30 Pieces of a Novel (26 page)

I'll
do it if you want, but in the bedroom. I think this room we should keep as is,” and he said, “Nah, it'd be silly; I can undress myself too,” and she said, “Fine,” and stood up, put her glass down, and said, “One more thing before we go in. I'd prefer you not mentioning your wife again tonight or till much later, and only if it's necessary or involuntary, like if you're talking in your sleep about her. It can be disconcerting,” and he said, “Sure, though you can talk about your gaunt hairy men all you want,” and she said, “Why would I want to? That's so stupid,” and he said, “Hey, maybe it was—no, I'll concede it was and that I don't know where it came from—but I wish you wouldn't tell me that something I say is stupid, at least not till much later,” and she said, “Okay, I can see that's important to you, and I was wrong. So we won't talk about anything like that: your age, your wife, my youth, or any of my former boyfriends or lovers and nothing about either of our intellectual and social deficiencies,” and he stood up, finished his drink, and said, “Can we at least, while we're here, and without messing up the room and because I think the moment can use it and that it's also important we do, kiss?” and she said, “I want us to,” and they moved to each other. He said, “My mouth has brandy on it but so will yours, but if mine's stinkier with it it's probably because I drank more, so excuse me,” and she said, “Really, it's not an offensive smell. I even kind of like it: that and cognac and a French pear brandy, have you ever had it? I forget what it's called in French,” and he said, “I don't think so, what's it look like?” and she said, “Clear, like vodka,” and he said no, and they kissed.

They went into the bedroom. They'd kissed a few times standing up in the living room and he felt woozy from it, light-headed; at one moment he thought his legs might give way, but that's all he needed. Screwy old guy, she could think, next thing I know I'll have to hold him up, sit him in a chair. Such soft lips, he thought. His, in comparison, he was sure were a bit cracked and stiff. She knew how to kiss, hand on his neck and squeezing it a little and then fingers climbing up the back of his head almost in a spiderlike way, but only in the way the spider moves, nothing about being trapped or any of the other bad spider associations. Doing it almost as if she was thinking this is how she's supposed to hold a man and move her hand when she kissed, but he liked it. Her hand was warm and soft, and it made him shiver a few times. The brandy was a good idea; it had relaxed him, maybe made him say a couple of things he shouldn't have, but because both of them drank it it sort of neutralized any smell he might have on his breath. He didn't sense brandy on hers; it just smelled fresh. Kept his tongue in place because she didn't use hers, but he was thinking as he kissed her that if she started to use it he would too. She undressed, unbuttoning her blouse and taking it off, sitting on the bed and removing her jeans, unhooking her bra, but her breasts didn't plop out as he expected when the bra came off; they just stayed there, sticking straight out and almost pointing up. Maybe only the breasts of girls fourteen or eighteen or so did that. He's only seen them in photos, never even saw his daughters' once they started to develop, and when he was young and felt girls up and once got a shirt and bra off one—or maybe just the bra; the shirt she kept on but open in front—it was always in the dark. She slipped off her panties and then her socks—he tried not to watch, or just made quick looks, and she sometimes caught him but didn't say anything with her expression—and threw them under the bed. Light hair down there, he thought he saw, while her head and underarm hair were almost black. She color it to make it lighter? Wouldn't think so—doesn't see the purpose; shaving, yes, or whatever depilatory process if you're self-conscious of having what you think's a lot of hair—but he won't bring it up. “Aren't you going to disrobe?” she said, and took off her watch and shoved aside two little heart-shaped wooden boxes at the edge of the night table to put it down. That's probably the side she'll sleep on, he thought, since there's a night table on the other side. What could be in the boxes? Maybe one day, if they're still there and the relationship goes on that long and when she's not in the room, he'll look inside. “I'm sorry,” he said, “but I've been dillying. I have to admit I became a bit fascinated, almost like a voyeur, or voyeur minus one, watching you undress. Excuse me,” and she said, “Why? It's got to be natural. Which might seem as if I'm admitting to the unnatural in that the peeper instinct has never been in me,” and he said, “That's hardly unnatural; neither is, wouldn't you say?” and she said, “I suppose,” and he took off his shirt and watch, put the watch in his pants pocket, and undid his belt. His penis was erect and a little curved to the left and sticking through the fly of his boxer shorts as he pulled the pants down. She looked at it, made no expression, and looked away; but it had to look comical sticking out and curved that way, maybe even obscene, and he pushed it back in, folded his clothes up, and put them on a chair. She shut her eyes, twisted her arm around her back to scratch the middle of it, gritted her teeth