Love's Anatomy : Eyes

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.

In the news, we were still at war, though no one seemed able to write the word with any conviction. The news seemed as real as a television image, that winks out the moment you turn the dial. There were so many of our soldiers dead, but no one could even picture a soldier, to picture him dead. There were innumerable foreign civilians lost: no one would count them, or counted, no one would tell us how many they were, or their ages, or why they had perished. Perhaps our bombs killed them with their families. I hope it was while they slept. The price for oil was rising, but no article tied the price to the war, which was being fought upon oil-filled deserts. Apparently, the whole region was in such disarray that leaders who once promised a decisive victory now promised to remain, controlling the government and fighting anyone who resisted, so that a true democracy might take hold. I tried to picture a democracy which required a stranglehold to function. But there was another word for that. Someone had made a mistake when proofing the article.

I felt the sun seeping out of me. It was setting upriver, and in the sky the clouds were touched with red. The Times doesn’t print comics. I think that it’s a conscious mistake. They’re missing the point, though: they’re as wrong as the warmongers, both seem colorblind, stuck in a world without nuance or paint. The “D” Section reported that our market was stable, but in International News, Europe was cursing my neighbors, cursing people like Mrs. Wheeler under its breath, and Latin America was cursing out loud, cursing without even knowing names or faces or anything about their lives. My friends and neighbors were called short-sighted and tyrants because of what their government was doing, because they were unable or unwilling to make their government more accountable for its mistakes.

The sun had set. I folded the Times neatly, putting the sections back in order, and left it for someone who might appreciate it more than me.

I crossed the road, and could see Mrs. Wheeler herself, Mrs. Wheeler the tyrant, rocking in her customary spot on the veranda, the lights turned on. She was looking down and her fingers were working - another sweater I was sure. She had just finished one for her grandson overseas, though I doubted he would have much use for it. There were violent protests in the Middle East because of Mrs. Wheeler, can you imagine that. I called out to her and waved, and she nodded and smiled to me. Her fingers never stopped working. I continued past her down the street, but she called me back.

— Oh, Alison!

I retraced my steps until I was leaning on the short wall, facing her chair.

— You know, there was a young man looking for you earlier today. He seemed very nice, but I thought it a little strange…

I didn’t answer right away. — A young man? You mean my age?

— Yes, I haven’t seen him around here before, otherwise I would have thought him one of our neighbors. He seemed very nice. He didn’t know your name, but I am sure he was talking about you. You know, your hair is so beautiful, dear. I didn’t lie to him. I told him I was pretty certain of whom he was speaking. But then, he didn’t know your name. I asked, Are you a friend of Alison’s? I can’t believe I told him your name, I felt so foolish! Then he smiled - a very nice smile, I thought… but still. He smiled and said, Alison, what a nice name. Oh, I could have kicked myself: a perfect stranger!

— Did you tell him where I live? You didn’t tell him where I live, then, did you.

I was watching Mrs. Wheeler and she looked at me intently. Intently, I knew, for she had even stopped knitting.

— Oh, no, dear! I started getting wary, and asked again if he knew you. What did he do…? He rubbed his head with one hand - that didn’t seem very ominous, did it? - and he said, No, he guessed not. He said he had seen you the other day in a restaurant, and then over by the river, and thought that perhaps you lived around here. I told him, Well, I knew

of

you, but I didn’t know where you lived, and then he said quickly, No, of course not. I wouldn’t ask you to tell me if you did.

— Yes. Well, that’s good, I suppose.

What was I feeling? I closed my eyes for a moment to catch the tail of an emotion, but it moved too quickly for me to grasp. — So, he left, then. I’m sure I’m safe enough. Thank you for being careful, Mrs. Wheeler. The news is so full of stories… Anyway, I do remember the man. I don’t think he was dangerous; but I don’t know him. Who knows, maybe we’ll bump into each other again at the restaurant some day… or somewhere else. But it might have been nice to say hello.

— Oh, but he left his

number

, dear.

— He did...!! He did?

Mrs. Wheeler lifted her knitting again and added a few stitches to her work, then once again let hands and wool come to rest in her lap. — He said, We aren’t at all friends, not even acquaintances, I haven’t even said a word to her, but I wouldn’t mind… And then he found a scrap of paper in the waste-can over there and asked if he could leave you a note. He seemed such a nice man, I thought, well, maybe there was no harm in it - you can always throw it away if you don’t want it. Or give it to the police. I put it here somewhere. Let me see…

She looked over one side of the chair and then the other, and picked up a bag of yarn. I stepped through the entryway and onto the veranda. She prodded the bag for a moment. — Now where did I…?

Then an expression stole over her, a coy curl played across her lips, and she suddenly seemed years younger. After a furtive glance to see if anyone was near, she reached into the top of her blouse and drew a folded and wrinkled note out from between her breasts. — I always kept the best ones here, she said with that coy smile. Then the years seemed to rush back upon her, as though a wave that had receded had gathered itself again, and returned to break against the shore. Her youth folded up in the note she slipped from between her breasts. Not all of the dust returned to her gaze, though, and she leaned toward me, putting her hand upon my arm and confiding in a stage whisper, — I don’t have any pockets to keep things in, now have I?

I took the paper she offered. Her hand shook slightly, and the skin of her fingers was dry as a fallen leaf.

— Thank you so much, Mrs. Wheeler.

— Betty, dear.

— Thank you… Betty.

I bid her good night, and was at my door before I noticed. I ran up the stairs to my apartment, feeling my breath deep and fast again, and feeling the warmth of the sun moving through me.