A Proper Kiss
It begins demurely. Unambivalent, but looking for an unspoken invitation. We press slightly; linger briefly. I open my eyes, and look for an answer in hers. Our eyes meet: there is no protest, no turning aside, no averting the gaze -- only a slight catch in the breath.
Have I found my answer? I lean forward again, slowly, wondering if she will pull back. She meets me, and my heart skips. Now we press more languorously, still softly. My hand finds the soft hairs on the back of her neck -- I am greedy, impatient; I want to pull her to me. But I wait.
Our lips part slightly, and I taste a hint of the sweet wine we have been drinking. My belly burns, my head reels; the synergy of wine and longing. Still she does not pull away -- I feel her hand rest warmly on the small of my back. I take her cheek in my palm, and as we squeeze out the air between us, I feel her spine go soft. Her lips open more, submissive and inviting, and I accept the invitation with my tongue, darting briefly in search of more wine.
Our breathing is labored now. She seems to have lost the strength to support herself, so I lower her gently onto the picnic blanket. Our kisses are becoming more urgent, and she lifts her chin slightly. Another invitation? I am eager to know her other tastes and smells. I find the hollow beneath her ear, taste the scent of shampoo. The faint bite of salt from the skin on her neck, inside her shoulder -- so many hollows that seem made to cradle my lips -- the soft part of her throat, so vulnerable... I follow the line of her clavicle, toward the rise in her blouse -- and pause, awaiting again her answer...
********
Commitments
The voices of the park drift in and out, as though carried on ocean waves. A boy's shouts, a small dog barking excitedly, a young woman's musical laughter. The sounds seem distant, detached from our small universe. We have found a patch of grass adjoining the embankment, hidden from the rest of the park by a stand of trees, luxuriant in their summer foliage, that complete our cocoon. The distant sounds are comforting in their joyfulness and their irrelevance. I turn my head to the side, and the park voices are displaced by the sound of her heart beating just below my ear. It seems loud, strong, desperate. The scent of her skin is like a narcotic, and I must fight an urge to rend her blouse. There's time, I tell myself. I notice a small stretch mark, an emblem of her maternity, an imperfection in her beauty which only makes her more human, more desirable. As I press my lips against it, I feel her hand in my hair, pulling me away from my heavenly perch.
"...no ...mustn't."
My heart sinks. Instantly, the pursuits, surrenders, rejections of a lifetime replay themselves in my gut. I feel the familiar resentment welling up as I turn towards her face, trying to understand. But in her eyes, I find only tenderness, and the seed of my resentment yields to regret, affection, and a desire to feel an empathy that as yet eludes me.
"'Mustn't'?" I repeat weakly, a little pathetically. "We're not children."
"No, we're not," she says, quite reasonably. She will not be baited by my petulance. Part of me wonders about the stereotype of women's emotional volatility. How can she be so calm?
"But I have," she says. "Children." She pulls herself up into a semi-lotus position, and in so doing puts some distance between us. Still I can't help noticing how gracefully she moves into the awkward position, the definition of her strong, slender calf.
Is it the conquest of reason over passion? The power of the maternal instinct? Maybe she just doesn't find me as irresistible as I would like to think. I roll onto my side and prop myself up on my elbow to look at her. I can still sense the warmth of her body across the chasm between us.
"I'll return you to them, good as new," I say. "I promise. I won't break you."
"But you already have."
An emptiness moves across her face. I study her, but in the rules of this game, some things must go unsaid, questions remain unasked. I remain silent, hoping to appear thoughtful and understanding, but haunted by her ambiguity. I feel that I should respond, but I am at a loss. After a moment I stand up wordlessly. She allows me to take her arm only long enough to help her up. We walk back to her car, slowly, in silence, our hands keeping to themselves. Through the car window I look again into her face, seeking some clue. I expect her to turn away, but she holds my gaze, and this time it is I who breaks the spell.
"You'd better go."
"I know."
"Will I see you again?" She does not respond, for what seems like an eternity. I have that sinking feeling again, and a chill on the back of my neck belies the late afternoon heat of August.
"I don't know."
I watch her pull out into traffic, this siren, this enigma.
I stand in that spot until well after her car has been swallowed by the traffic on Broadway and has disappeared from my view. Then I begin the long walk home.
********
The Dream
In my ground floor apartment, I find myself surrounded by a cacophony of isolation. The ceiling fan whirs rhythmically in its feeble effort to dispel the warm, languid air. A car alarm somewhere screams ominously into a disinterested night of a crime long past. My wall clock ticks loudly, incessantly, berating me with its reminder that Time will not yield to my reins. But in the middle of this emotional void I discover a core of warmth; and in it, I recognize her.
It is a revelation that I had not recognized even on the picnic blanket. How had we arrived here? Our relationship had progressed so strangely. Before my wife left it had been all light and air; flirtation without expectation -- or perhaps even desire -- of fulfillment; but one that brought us both an aliveness of possibilities. An aliveness that I had brought home with me, that had actually reinforced my love for my wife, and had helped to energize our listless sex life. I sometimes wondered what my wife would have thought if she had realized that she was the beneficiary of this flirtation. Somehow I don't think she would have sent a thank you note.
At some point, during those last months of growing physical and emotional alienation from my wife, an increasing urgency began creeping into our flirtation. As both of our marriages began to unravel, increasingly we each sought refuge in the fantasy. Somehow, even as it remained unattainable, it filled a void, reminded us that desiring, and being desired, was still possible. The wrenching abandonment of my wife's withdrawal in those last few weeks would have been unbearable if not for the narcotic of her stolen caress. The merest squeeze of her hand during dance class would send a flush of warmth through my core. The careless brush of my hand as we passed -- surreptitiously grazing her soft skin with my fingertips where her blouse pulled slightly away from her slacks... she appeared to remain unfazed, but I noticed she stumbled just a little in a dance that she knew so well.
I had never experienced anything like this before. This strong, fiercely independent beauty, leaving behind her a trail of would-be suitors, actually sought out my company. She was the kind of woman who usually intimidated me, but she was so easy to talk to. We always laughed together, even through grief and loss. Our talks rarely delved into the deeply personal; yet after being with her, I would leave feeling that we had shared something meaningful.
Sometime during the long months of my second bachelorhood, the feeling of abandonment from my wife gave way to affection and nostalgic regret. But through all of this, she never left my thoughts. For me, there was no longer any impediment to fulfillment of our fantasies. The thought both frightened and excited me.
But for her, I knew, nothing had changed. This contrast only made her seem even more unattainable. My longing for her began to grow almost intolerable. When we were apart, my life remained fairly normal, such as it was. But in her presence, my wanting of her was no longer just a desire but an almost physical need. In my struggle to control that need that I knew could not be fulfilled, I too must have appeared to her to be withdrawing at times. At other times, I would relish torturing myself with touches through which I teased myself more than her. On the way back from class, I would stroke her thigh while she was driving, wondering how much I could get away with, wondering if I was endangering us. Suddenly worried that this was perhaps too bold, I took her hand off the steering wheel and put her finger tips to my lips. I let them rest there for a while, but I was not content. I parted my lips and tasted her with my tongue -- how I wanted to taste her -- and I heard her sigh slightly, as the car veered momentarily into the adjoining lane.