as if the scratching or something else back there hurt, yawned, and said without opening her eyes, “Sorry if you heard that,” and he had but said, “Heard what?” and she said, “I yawned, but nothing to do with you. Just I'm tired … long day,” and got up to get something from the top dresser drawer. We're like an old couple already, he thought; ah, maybe that's good: we'll be relaxed, no poses. And a diaphragm, probably, from the drawer, but he can hardly believe the whole thing. Stepped out of his shorts; he was still erect but so what? Just that he was going to make love with her, this beautiful body and face, that's what he found so unbelievable. Because she was so young, maybe she was more beautiful to him than she actually was, but again, so what? Firm, lean, strong, no fat or bumps, impressions, or pocks in her thighs and buttocks, ass so high, nice-sized breasts and the shape they're in—she's in perfect shape all around. Slim legs, body like one in a bathing suit or Caribbean beach ad. No tan, divisions of dark and light on her skin, whatever they're called. She's evenly white as if she's intentionally stayed out of the sun and in fact had rarely been in it or never without covering or chair or beach umbrella or wide-brimmed hat. But the light pubic hair, dark head and underarm hair; something there he didn't understand. Important? No, but why was she letting him go through with it? Look at the differences, lady, compare; for one thing, his neck. He saw it as john-whore, but only because she had a body and face a guy his age usually had to pay for. And smart, too, going for a degree he'd never have the brains to get. Any advanced degree: never wanted one, but that's another thing. Not that he would pay to lay her. What's he saying? Sure he would, once: a hundred, maybe even two hundred, once, but if it was in a normal apartment, not a whorehouse, and she said something like, “I don't ever do this but I suddenly need the money,” and she was absolutely clean. Clean? Hadn't thought of it but sure she's clean, and she must know he is after no woman but his wife for almost thirty years. But he's not going to tell her what he thought. Unless, let's say, they were lying around on the bed after lovemaking one night or any other time, tonight, for instance, tomorrow morning, but lying around casually, maybe her head on his chest, his arm around her shoulder, and that hand resting on or holding her breast, and he said, “For curiosity purposes only, and you don't have to say if you don't want, but what did you think when you first saw my body with no clothes on, and I'm not talking about my penis, but you want, even that—the testicles, the works. And don't worry about offending me about this. I know what I look like—the neck, for instance. I don't want to call any more attention to it than would seem necessary or normal, because then it'll seem like self-pity's motivating me, but there it is, the neck, getting a little scrawny just like everyone's eventually does. So believe me, say what you thought about my body at that time, even what you think of it now, even the neck, what it does to you, if it in any way repels you—that's not a good way of putting it—but I'd really like to hear.”

She turned around, had what looked like a miniature athletic bag in her hand, bright red with electric-blue straps and some words inside a circle on it—a basketball, he now saw—and said, “I'm going to wash up,” and he said, “I should too,” and she said, “Why, what do you have to do—you mean the toilet; you want to go first?” and he said, “No, my body—you know, wash my penis; I mean, it's okay, but just to wash it anew—and also all around the anus and inside, sort of like that, if you want me to be honest,” and she said, “With what? Not with one of my washrags, I hope,” and he said, “Why? You just throw it in the wash after. But if it bothers you … anyhow, I wasn't thinking of using a washrag, actually. My hands—lathered up—one hand, and if you have tissues in there, or toilet paper will do, which I'd dry myself with. And I won't throw the tissues into the toilet bowl, so I'd need a wastebasket too,” and she said, “Good, my bathroom's fully set up for all of that,” and he said, “Then good, we're set. Now, before you go, and you should go first—my activity isn't crucial—may I also hold you a little and maybe a kiss before? I suddenly want to,” and she said, “That'd be nice, I'd like it,” and smiled, stepped toward him, they kissed, he pressed his body into hers, ran his hand up and down her side, rubbed her back, on her rear end, clutched it, leaned over and stretched his arm down till he got his hand under her buttocks and between her legs, and she said, “Please, Gould, not so fast,” and he said, “Oh, my name,” and she said, “What about it?”