said.
“I never saw irises so deep and dark—or whites so clear that they have an almost bluish tinge, like a baby’s.”
Just at that moment the Talbott Cadillac was moving down the hill. Both Juan and Mrs. Ekberg saw them go inside.
The first time Honora had come here with Curt was on their third date. Her crimson-faced awkwardness as she’d passed the doorman had been so intense that she’d stumbled, and even now it was difficult for her to smile at the wizened man who tipped his dark green cap to them as he pushed open the etched glass door.
Curt’s apartment was on the tenth floor.
The furnishings, though obviously expensive, were agreeably sparse. A long, sleek, gray tweed couch took full advantage of the magnificent view of the Bay. A handsome birch drafting table was neatly arranged with graph paper, T-square, triangle, compass, a bottle of Higgins India ink. The built-in modern bookcase heldcollege texts, stacked copies of
American Engineering
, and fat volumes on structural problems—the lack of a single novel had initially caused Honora a serious pang.
Curt closed the door and reached his arms around her, resting his cheek against hers as if their embrace had nothing to do with carnality but was consolation for some unbearable loss.
Her eyes squeezed shut, and she encircled his waist, drawing his warmth yet closer. The same ungovernable reactions she always experienced flooded over her, the trembling, the racing of her heart, the weakness, the mysterious epidermal receptiveness—she was all tactile sensation. Her lips traced the moist, shaven skin and fine bones of his Adam’s apple.
“Sweet, look at me,” he said in her ear.
She blinked, pulling her head back, so that all she saw was his eyes, eyes which she always thought of as lion-colored, lion-sure. They were moist, vulnerable.
“What is it, darling?”
He shook his head, searching her face.
It flashed through her mind that he was questioning whether she wanted to go into his bedroom—but why would he question that? He hadn’t asked her the first time.
“I love you.” Her whisper was breathy.
“You are love,” he said, and, arms wound around one another, they went into the rear room which held only the huge, custom covered bed.
He pushed back the box-cornered spread and the blanket while she threw off her sundressand underwear. When they were lying naked on the bottom sheet, he kissed her sensitive breasts, his hands tenderly caressing her hips, her slender, tremulous thighs. The sumptuous melting physical desire that he invoked was tied to her profoundest emotions, her strivings toward beauty, her sense of honor, her need to nurture and cherish and love. At his entry, she floated in a miraculous stillness, then great spasms of ecstasy bucked through her body uncontrollably and she gasped out rhythmic cries of his name. After this initial craziness, her orgasms would be gentler, and she would caress him in the ways that gave him joy until he could no longer control his climax.
* * *
They lay entwined, her heart calming, her fingers and ears still tingling.
He pulled the sheet and blanket over them, taking an ashtray onto his chest and lighting a cigarette. He inhaled deeply. “I was born in Austria.”
She raised her head, looking at him. “You’re American,” she denied.
“Sure, but not native born. Like you, an immigrant.”
“Austria?”
“Maybe, but I’m not even sure of that. Maybe Germany. It’s the same language. The truth is, I have remarkably few facts about myself.” His sigh shook the ashtray.
She kissed his shoulder, inhaling the acrid odors of his coital sweat.
“My earliest memory is of a soft-armed, pale-hairedwoman feeding me a rusk soaked in something sweet. I can’t remember another thing about her, but it pleases me to suppose the soft, pale lady my mama. Then I’m living with an old woman. She told me she and I were no kin—she was a loathsome old crone, so it didn’t exactly
“I never saw irises so deep and dark—or whites so clear that they have an almost bluish tinge, like a baby’s.”
Just at that moment the Talbott Cadillac was moving down the hill. Both Juan and Mrs. Ekberg saw them go inside.
The first time Honora had come here with Curt was on their third date. Her crimson-faced awkwardness as she’d passed the doorman had been so intense that she’d stumbled, and even now it was difficult for her to smile at the wizened man who tipped his dark green cap to them as he pushed open the etched glass door.
Curt’s apartment was on the tenth floor.
The furnishings, though obviously expensive, were agreeably sparse. A long, sleek, gray tweed couch took full advantage of the magnificent view of the Bay. A handsome birch drafting table was neatly arranged with graph paper, T-square, triangle, compass, a bottle of Higgins India ink. The built-in modern bookcase heldcollege texts, stacked copies of
American Engineering
, and fat volumes on structural problems—the lack of a single novel had initially caused Honora a serious pang.
Curt closed the door and reached his arms around her, resting his cheek against hers as if their embrace had nothing to do with carnality but was consolation for some unbearable loss.
Her eyes squeezed shut, and she encircled his waist, drawing his warmth yet closer. The same ungovernable reactions she always experienced flooded over her, the trembling, the racing of her heart, the weakness, the mysterious epidermal receptiveness—she was all tactile sensation. Her lips traced the moist, shaven skin and fine bones of his Adam’s apple.
“Sweet, look at me,” he said in her ear.
She blinked, pulling her head back, so that all she saw was his eyes, eyes which she always thought of as lion-colored, lion-sure. They were moist, vulnerable.
“What is it, darling?”
He shook his head, searching her face.
It flashed through her mind that he was questioning whether she wanted to go into his bedroom—but why would he question that? He hadn’t asked her the first time.
“I love you.” Her whisper was breathy.
“You are love,” he said, and, arms wound around one another, they went into the rear room which held only the huge, custom covered bed.
He pushed back the box-cornered spread and the blanket while she threw off her sundressand underwear. When they were lying naked on the bottom sheet, he kissed her sensitive breasts, his hands tenderly caressing her hips, her slender, tremulous thighs. The sumptuous melting physical desire that he invoked was tied to her profoundest emotions, her strivings toward beauty, her sense of honor, her need to nurture and cherish and love. At his entry, she floated in a miraculous stillness, then great spasms of ecstasy bucked through her body uncontrollably and she gasped out rhythmic cries of his name. After this initial craziness, her orgasms would be gentler, and she would caress him in the ways that gave him joy until he could no longer control his climax.
* * *
They lay entwined, her heart calming, her fingers and ears still tingling.
He pulled the sheet and blanket over them, taking an ashtray onto his chest and lighting a cigarette. He inhaled deeply. “I was born in Austria.”
She raised her head, looking at him. “You’re American,” she denied.
“Sure, but not native born. Like you, an immigrant.”
“Austria?”
“Maybe, but I’m not even sure of that. Maybe Germany. It’s the same language. The truth is, I have remarkably few facts about myself.” His sigh shook the ashtray.
She kissed his shoulder, inhaling the acrid odors of his coital sweat.
“My earliest memory is of a soft-armed, pale-hairedwoman feeding me a rusk soaked in something sweet. I can’t remember another thing about her, but it pleases me to suppose the soft, pale lady my mama. Then I’m living with an old woman. She told me she and I were no kin—she was a loathsome old crone, so it didn’t exactly
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