The Dream 107

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.

But then she would go home to her family, and leave me to my internet dates and my singles dances. To women who misrepresented themselves, or who seemed to think of love as a business arrangement, or who thought so much about themselves that there was no room left for intimacy, who professed to enjoy my company so much but understood nothing about me. But she understood...

Is it really you of whom I have become so enamored? Or only my dream of you?

********

Pelagic

The rain drives against my building. Sheets of water transform my windowpane into a funhouse mirror that reflects an unfamiliar apparition, and the image seems to jump periodically as the glass buckles with the crack of thunder. Unable to open my windows, I have stripped to my t-shirt and boxers in the hope of escaping the stifling heat. My thighs stick to the leather of the armchair, while the ceiling fan serves only to push hot, stale air into my face. Briefly I entertain the relief that a long, cold drink might bring, the feel of the glass against my palm, the cool liquid dispelling heat as it spreads out from my belly; but the effort seems too great, and I content myself with imagining its relief. I stare transfixed through the image on the pane and into the deluge. While bringing no respite, the storm, inexorable, feels reassuring. After this, surely, we can start anew.

This sense of hope brings a heightened awareness, and the sounds of the room begin to merge in an improvisation -- the syncopation of a dripping drainpipe, the rim-shots of the ticking clock, the symbol crash of thunder, the dissonant strings of a buzzing fly, swirling around his head as the apparition fades and the cool droplets forming on his glass run down his wrist. He rests on his elbows and listens, only dimly aware of the crowd. The band offers an edgy, impressionistic riff on a familiar tune that he can't place. The musicians have a drunken confidence, their lines bumping up against each other, tripping over each other, but always landing on their feet with a hidden lyricism. But the familiar melody underlying all this remains elusive, and he begins to find the performance dispassionate. His mind drifts, his attention drawn now by the crashing of the waves. He extends his left leg, testing the water with his toes, finding it warm and inviting. He slips easily into the womb of the sea, its warm waters embracing him. Long strands of kelp reach up to him from the abyss and wrap his legs, his torso, his loins, supporting and caressing him as he is swayed by the tidal surge. He feels no fear. He begins to move in counterpoint to the currents, to clutch the enfolding kelp, yearning for its embrace...

He was startled awake by a knock on the door. Foggy from heat and sleep, he stumbled towards the door, the absurdity just dawning on him of an unannounced visitor in the middle of this storm at night. People do not drop in on each other in New York, even in balmy weather.

As he passed the front window, he looked out and saw her standing on his front step. Suddenly aware of himself, he realized he had not bothered to dress before going to the door. He wondered if she had seen him, or if she had noticed the swelling beneath his shorts. A warm flush passed through his body, and he hesitated for a moment. But she was not looking towards the window -- whether she had not seen him, or was merely maintaining decorum, he was not sure. Perhaps she simply was not the type to look into someone's window. He opened the door.

"What are you...?"

"I had to see you." Her voice cracked slightly. He thought he noticed her glance downward, but her expression showed only sadness.

"You're going to catch pneumonia out there." He stepped back and opened the door further, inviting her in. He looked into her eyes as she stepped into the light in the foyer, but he could not hold her gaze. Her eyes, which he now saw were bloodshot, seemed unable to rest on his face for more than a moment. She wore no raincoat; she was in fact wearing the same light summer clothes that she had worn in the park that afternoon. Those clothes were now soaked through with rain, clinging to her skin. The sight of her made his breath catch. He saw himself in his mind lying with her on the picnic blanket, and the flush returned, stronger now, more focused. His face felt hot, his loins ached.

"Shouldn't ... didn't you go home? Your family..."

She was staring at the wall just behind his head, her eyes lifeless, her voice flat. "I couldn't face them. I got as far as the FDR ramp. I just pulled over, I wasn't even thinking. I called my daughter and told her I had bumped into an old friend, asked her if she didn't mind getting some TV dinners. I don't even know what I was thinking. I've been wandering up and down Broadway all evening."

For the first time since he had known her, he felt tongue-tied. He felt a surge of affection as he touched the hair that fell limply over her shoulder. "You're soaked."

She continued as though she had not heard him, still no modulation in her voice. "I went into a diner, ordered a glass of wine. God, you would think they would have something besides Gallo. I got some of that Greek crap instead. Tastes like tree sap..."

"Actually it is," he said, restraining a smile.

"...but it didn't help. When I came back outside it was pouring" -- she glanced at the sheets of water on his window pain -- "and I just started walking again. I don't even remember coming here."

"We need to get you warm."

"Are you kidding? It's like a steam bath in here."

"I'm serious. Let's get you out of those wet clothes." She looked at him. "I have a robe you can borrow," he added quickly, trying to deny the implication of what he had just said. He went into the back of the apartment, and when he came back, he had a towel and a white silk robe over his arm, and a glass of cordial in his hand. "Here, put this on. Maybe you should change in the bathroom, there are hangers over the tub. I'll have this waiting for you when you come back," he said, indicating the cordial glass with his chin.