—his hand was away by now—and he said, “Nothing; that you used it: a second, I think. It sounded nice, and I'm sorry, but I didn't think I was going so fast,” and she said, “It was, for me, and I also want to wash up, as I said, and do some other things in there”—her head nodding to the bathroom—and he said, “Okay, all right, but so many rules here; whew. Don't do this, do that; or not so many do's, just don't do this or that,” and she said, “I'm only telling you what I have to do first and what I don't like done too fast—that's so bad? Standing up and fooling around here, for instance. It's nice for a minute, but maybe you even had in mind doing it right here,” and he said, “I didn't,” and she said, “I'm glad, because we don't have to, isn't that true? The bed's a much better place. And I'm tired; I already told you. So standing up and feeling each other after a while can be an effort when I'm this way,” and he said, “Come on, will you? Stop telling me—please, I mean—how to make love and how not to. I've done it before, I do have some experience. Okay, you do too, but understand that everything I'm doing here with you—if there's any action that isn't, I'd be surprised—is coming from some need or urgency of mine or something to touch and feel and paw you and the rest of it, now and later, so what the hell's so goddamn wrong with that? Tell me,” and she said, “You don't have to get vulgar and I think angry there, all of a sudden. And the truth is, too much talk too, okay?” and he said, “Listen, don't now tell me not to talk or how to and then when to talk and more of the not-to-do-this stuff unless something I'm doing is physically hurting you—that I can respect,” and she said, “Right now your talking is hurting me, is that coming through?” and broke them apart and pushed him away a few inches. He said, “Hey, maybe this isn't a good idea—this whole thing—how about that?” and she said, “I think you're right,” and he said, “So maybe then I should get dressed,” and she said, “I think that would be the best thing to do, yes,” and he said, “Boy, that was one fast coming together and breakup,” and she said, “It was, though I wouldn't exactly use either of those terms for it. Let's just say something is definitely wrong, or had become that, and whatever was materializing between us tonight isn't such a good idea now,” and he said, “Okay, everything's wrong, even the goddamn terms and words,” and she said, “Please, don't get angrier and make it into a big clamorous embroilment. And I'm really not trying to escape from this conversation—I just have to go badly, excuse me,” and went into the bathroom and shut the door.

He started putting his clothes on. Should I? he thought when he had his shorts on. Or should I stay naked and, when she comes out, say, “I thought maybe you had a change of mind? I know I have, but if you don't, fine, I'll get dressed,” but then thought no, just go, they're never going to end up in bed, and if she sees him sitting here naked … well, he could say something quickly why he is, that business about her possibly changing her mind and he didn't want to get dressed when he'd only have to undress again—he'd say it jokingly—but she could get annoyed that he hadn't started dressing and say something like “It's no laughing matter, and your delirium about my changing my mind is in fact a bit depressing,” and he got his shirt and pants on and was sweating heavily and his stomach hurt and chest felt empty because he had so much wanted to do it with her and had even seen something good and happy and long-term from it for a while and he knows he's going to kick himself to kingdom come once he leaves her place—a chance like this will never happen again, never—and was putting on a sock, thinking maybe he can come up with something to say to change things around, an artful apology, blaming it on his newness to this kind of male-female situation and which he swears—“I'm a quick learner”—will never be repeated, when she came out wearing a bathrobe tied tight at the waist. “As you can see, I'm almost dressed and would have been completely but I couldn't find the mate to this”—pulling at the sock on his foot. “No, that's not true; I just didn't want to be entirely dressed and out of here by the time you came out, don't ask me why,” and she said, “I see; it's all right, take your time. And look, I want you to know—I don't want you to think I was being a tease before. I meant to do what we were both heading for, but it was something you said, and the bad feelings I felt coming from you … a certain crossness—” and he said, “All right, all right, can it. Jesus!” and she said, “You don't have to become insulting,” and he said, “How was I?” and she said, “Just now, in what you said: another example of what I meant about the bad feelings coming from you,” and he said, “I'm sorry, then. I'm feeling particularly lousy and frustrated about this evening—mortified too, in a way… morbid, even. I feel just terrible, to tell you the truth, but I'll get over it, though the whole thing should have been avoided because it was stupid from the start,” and she said, “No, it wasn't,” and he said, “No?” and she said, “I never would have asked you up or even wanted to see you a second time if I had thought it was,” and he said, “Well, you don't feel any different about it now, do you? because I think I do,” and she said, “I'm sorry, no,” and he said, “Then it was stupid, and now even stupider than when I said it was. It's got to be our vast age difference”—putting a shoe on—and she said, “You certainly do struggle with that theme, and so sedulously,” and he thought, Sedulously, what's it mean?—oh, yes, and said, “Listen, I'm trying to be nice about this, polite, civil, because I feel so goddamn rotten about everything and I don't want to feel even worse, but will you stop telling me about myself—will you just please stop?” and she said, “You're angry again; I'm sorry,” and he said, “Angry? You're sorry? Oh, I don't know,” and had his other shoe tied now and said, “So long,” and left.