutched at him.
There was the surprise of his hard-muscled back, his superior size and weight. She heard herself moan, in misery. In sexual longing. Was this, so suddenly, a love scene? Had the pathos yielded to frenetic comedy, and that in turn to a frenetic love scene? It has been so long . I’ve forgotten how .
What was happening was clumsy, harried, blind; she and the man blundered together like swimmers in a rough surf. Roger pulled at Marina’s clothing, nearly tearing it, and Marina’s dazed grasping fingers pulled at his shirt, and at his trousers, where he was guiding her hand. Marina had not remembered how quickly excited a man becomes, sexually aroused with a woman for the first time; the hot, accelerated breath like a dog’s panting; the strength of the arms, and the urgent thrusting body; between his legs, the wondrous thing-come-alive which Roger brought her hand to touch, to caress; even as he unzipped his trousers. They were kissing, groaning. They would have made love then on the floor, the hard hurting stained floor, the floor that smelled of clay, paint, turpentine and the ancient cellar beneath, except as Roger pushed apart Marina’s thighs, hoist-ing himself upon her like a flag, he must have had a glimpse of something in her face that alarmed
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