cupping my groin.
"Come," she said—a disembodied voice—her hands settled upon my shoulders with surprising strength. She bore down on me and lowered me to the bed, got on top of me, and kissed me hard.
We embraced and rolled, made love fully clothed. She, sitting, with her back against the headboard, legs spread and drawn up sharply, her hands clasping her knees. I, kneeling before her, as if in prayer, impaling her while gripping the top rim of the headboard.
A cramped, backseat position. When it was over she slid out from under me and said, "Now, I'll explain. I'm an orphan. Both of my parents died last year."
My heart was still pounding. I said, "I'm sorry—"
"They were wonderful people, Alex. Very glamorous, very gracious and courant."
A dispassionate way to talk about one's dead parents, but grief could take many forms. The important thing was that she was talking, opening up.
"Daddy was an art director for one of the big publishing houses in New York," she said.
"Mummy was an interior designer. We lived in Manhattan, on Park Avenue, and had a place in Palm Beach and another on Long Island— Southampton. I was their only little girl."
The last sentence was uttered with special solemnity, as if lacking siblings were an honor of the first rank.
"They were active people, traveled a lot by themselves. But it didn't bother me because I knew they loved me very much. Last year they were in Spain, on holiday near Majorca. They were driving home from a party when their car went off a cliff."
I took her in my arms. She felt loose and relaxed, could have been talking about the weather.
Unable to read her face in the darkness, I listened for a catch in her voice, rapid breathing, some evidence of sorrow. Nothing.
"I'm so sorry for you, Sharon."
"Thank you. It's been very hard. That's why I didn't want to talk about them—it was just too much to handle. Intellectually, I know that's not the optimal way to deal with it, that keeping it bottled up only leads to pathological grief and raises the risk of all kinds of symptoms. But affectively, I just couldn't talk about it. Every time I tried, I just couldn't."
"Don't pressure yourself. Everyone goes at their own pace."
Page 66
"Yes. Yes, that's true. I'm just explaining to you why I didn't want to talk about them. Why I really still don't, Alex."
"I understand."
"I know you do." Deep kiss. "You're so right for me, Alex."
I thought of the constricted way we'd just made love. "Am I?"
"Oh, God, yes. Paul—" She stopped.
"Paul what?"
"Nothing."
"Paul approves of me?"
"It's not like that, Alex. But, yes. Yes, he does. I always talk about how wonderful you are and he says he's glad I've found someone so good for me. He likes you."
"We've never met."
Pause.
"He likes what I've told him about you."
"I see."
"What's the matter, Alex?"
"Sounds like you and Paul have lots to talk about."
I felt her hand reach around and take hold of me. She squeezed gently, kneaded. This time I didn't respond and
she lowered her fingers, let them rest upon my scrotum.
"He's my faculty adviser, Alex. He supervises my cases. That means we have to talk." Gentle stroking. "Let's not discuss him or anyone else anymore, okay?"
"Okay. But I'm still curious about where the house came from."
"The house?" she said, surprised. "Oh. The house. Inheritance, of course. It belonged to them.
My parents. They were both born in California, lived here before moving back East—before I was bom. I was their only little girl, so it's mine now. It took time for the estate to clear, there was so much paperwork. That's the reason I couldn't go with you to San Francisco—I had to clear everything up. Anyway, now I have a house and some money—there's a trust fund, administered back East. That's how I got the Alfa. I know it's a little showy, but I thought it was cute. What do you think?"
"It's adorable."
Page 67
She went on for a while, talking about the car, the places we could go in
"Come," she said—a disembodied voice—her hands settled upon my shoulders with surprising strength. She bore down on me and lowered me to the bed, got on top of me, and kissed me hard.
We embraced and rolled, made love fully clothed. She, sitting, with her back against the headboard, legs spread and drawn up sharply, her hands clasping her knees. I, kneeling before her, as if in prayer, impaling her while gripping the top rim of the headboard.
A cramped, backseat position. When it was over she slid out from under me and said, "Now, I'll explain. I'm an orphan. Both of my parents died last year."
My heart was still pounding. I said, "I'm sorry—"
"They were wonderful people, Alex. Very glamorous, very gracious and courant."
A dispassionate way to talk about one's dead parents, but grief could take many forms. The important thing was that she was talking, opening up.
"Daddy was an art director for one of the big publishing houses in New York," she said.
"Mummy was an interior designer. We lived in Manhattan, on Park Avenue, and had a place in Palm Beach and another on Long Island— Southampton. I was their only little girl."
The last sentence was uttered with special solemnity, as if lacking siblings were an honor of the first rank.
"They were active people, traveled a lot by themselves. But it didn't bother me because I knew they loved me very much. Last year they were in Spain, on holiday near Majorca. They were driving home from a party when their car went off a cliff."
I took her in my arms. She felt loose and relaxed, could have been talking about the weather.
Unable to read her face in the darkness, I listened for a catch in her voice, rapid breathing, some evidence of sorrow. Nothing.
"I'm so sorry for you, Sharon."
"Thank you. It's been very hard. That's why I didn't want to talk about them—it was just too much to handle. Intellectually, I know that's not the optimal way to deal with it, that keeping it bottled up only leads to pathological grief and raises the risk of all kinds of symptoms. But affectively, I just couldn't talk about it. Every time I tried, I just couldn't."
"Don't pressure yourself. Everyone goes at their own pace."
Page 66
"Yes. Yes, that's true. I'm just explaining to you why I didn't want to talk about them. Why I really still don't, Alex."
"I understand."
"I know you do." Deep kiss. "You're so right for me, Alex."
I thought of the constricted way we'd just made love. "Am I?"
"Oh, God, yes. Paul—" She stopped.
"Paul what?"
"Nothing."
"Paul approves of me?"
"It's not like that, Alex. But, yes. Yes, he does. I always talk about how wonderful you are and he says he's glad I've found someone so good for me. He likes you."
"We've never met."
Pause.
"He likes what I've told him about you."
"I see."
"What's the matter, Alex?"
"Sounds like you and Paul have lots to talk about."
I felt her hand reach around and take hold of me. She squeezed gently, kneaded. This time I didn't respond and
she lowered her fingers, let them rest upon my scrotum.
"He's my faculty adviser, Alex. He supervises my cases. That means we have to talk." Gentle stroking. "Let's not discuss him or anyone else anymore, okay?"
"Okay. But I'm still curious about where the house came from."
"The house?" she said, surprised. "Oh. The house. Inheritance, of course. It belonged to them.
My parents. They were both born in California, lived here before moving back East—before I was bom. I was their only little girl, so it's mine now. It took time for the estate to clear, there was so much paperwork. That's the reason I couldn't go with you to San Francisco—I had to clear everything up. Anyway, now I have a house and some money—there's a trust fund, administered back East. That's how I got the Alfa. I know it's a little showy, but I thought it was cute. What do you think?"
"It's adorable."
Page 67
She went on for a while, talking about the car, the places we could go in
Similar Books
