She looked at him with terror. Sheer terror. Repulsion came next. Finally, anger. Just raw anger on her face.
"Christian, what did you just say?"
"You asked what I wanted, Eve, so I told you. I'm sorry," he said quietly. He had always been quiet. Now embarrassed too. "Forget it. I've offended you."
At times, like now, he still seemed like that shy little boy she had watched grow up.
One moment before, they had been walking side by side through a small park in the middle of downtown. A summer breeze, a line of shade trees, a respite from the noise and traffic. Children ran through the cool spray of the marble water fountain. Christian had taken her hand and sat the two of them down on a wooden park bench beside beds of purple phlox.
Her question had been simple: What did he want?
"I want to sleep with you. I want to make love to you. Before I go, that's what I want." Those big brown eyes of his, always so familiar to her, so warm. Now unknowing. As if the eyes of a stranger.
Just 20 minutes earlier everything had been so lovely. The two had a nice lunch, sitting at a sidewalk table outside a little Italian bistro a few blocks off the park. She had loved looking across the menu and glasses of wine at the near perfection of his face. The excitement of youth in his eyes. The softness of his always disheveled light brown hair. He was, even now, barely more than a boy.
"You and I must do something special, really special before you go," she had said across the table. "Let's do something really fun, something we'll always remember. Something exciting. So, what shall it be, Christian? What do you want to do?"
"We don't have to do anything special, Eve. Really, it's not necessary."
"But you and I, we've always made memories, Christian. Sweet memories. This is a time for a memory."
It was a link between them. As each memory was made, she dutifully recorded it by hand in a journal, to come back to and enjoy. Their secret. One they had shared since he was a little boy, and back when she still possessed some of the vibrant youthfulness he now claimed. Such sweet days.
"No, you're going away. I won't see you for a long time. We must do something to mark this moment,"
As a young boy, she was his "Auntie Eve," later, as a teenager, just "Evie." And now, one adult to another, she became "Eve." He was her sister's boy.
And her sister's boy, her only nephew, who was a mere 20 years old, had just asked to have sex with her. That was his request.
Christian was leaving in a week, to provinces and outposts with names she could hardly pronounce. Places in the desert half way around the world. He had been in the Army only long enough for training. So young. If only he would come home safe. She prayed -- something she could not remember having done since all of those Sunday morning communions ago as a young acolyte in church.
In his job, Eve's husband traveled. So, during Christian's childhood summers, he would visit their home for weeks at a time to keep Eve company. She would whisk the two of them off to the movies, to live theater in the evenings or dinner downtown. For Christian's parents, eating out meant meatloaf at the corner diner. But with Eve -- who had money, a large house and no children -- dinner was meant to be an adventure. White tablecloths, a maitre d' and cocktail waitresses. Eve and Christian shared years of those kinds of memories. Each one recorded dutifully in the secret journal. For her, such sweet days.
Often, she and her husband would take him to their summer cottage at the beach. Once to Europe when he was a teenager. Several trips to New York City. In college, since his university of choice was only blocks from their home, he stayed with them in a guest bedroom. Eve insisted. They were up till all hours of the night. She liked his edgy rock music and offbeat poetry. He liked the exotic stories of her vagabond years in Paris and Hamburg when she was his age. On weekends, she taught him the art of fine cooking. They pored through cookbooks together while drinking cabernet and sauteing French vegetables. He was the son she never had.
She should never have asked him what he wanted. Never given him a choice. Just picked something herself, made plans for a long weekend. They could have flown to Colorado Springs and hiked the switchbacks to Pike's Peak. Or headed to Boston for a Red Sox game, maybe take in some of the hip, open air street markets.
But no. She had to push it. And so his wish was to have sex. With her. It crushed her. How could he have even asked. The impertinence of it. It was disgusting.
"But I've never thought of you like that, Christian. Have I ever said anything that would lead you to believe . . .?"
"No," he said, barely above a whisper, as they sat in the park. He chose his words carefully. He was nervous. "It's just that . . . there's always a chance I might not make it back. It's a possibility. This could be the last I see of you. And you are so important to me, Eve. That's why."
