THREE
I found myself eating at the café quite a lot. In fact I had lunch there every day of the next week, making myself what seemed, at the time, to be reasonable excuses for eating out, but all of which I discovered - after having finished and paid and hurried my way back to work - were complete nonsense. The mornings drifted by quickly, beginning well and growing somewhat distracted as the hours passed; while the afternoons were filled with an almost savage productivity which impressed me, but which, when each task had been completed, felt utterly unsatisfying. Worse still, the regular waiter had convinced himself that my visits were a sign of growing interest in him, as more than a means to my lunch that is, or at least he sincerely wanted them to be, and he began to offer more and more of a preferential treatment I found myself wanting less and less.
I grew tired of the menu, too.
On Friday, I left what I hoped would be seen as an unmistakably small tip, and gave up the café for the streets. The day was quite warm for the time of year, and the sun was out, so I didn’t head back toward my work, but made my way instead out to the river, joining the current of people heading downstream toward an early weekend. Near the walking bridge the river curves, but not as quickly as the riverbank, and just there a rounded field of grass and planted flowers reaches out into the water. The red brick wall of the bridge keeps the wind away, so most days in summer the grass is carpeted with sun-worshipers, and students with books, and lovers draped around or over each other. On days when the grass is empty, I like to sit with my back against the wall and shield my eyes with my hands, making blinders for myself, so that only the river and the field are in view, gray-blue and green, with the sun lighting both of them. In Autumn, the brick may have been warmed all morning, and I can feel its rough heat through my blouse or sweater.
This day, though, it was warm enough to stretch out on the lawn, and as no one else had stopped there, I went right down near the water, where I was furthest from the road and the walk, and a screen of rushes allowed some glimpse of the current, while the sound of small waves slid easily between their stalks. I lay back on the warmed earth, and the moist heat of it supported my back, like two hands cradling my heart, two palms holding my hips and thighs, two more for my feet. The sound of the water around me and the ground underneath, I closed my eyes and felt my whole body soften and open, while the sunlight played on my face.
That autumn sun, my autumn sun, is so gentle. I didn’t need to cover my eyelids with an arm, as I do in summer. I could feel it like the face of a lover, that hint of warmth just above me, watching me. I felt it softly watching me for a time, as my brow grew smooth and the muscles around my lips and mouth relaxed. Then it reached out a hand to caress my face with its fingers, running them over my eyes to my cheeks, and pausing at my lips like a kiss. I ran my tongue out to wet them, then left them parted, my mouth slightly open. I imagined a finger tracing those lips, then gently moving between my teeth to find my tongue - or did I feel it? Warmth. I could feel the hands grow larger and rest upon my breasts, a golden weight, opening my heart. I was sinking into the green earth with the easy weight of that sun upon me, and let out a soft moan of pleasure, a humming sigh that started high in my throat and skipped down the scales through the rest of my body.
The sound of water surrounded me. I was released, half dreaming. My feet fell apart, and my legs opened slightly, and the golden hand of the sun rested there between them. There, its fingers were on my calves, naked below my skirt; the insistent heat of them followed the curve of my legs, along the inside of my knees. I felt as full as a ripe fruit, a fruit whose seed has yet to be planted, full to bursting, growing red with the sun’s attention. My breath was light and quick, and the red color rose into my face, my closed eyes seeing the glow of his face behind their lids, feeling his hands on my upper thighs. I thought something brushed the hem of my skirt, as though to lift it. I held my breath, gently bit my lower lip, and slowly let it out again.
I remember hearing a moan then, it was my voice, and the light was so bright in my eyes, too bright, but the heat told me
stay
; my mouth opened wider and I breathed deeply into my lungs; filled with breath, the rest of my body began to soften and melt, to swell and become wet from the melting. The sun was too bright. I turned on my side, away from the intensity of his stare, and curled my knees toward my chest, my hair falling over the grass like a golden harvest, ready to be gathered. I turned away, but the sun wouldn’t leave me: immediately I felt him embrace me from behind, I felt his chest along the length of my spine, could almost feel his breath at my ear; felt it, felt him at the back of my calves, caressing my thighs. My breath was coming deeply now, it was easy to breath into his warmth, his warmth as it weighed more and more into me from behind, as it filled me with its embrace, entered me, through my skin, rained on me and flowed into me like a shower of warm golden coins, like a god warming me, softening me, planting his child.
Like a god or like a man working his body up under my skirt, and my lips swelling to meet him, I curved my back so slightly, slowly, allowing my hips to widen, my lips opening and reaching back toward the heat of that sun. I could feel the long erect tongue of his body licking at my lips, an irresistible and invisible pressure drawing them open, and my mouth opened with them, a gasp of exhalation, my hips turning further into the light to receive him completely, my legs opening there at the base of me. Hidden by my open blouse my hand softly ran a line down the middle of my belly, below the navel, reaching the long middle finger along the light line of hair, feeling each hair with the sensitive tip, reaching... reaching...
A sound from the path startled me, and I sat up quickly, running a hand through my hair to straighten it. It was a moment before I understood where I was. I looked about me: no one was near. I think no one was watching. The red brick wall was lit by the afternoon, someone walked a dog; the traffic made a gray noise over the pavement, while the river whispered seductively behind the reeds. No one had been watching. Even if they had been, what would they have seen? A sleeping woman, not her lover.
+
I walked home. I bought a loaf of French bread and some imported cheese. I bought the Times from a street vendor to give myself some gravity. I stopped at my bench on the river and read it, tearing pieces from the baguette and cutting slices of the pungent cheese with the small plastic knife the shop had provided. That was thoughtful of them.