"That would be nice." She was looking at him now, intently. The light was beginning to return to her eyes. She took the robe and the towel and went into the bathroom. She closed the door behind her, but not all the way. From where he stood, he caught glimpses of her as she changed. He watched her for a while, but turned away in embarrassment when he thought he heard her hand on the doorknob.

In the bathroom, she peeled off her clammy clothes, and as she tied the towel around her wet hair, she looked at herself in the mirror. In the glass was the image of a middle-aged woman who could easily have passed for ten years younger, who had in fact been the object of many a teenage boy's fantasy, the kind of "older woman" whose features, like a fine wine, had only improved with age. Her complexion was flawless; her skin alluringly soft and smooth. Her prominent cheek bones gave way to small crow's feet at the corners of her eyes, which attested to her buoyant disposition, made her look as though she were always smiling; while the frivolous effervescence of her youth had given way to a beguiling drollness. Her breasts were full, lifted by her perfect posture, with nipples like ripe raspberries. The slight padding around her midsection, against which she had battled continuously for seventeen years since her first child was born, only made her more voluptuous.

But her good humor had faded of late, and this was not the image that she saw under the harsh light of the bare bulb. Her gaze was drawn to the smallest flaws, reminding her of the passage of time. Ridiculously, the wrinkles behind her eyes seemed to dominate her face; the soft skin of her neck seemed to her a witch's jowl; that small stretch mark near the top of her left breast seemed monumental. Why would anyone want this? she wondered. Why would he want this? She quickly pulled on the robe and pulled the belt tight, trying to suck in her gut as she did so. Sheepishly, she stepped into the hallway, again avoiding his gaze.

"Feeling better?" he asked, trying to be nonchalant. He met her as she came into the living room, extending his hand. "Do you like Cointreau? It'll help you warm up." As she took the glass from him, their fingers brushed, and a jolt of electricity shot straight through her womb. She took a long sip of the fragrant liquid, and as she did so, the electric current was followed by a rush of hot blood. She felt wobbly. She could not look at him.

Trying for the second time that day to read her gaze, he took the glass from her hand and set it on the coffee table. Then he reached over and loosened the towel from her head, gently pulling her towards him as he did. He turned her face towards his, and now, finally, their eyes met.

"God, you are so beautiful," he said. She took a quick breath as if to speak, but he touched his finger to her lips, and she exhaled again with a sigh. He leaned forward slightly, uncertainly. But there was no protest, no turning aside, no averting the gaze. She met him, and his heart skipped. They touched their lips lightly, tentatively. His hand rested on the back of her neck; he wanted to pull her to him, but he waited.

She allowed herself to melt into his arms, her back arched slightly, head back, mouth open, in a posture of complete supplication.

"Are you sure you..."

She did not wait for him to finish his question. With a shrug of her shoulders her robe fell to her waist, like petals falling from a flower. Her hair was still wet from the rain, and the water trickled down her body and clung to her in mesmerizing droplets. Slowly, he began to dab at them with the towel, his gaze falling now on her flushed skin, now on her burning eyes. With his free hand he tugged on the belt of the robe. It yielded easily. As she was opened to him, she did not feel exposed; she felt a sense of liberation. In fact, for the first time in years, she felt beautiful. He pressed his lips against the stretch mark on her left breast, and he lingered there. His breath felt hot against her skin. She put her hand in his hair, pressing him closer to her breast. He traced its curve, slowly, with small kisses, until he found its peak. Taking it between his lips, he felt it harden against his tongue. Fleetingly he imagined himself as a suckling child, but her labored breathing and a low moan dispelled that thought. She felt like the nerve endings in her nipple were wired directly to her groin. She pulled him toward her, and with a step, found herself supine on the couch, his body covering hers. He continued the progress of his kisses, savoring the salt of her sweat, and as he approached his goal, her back arched involuntarily. She was a sweet and pungent delicacy, a banquet in which he could indulge all night without her being used up.

At length she tried to speak, but found it difficult to be coherent. "Here... up..."

He looked up at her, and the interruption of her ecstasy enabled her to catch her breath. "I want you up here," she said, pulling weakly at his arm. He obeyed. Hungrily she covered his mouth with hers, tasting herself on his lips. She found this unexpectedly exciting, and searched for more with her tongue. With her left hand she clawed at his shorts. They clasped each other greedily, and she reached up to him with her hips, caressing his loins with her inner lips. She was delirious now, she could not bear this, she longed to be filled. He entered her easily, her heat embracing him. They swayed now, as with a tidal surge, now in counterpoint to the currents, the entire fiber of their beings focused on the liquid heat, until a long, irresistible wave coursed through their bodies.