"Of course you'll make it back." she lied. "You'll come home, find a nice girl to marry and have kids." But he seemed sad. Again he apologized, made excuses and took his leave. Too embarrassed to stay and talk. She could hardly control her anger as she sat on the bench by herself. No tears. Just numbness.
* * *
Betrayed. That's how she felt as she lay next to her snoring husband that night. How could her lovely young nephew have been so vulgar? After all the wonderful years and string of adventures they'd had together. So many sweet days. Had she done something to give him the wrong impression? She always dressed modestly, even her swimsuits and shorts. There was never any impropriety, nothing untoward. She replayed those years, but was at a loss.
With little sleep, she began her morning walk to the college campus. It was her first class of the day. She taught French literature. The walk, through narrow streets of old neighborhoods, was usually cathartic. Not today. She needed to make sense of it all. Christian had ruined everything.
He had girlfriends. She had met them. They were young, vibrant. Blonde and brunette fashionistas, with shiny hair and flawless skin. Skirts up to their creamy quick thighs. Despite his quiet shyness, they were attracted to his boyish good looks. She knew that. They're still around. He's certainly not a virgin. He could have any of them. It's silly that he would even look at a 52-year-old woman. What could he possibly see in her?
Back at home and alone in the early afternoon, she locked the bedroom door, stood in front of their full-length mirror for long moments, examining herself. Her sunny yellow summer dress had been tossed over a stuffed chair, her bra and unassuming panties at her feet. She was naked. And perspiring from the walk home. Wiping her brow. Her eyes fixated on her reflection.
This is absurd, she told herself. What was the point of this? What was she looking for? In her twenties, she had done this often. Loved seeing herself nude in the mirror. Adored the change from the boyish physique of her teen years. She had loved caressing herself, watching the reflection of herself as she ran her hands over her small, heavy breasts. Loved the sensitivity of touching her brown nipples. Watching them get hard. Her fingers grazing lightly over her tight abdomen, down to the curve of her hips. Then sifting her fingers through the bit of soft, fine dark hair between her legs. Lingering there. Watching. All the time watching herself. She loved the arousal of gently massaging her hips, even running a finger between them, touching herself unashamedly.
Each time back then, she would finish by using a finger to gently rub herself until she came. Watching the reflection of her own eyes as she did. Odd that she would -- or could -- bring herself off while standing. She felt luxurious. Hedonistic. She savored the glow about her. Watched it in the mirror as her orgasm subsided. Reveling in her nakedness and the sexuality she wielded. Her vagina so beautiful, she thought. This adorable little slit, a secret opening to her mysterious, wondrous self. The very center of her body and soul. But she was young then, Christian's age. So alive. And for awhile, with one lover after another. She could love so passionately. Back then.
There seemed to her very little left in the mirror now. She was slightly taller than most women. Still slender, proud of her thin arms, the nice curve to her hips. She would give herself those. But her breasts were beginning to droop a little. Then there was the dry skin, mottled a bit. The richness gone. Her deep chocolate hair giving way to gray. Those China blue eyes fading slightly. Crow's feet emerging A particularly noticeable wrinkle on her jaw. Her legs, too skinny. Bird legs. Overall, mostly dull. Just dull. Nothing sumptuous, nothing splendid. Her luxuriousness long gone. The glow of her sexuality, despite a once-a-week partaking by her husband, now a thing of the past. At least, that's the way she saw it.
She looked away from the mirror. Her own nakedness embarrassing her. Just an unclothed woman now, and a bit ashamed. A restlessness enfolding her, anxiety creeping in. Opening her vagina a little, she touched her clitoris, out of habit, rubbing it with little result. Now faster, rougher, forcing herself along, until she reached a hard-fought orgasm. Fluid all over her hand. Running down her thigh. Slumping to the floor, she lay on her side. Closed her eyes. Pulled her knees up. Held herself tightly. And cried.
* * *
"You seem lost in thought," said her husband, the two of them in lounge chairs next to each other on their back patio. Wine glasses in hand. It was early evening. A nightly ritual.
"Just watching the stars come out. That's all," she said. He turned back to his music, a few Schubert sonatas, piped in from the den behind them. She was thinking of her college years.
Hollis had been her first. He was an upperclassman, handsome, experienced with women, a bit full of himself. In bed, brutish and taking, always taking. Forcing her to swallow. Never giving anything.
