drawing the short straw in lifeâs lottery. Twenty-nine days in which to rewrite metaphor.
This was a time when even his usual anxiety was ringed with bliss. He was anxious something might happen to her, anxious she might decide she didnât love him, anxious that sex be the rapture he knew it was meant to be. He had turned to Baudelaire for guidance, but while the erotic tone and texture were just right, what he really needed was practical direction. He read The Story of O , but the men were monsters and the women couldnât possibly enjoy what they were made to do. He read Lady Chatterleyâs Lover , which was thick with words but thin on technique. He even read Portnoyâs Complaint , but masturbation and Jewish families were familiar territory, while proper sex the Portnoy way was as romantic as a crawl through the gutter.
Such moments aside, he was happy â happier than he had ever been after twenty-nine mornings like that last one, lying in Avaâs bed while she slept, her head resting on his shoulder, his hand gliding over the fine corrugation of her ribs, the plunge to her waist, the surge to the full smooth buttocks. Her skin so fine, hardly a blemish, the soft down cushiony under his fingers, her quivering with his light touch. And only later when he realises they will never lie together again does it occur to him that far from love or pleasure or innocuous tickling, she was probably wanting to shake his hand off, peel it â and him â from her body.
She shuffles against him and snuffles in her sleep. (A thousand times has he revisited that morning.) He needs to use the toilet but instructs his body to wait, curls his hand tighter to the lovely hollow of her waist, his fingers acutely sensitive as theystamp her skin into the memory of his skin. And beyond the glass the sky lightens and the sun enters the room, stencilling the plane tree in the street on to the wall near the bed and moving quickly, too quickly, past the wardrobe to her desk. The sun strikes the Petri dish and throws off a spark. Another ten minutes and it has passed to the pile of paper which he knows to be her philosophy essay.
His gaze shifts back to the Petri dish; out of the sunâs glare it is clearly visible. And â he cannot make sense of it â the stones have gone. He can see the dish but his history stones are missing. He raises himself a little higher and searches the surface of her desk. They are nowhere to be seen.
She wakes with his movement. He canât stop himself, he asks about the stones, careful not to say his stones. She wonât meet his gaze. He wishes he could remain silent, but he canât. He asks again: Where are the history stones? She wrenches herself from his arms, turns to face him, is about to speak, then changes her mind, bolts from the bed, drags on a coat, shoves her bare feet into boots, and clomps out to the small verandah at the rear of the house. He follows naked, not a thought given to the others in the house, only Ava and those stones from history which he gave her.
There is a scattering of pot-plants on the back verandah and some hanging baskets. This is Avaâs garden, target of her lavish attention. Portable yet enduring, she had once said, âLike family is supposed to be.â He is shivering from fear more than cold. She looks at him, presses her lips into a shrug, then picks up a poinsettia, loosens the plant from the sides of the pot and pulls it free. There are stones for drainage in the bottom, she tips these out, sifts through them, shakes her head, replaces the stones, slides the plant back on top. She reaches for the nextpot, an azalea in flower; again she loosens the plant, eases it out, examines the stones, carefully replaces the plant.
He knows what is coming, he knows he should protect himself. And now, more than a quarter of a century later, with the thrill of her against his arm, he realises he missed his chance that day so long
This was a time when even his usual anxiety was ringed with bliss. He was anxious something might happen to her, anxious she might decide she didnât love him, anxious that sex be the rapture he knew it was meant to be. He had turned to Baudelaire for guidance, but while the erotic tone and texture were just right, what he really needed was practical direction. He read The Story of O , but the men were monsters and the women couldnât possibly enjoy what they were made to do. He read Lady Chatterleyâs Lover , which was thick with words but thin on technique. He even read Portnoyâs Complaint , but masturbation and Jewish families were familiar territory, while proper sex the Portnoy way was as romantic as a crawl through the gutter.
Such moments aside, he was happy â happier than he had ever been after twenty-nine mornings like that last one, lying in Avaâs bed while she slept, her head resting on his shoulder, his hand gliding over the fine corrugation of her ribs, the plunge to her waist, the surge to the full smooth buttocks. Her skin so fine, hardly a blemish, the soft down cushiony under his fingers, her quivering with his light touch. And only later when he realises they will never lie together again does it occur to him that far from love or pleasure or innocuous tickling, she was probably wanting to shake his hand off, peel it â and him â from her body.
She shuffles against him and snuffles in her sleep. (A thousand times has he revisited that morning.) He needs to use the toilet but instructs his body to wait, curls his hand tighter to the lovely hollow of her waist, his fingers acutely sensitive as theystamp her skin into the memory of his skin. And beyond the glass the sky lightens and the sun enters the room, stencilling the plane tree in the street on to the wall near the bed and moving quickly, too quickly, past the wardrobe to her desk. The sun strikes the Petri dish and throws off a spark. Another ten minutes and it has passed to the pile of paper which he knows to be her philosophy essay.
His gaze shifts back to the Petri dish; out of the sunâs glare it is clearly visible. And â he cannot make sense of it â the stones have gone. He can see the dish but his history stones are missing. He raises himself a little higher and searches the surface of her desk. They are nowhere to be seen.
She wakes with his movement. He canât stop himself, he asks about the stones, careful not to say his stones. She wonât meet his gaze. He wishes he could remain silent, but he canât. He asks again: Where are the history stones? She wrenches herself from his arms, turns to face him, is about to speak, then changes her mind, bolts from the bed, drags on a coat, shoves her bare feet into boots, and clomps out to the small verandah at the rear of the house. He follows naked, not a thought given to the others in the house, only Ava and those stones from history which he gave her.
There is a scattering of pot-plants on the back verandah and some hanging baskets. This is Avaâs garden, target of her lavish attention. Portable yet enduring, she had once said, âLike family is supposed to be.â He is shivering from fear more than cold. She looks at him, presses her lips into a shrug, then picks up a poinsettia, loosens the plant from the sides of the pot and pulls it free. There are stones for drainage in the bottom, she tips these out, sifts through them, shakes her head, replaces the stones, slides the plant back on top. She reaches for the nextpot, an azalea in flower; again she loosens the plant, eases it out, examines the stones, carefully replaces the plant.
He knows what is coming, he knows he should protect himself. And now, more than a quarter of a century later, with the thrill of her against his arm, he realises he missed his chance that day so long
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