gentle, and undressed me without moving his mouth from mine. This time my heart beat hard against the cage of my ribs. I came with him inside me, which had never happened before, not with any man, and the coming fluttered improbably and like a bird dying between my legs. I hadn’t imagined it would be like that, and it made me open and close around him like the mouth of something underwater and warm, something not yet born.
Afterward he kissed my nipples again. My neck. My lips and the lids of my eyes, and then he seemed to start to cry.
“God,” he said, “Leila—I can’t believe, after what I done to you the other day that you’re so damn sweet to me. You come up here again like you’re not afraid of me at all, and you make the nicest love to me anybody’s ever made.”
He put his fingers in my hair, and they got tangled and lost in the copper of it.
I noticed a thin scar under the stubble of his beard, stretching thin and red from his neck to his ear. It was white at the edges, as if someone had sewn the skin together neatly with a needle of light. I put my hand, then, on his narrow chest. It was no wider than my own, and, while we’d made love, it had felt soft against me, gently crushing my breasts beneath its bones. I said, “I should get back down to the office. God, what if Mrs. Briggs has been trying to call or there’s a bunch of guests down there?”
Gary Jensen propped himself up on his elbow and said, “Don’t go yet, Leila, please. I got to look at you some more.” His eyes were brown and dry.
I let him look.
“God,” he said, touching the side of my face with two fingers, “I can’t believe I hit you, baby. I can’t believe I did. What the hell is the matter with a man like me?”
I looked hard at his face. His eyelashes were also dark. A scattering of faded freckles on the bridge of his nose was left behind by the agitated boy he used to be. Soft hair. I touched it where it curled behind his neck, and he kissed me again.
“Leila, I got to tell you why. Something about me, so you don’t hate me. Because I feel like I could fall in love with you,” he said, squeezing my nipple between his thumb and forefinger when he said it. He swallowed. “My daddy used to beat my mama bad.” He swallowed again. “And I used to see that all the time. Probably since I was only just born. I bet I never saw him do anything
but
beat her, I guess. And even though I swore I’d never, never treat a woman that way as long as I lived, there’s just this thing in me that’s him, that’s what I seen him do to her, and there I go. I done it again, Leila, before I even knew what I did.”
I didn’t want to cry, but it seemed like a true story, the way he told it, and I saw myself leaning over the seat of a car, some boy straining into my mouth, his hands in my hair, and I said in a whisper, looking away from him, “I know how that is.”
That sentence, as it scrolled out of my mouth, stunned me itself like a slap. I’d never thought of it like that before, and then I closed my eyes, saw myself suddenly in a bright flash against my eyelids at the kitchen table on my sixth birthday. My mother had baked a cake. A plastic Raggedy Ann was stuck in the middle, into the chocolate frosting like a birthday sacrifice. Six candles blazed around Raggedy Ann’s orange braids.
My father was on the road, and my uncle had come over with a jewelry box for me, a bottle of red wine for my mother. They’d played some slow jazz on the record player while they drank it and toasted my birthday, knocking their gory glasses together full of red, ringing like old bells. The saxophone sounded scratchy and full of breath, obscene.
I was wearing a petticoat, a velvet dress like a girl in a storybook. It scratched, too, and shuffled, prickling and stiff around my thighs. They both insisted that I laugh—my mother leaning into me with that purple sweetness on her breath like a spleen, clapping, singing,
Leila, Leila, Happy
Afterward he kissed my nipples again. My neck. My lips and the lids of my eyes, and then he seemed to start to cry.
“God,” he said, “Leila—I can’t believe, after what I done to you the other day that you’re so damn sweet to me. You come up here again like you’re not afraid of me at all, and you make the nicest love to me anybody’s ever made.”
He put his fingers in my hair, and they got tangled and lost in the copper of it.
I noticed a thin scar under the stubble of his beard, stretching thin and red from his neck to his ear. It was white at the edges, as if someone had sewn the skin together neatly with a needle of light. I put my hand, then, on his narrow chest. It was no wider than my own, and, while we’d made love, it had felt soft against me, gently crushing my breasts beneath its bones. I said, “I should get back down to the office. God, what if Mrs. Briggs has been trying to call or there’s a bunch of guests down there?”
Gary Jensen propped himself up on his elbow and said, “Don’t go yet, Leila, please. I got to look at you some more.” His eyes were brown and dry.
I let him look.
“God,” he said, touching the side of my face with two fingers, “I can’t believe I hit you, baby. I can’t believe I did. What the hell is the matter with a man like me?”
I looked hard at his face. His eyelashes were also dark. A scattering of faded freckles on the bridge of his nose was left behind by the agitated boy he used to be. Soft hair. I touched it where it curled behind his neck, and he kissed me again.
“Leila, I got to tell you why. Something about me, so you don’t hate me. Because I feel like I could fall in love with you,” he said, squeezing my nipple between his thumb and forefinger when he said it. He swallowed. “My daddy used to beat my mama bad.” He swallowed again. “And I used to see that all the time. Probably since I was only just born. I bet I never saw him do anything
but
beat her, I guess. And even though I swore I’d never, never treat a woman that way as long as I lived, there’s just this thing in me that’s him, that’s what I seen him do to her, and there I go. I done it again, Leila, before I even knew what I did.”
I didn’t want to cry, but it seemed like a true story, the way he told it, and I saw myself leaning over the seat of a car, some boy straining into my mouth, his hands in my hair, and I said in a whisper, looking away from him, “I know how that is.”
That sentence, as it scrolled out of my mouth, stunned me itself like a slap. I’d never thought of it like that before, and then I closed my eyes, saw myself suddenly in a bright flash against my eyelids at the kitchen table on my sixth birthday. My mother had baked a cake. A plastic Raggedy Ann was stuck in the middle, into the chocolate frosting like a birthday sacrifice. Six candles blazed around Raggedy Ann’s orange braids.
My father was on the road, and my uncle had come over with a jewelry box for me, a bottle of red wine for my mother. They’d played some slow jazz on the record player while they drank it and toasted my birthday, knocking their gory glasses together full of red, ringing like old bells. The saxophone sounded scratchy and full of breath, obscene.
I was wearing a petticoat, a velvet dress like a girl in a storybook. It scratched, too, and shuffled, prickling and stiff around my thighs. They both insisted that I laugh—my mother leaning into me with that purple sweetness on her breath like a spleen, clapping, singing,
Leila, Leila, Happy
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