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"And this is why I sojourn here, alone and palely loitering, though the sedge is withered from the lake and no birds sing - the beautiful woman, without mercy has me in her thrall."
"In vain we lavish out our lives, to gather empty wind; the choicest blessings earth can yield will starve a hungry mind."
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You often see the couple walking around town, walking quickly side by side, in step, almost the same height, gray hair, his short, hers tied casually behind her head, wisps waving loose as she walks, wearing shorts and sneakers in summer, jeans and coats in winter, gray raincoats in a shower. You may see them together when you drive to work, when you drive home, when you go shopping, when you go to church. They may pass by when you mow the lawn in your quiet cul-de-sac. You might see them pass the park where you sit on the rickety stands, bored out of your skull by your son's soccer game.
They are a part of the town scenery, if you don't see them for a day or a week, it doesn't register, you think they are walking along Elm St when you're driving to the Food Lion along Main.
You might see them as you walk your dog in the cemetery (having disrespected the sign that says "Have some respect! No dogs in the Summer St Cemetery!"). They might stand for a moment by a pair of graves. You glance at the stones on your way out, each has a rose bush growing behind it, their thorny branches twine in the air. "Deborah Andrews 1934-1985", "Richard O'Neill 1934-1985". You wonder who they were, what took them, and what their relationship is with the couple, but you're distracted by your dog lunging on his leash after a cemetery squirrel up to no good under an oak tree and think no more of it.
Mostly you see them as they walk and walk, heads turned to each other more often than not, talking animatedly, smiling and laughing now and then. They make you think of your own marriage and how quiet it has grown.
Sometimes they will pause. "Look at that forsythia!" she may say.
Or as they walk passed the First Methodist Church, he may say, "The Indians really have to get a better fielder at second."
She may answer, "I like Joe Inglett, he's scrappy."
To which he might reply, "But can he handle the job every day? Sure doesn't seem like it and that Luna looks plain sluggish whenever he's out there."
Or they may stop before the closed gas station at the corner of Main and Elm, the pumps gone, rubble piled where the tanks once were buried, the windows boarded up, the aluminum siding coming loose, flapping in the wind, the concrete of the empty garage crumbled and discolored by years of oil. "Remember that bonus question on our 7th grade Ohio history exam?" she may ask.
He will laugh and say, "Sure. It was: what president visited Greenwood, what did he do here and where did he do it?"
She will answer, "Yup and YOU got it wrong. The answer was: Grover Cleveland, sleep, Greenwood Hardware."
"I thought it was so funny he'd sleep in a hardware store, I imagined him stretched out there in the aisle looking up at the screws and bolts and nails."
"First off, he wouldn't've fit, they really knew how to do obesity back than, and second, if you'd paid attention you'd've known it was the Greenwood Hotel at the time. Sometime later it became a hardware store."
"If I'd paid attention I wouldn't've failed the test."
"After we graduated they tore down the brick building and built that gas station."
They stand and look quietly at the grease stained ruin.
They walk up North Maple with its little houses, each with its attached carport and tiny yard. They turn into number 35, walk up all 5 feet of front walk, up the three steps and onto the cramped little porch. He opens the door, it is never locked.
When he steps into the darkened house he is alone. He sighs and his shoulders sag.
Two weeks later his phone rings. On the fifth or sixth ring he lurches off his bed, walks down the so short hall, walks into the kitchen and picks up the receiver. It is an old fashioned phone, black, with a rotary dial. Its ring is from a real clapper hitting a metal bell.
"Hello?" he says. After a pause he says in a soft voice, "Hello, you."
She stands on a balcony in the night. Over the rail she can see the ocean. Lines of low breakers roll in, pale dirty white in the moonlight. Their sound reduced by the expanse of sand. Her cell phone is to her ear.
"You just made love?" he asks.
She looks down at her pubic hair. It's matted with sweat and her excitement, the night breeze feels damp on her thighs. She glances into the room behind her, to the rumpled bed that fills most of it, to the man who lies amongst the sheets.
"Yes," she says.
There is a pause. He asks, "Was it good?"
She looks back out over the ocean, then up and down along the sand. In the moonlight she can see a restaurant, it's deck deserted, and beyond that the towers of a water park. She feels her heartbeat, calming but still hard. She feels the weakness in her knees, the ache in her thighs so recently spread, the fading pain in her pelvis from recent collisions. She remembers her cries. She touches her breasts, firm and young, her nipples still tender, holding the feel of eager lips. "Yes, it was good," she says.
"I saw you the other night," he says, "You were at the Red Sox / Indians game. You were in the stands. With some guy. The camera panned across the crowd and lingered. They showed you in the Sixth as well."
"I know," she said.
"You looked very pretty, just like I remember."
She's silent.
"Was that the guy?"
"No, just someone else at work. I didn't go with him for fun. The game was painful, those Indians! The sex afterwards was just empty wind."
"When will you be back?" he asks.
"I don't know," she says.
The man in the bed mutters and reaches out and makes a complaining groan.
"Not long I think. He's an easy mark. Bye now." She closes her cell and steps back into the room, leaving the sliding door open behind her. She sets the phone on the bedside table next to the box of condoms and climbs back onto the bed. She pulls the covers down and takes the man's limp slick sex in her hand and drops her head down and sucks him into her mouth.
The man groans, "Shit Deb, haven't you had enough? Get some sleep for Christ's sake."
"We can sleep later in the sun on the beach."
"Deb, I'm a broken man. I'll never rise again."
"Liar," she chuckles, his hand has started to vaguely caress her thigh, moving up between her legs to her moist crotch. She feels him stir in her mouth.
"Deb, I swear, that's just the involuntary reflexes of a stiff."
"Liar." She rears up and straddles him. She bends over and reaches for a condom. Her breasts brush his chest as she stretches, her belly pressing his now almost erect cock down against his skin. She has one and pulls it over him, holding his balls with one hand. She plants him, drops down, and grinds her hips against him.
He groans, more from discomfort than pleasure. Her hands grip his shoulders and she begins riding up and down. The bouncing of her breasts just before his eyes is exhausting and distasteful. The memory of how eager he'd been for those breasts just a short time ago is nightmarish. Her lovely young face, the face he'd been so happy to see sitting across from him in the seaside restaurant, the face guys at neighboring tables had so admired, that he'd been so eager to see close below his looking up from the pillow, now looks strained and crazed looking. He turns his head and closes his eyes.
He feels her nails dig into his shoulders. Her bouncing becomes frantic, her breath gasping. She stiffens and cries out. He wants to put his hands over his ears.
He is more than half asleep when she starts up again.
Filtered by half opened eyelids he sees the brightening horizon through the open window, a spreading band of dark blood red. Despite himself he caresses her thighs where they strain on either side of his chest, he runs his hands over her firm ass, when his fingers reach her narrow waist he feels more desire and begins rising to meet her descents. He becomes aware of his need. He pushes and rolls her, his weight on her thigh as they struggle around. He pops out. "No, no, no" she complains, her fingers find him and frantically re-insert him. He looms over her now, her legs on either side lifting herself to meet him. At first she is out of time, then they are in sync.
The room is filled with the panting of their breaths, the groaning of the bed, the knocking of the headboard against the wall, the sucking sounds when their sweating bellies press together and separate, the sound of the waves through the open sliding doors.
His cock is hot and sweaty in its plastic tube. He looks at her face, turned to one side, her hair all over, brown and lustrous. She looks desperate and unhappy, as if she is weeping. She grabs him with arms and thighs, her mouth open wide, unable to get enough air. He feels her shuddering. He feels the tightness of his climax. There is a stab of something like pain in his cock as it releases.
He is lost in black exhaustion, his forehead is on the pillow, his chin against her sweaty shoulder, her hair matted against his cheek. The pillow is wet with saliva. It is despair pure and simple that he feels.
She squirms from under him, rolling him onto his back. His head sinks deeply into that moist pillow. The sheets feel wet and slimy. She throws a leg over him, her knee touches his balls, holding him down. Her head is on his chest, he feels her hot breath. She mutters something and begins breathing evenly, sinking into sleep.
He stares at the ceiling. It is smooth and unblemished and white. The details of the room grow clearer as light spreads along the horizon. Clouds in the east are already bright.
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His phone rings again. He is sitting on a chair on the little cement patio behind his house. The hedge separating him from his neighbors is not 10 feet away. He gets up, goes in the kitchen door and picks up the receiver.
