Love Is Red (7 page)

Meanwhile my mother was in labor and the nurse asked—here my father would imitate the nurse with a squeaky falsetto—“Don't you want to stand by your wife, Mr. Emerson, and hold her hand?”

My father said that my mother yelled, “No! Keep him away! He's driving me crazy!” My father did a great impression of my mom yelling. Looking back on it, I think that speaks volumes.

So my father went and stood by the window, which oversaw the parking lot. Then he would always ask me, “And what do you think I saw?”

“What?” I always asked, because this was my favorite part.

And my father would say, “Hundreds and hundreds of stars shooting across the sky. I'd never seen anything like it before. I don't even know how long I stood there, but the next thing I heard was a baby crying, and that was you.”

Then he would always finish with the line “That's how special you are, Katherine; you came in on a sea of shooting stars.”

I have told no one about Sael. They wouldn't understand.
I
don't understand. They would just tell me to stop. They would tell me it's a bad idea. That he sounds like a bad idea.
It will only end in tears
, they would say. They would tell me that
this might even be dangerous
. They would be right. Nobody knows where I am; no one, let alone me, knows what his intentions are.

We have never emailed. We communicate only through texts. Neither of us wants evidence. I deal with this as a spy might; the less I know, the better, the less torture I will have to take.

I wonder what it's like to be a beautiful young man in this city. He is tall and lean. He has dark hair. He has a strong nose, a firm chin. His hands are long, his fingers elegant; he is impeccably dressed. All his moves are intentional, calculated.

I wonder about Sael's other life, his dating life and whom he's seeing, whom he would acknowledge in public. After all, what we're doing isn't dating. For one moment that first night I surprised him, and he's been trying to dissect me ever since. It has a goal; there's an ending. I wonder how many women he's slept with. There must be many. We do not speak of romantic relationships, past or present.

I know now, through his stories, that his parents are dead. He is an orphan, an old-fashioned word in this modern world. They died in a plane crash when he was nineteen. Not a big one, though; they were on one of the private, small ones. “It's amazing,” he said, “the ways you can kill yourself when you have money.”

He is interested in some art, and not in other art. He is opinionated but contained. He has never raised his voice in my presence. Never given any indication of a temper. I can't tell when he's
joking. He has a poker face and he plays poker, mostly with his friends, although he has played in some semiprofessional tournaments and won some serious money. He also plays chess—of course he plays chess; it suits him. Every movement is controlled; every action is part of a larger strategy. But there's something coiled up inside him, something alien and unknown. I guess I must like this.

He pays for everything. I never take out my wallet. It is understood. I could never afford the kind of places he takes me to. This is on his terms. He can afford it. He is young and brilliant, and does well. Technology. Marketing. Design. Dropped out of college, started his own company, now employs many people. I imagine them to be mostly guys, but some edgy women. People who wear jeans and sneakers and are not the most socially adept, but who know how to create worlds. They know how to help those worlds talk with one another

Ironic, I guess.

We both know how a father's breath smells when he's unhappy.

Here are the things I have learned about myself:

I've learned that I like power, that I am attracted to arrogance, that I like anonymity. In a world where you can know everything, where you are constantly updating and informing, there's something wonderful about having a secret. Most of all, I've learned that I can be another Katherine. This Katherine is cool, almost cold. She doesn't laugh much, or smile. This Katherine isn't so nice. She tells the truth, though, even about personal things. She eats expensive food and is always dropped off at her building by a car service. Then she lies awake, staring up at the ceiling. She vows she will stop it. She vows, every time, that it was the last time. She is lying. She is waiting for the fifth dinner.

This knowledge is the bitter gift we give ourselves.

My pasta cools; the evening cools.

“Check, please,” he says.

We walk side by side in silence. There are not many people around. We do not walk to the subway, nor does he hail a cab. I understand. He lives in this neighborhood. We are walking toward his apartment. This is it.

Does it count if I barely touched my food?

We stop at a metal black door around the corner of a brick building. Sael takes out a key. “Private entrance,” he explains to my raised eyebrow. Inside the building, the walls are brown and flaking, impersonal, giving no clues as to the tenants. An old freight elevator opens and we enter.

Sael turns a key and we begin our creaky ascent. “This used to be a chocolate factory,” he says.

Of course it was. Everything's better with chocolate. I bite my lip to keep from laughing, a hysteria rising in me.

The elevator doors part and we're here. I look around, trying to take everything in; the open-plan kitchen, the bookshelves filled with books, a worn-out black leather sofa, an oak coffee table on which sits a cactus in a white pot, glossy prints on the brick walls. I want to go exploring, look at the art, see what books he reads, but—

He closes and locks the door. There is something cold and final about the sound of the lock being turned.
Click.

“Now,” he says. “Don't move.”

I don't.

“Lift up your arms,” he says.

I do. He pulls off my thin black sweater. He turns it right side out and folds it, placing it carefully upon the arm of the black leather couch. He turns again to where I stand. I am wearing a sleeveless buttoned silk blouse tucked into my skirt. He gives the blouse a gentle tug and releases it. Its two tails hang awkwardly out, unsure and embarrassed. I have forgotten how to breathe. He starts from the top, slowly, deliberately sliding each one of my buttons through its slit.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Now my shirt is open. Shirt, then a slash of skin, then shirt. It hangs like curtains framing the window of my chest. He eases the shirt back from my shoulders. He is careful not to touch my skin. I can feel the warmth emanating from his hands through the silk. I want him to touch my skin but he does not.

It's so quiet you can hear the faint
shhh
of material, soft and slippery, in his hands. He turns and walks to one side of the room. I stand watching him. He slides open a closet door and hangs my shirt carefully upon a hanger. I am standing in my skirt, my underwear, my bra. My clothes feel too tight. I am aware of everything. The absence of some clothes highlights the presence of the others. The cool puff of air-conditioning on my arms, my stomach, my shoulders, my legs. I hear the soft hum of the fridge, my own breathing. There is a faint citrus smell, probably from an expensive oil diffuser. He returns and stands in front of me. Then his hands move behind me. I breathe in.

Inch by inch, he unzips my skirt. The purr that the zipper makes is loud, terrifying. He takes his time. He gives the hem a firm but careful tug. My skirt slips down to my ankles and I am forced to step out of it, one foot after the other. I wobble but his hands close on the backs of my thighs briefly to steady me. He does not hang up my skirt, however, but lays it dexterously alongside the sweater. He reaches around me. He is deft. His expression is impossible to read as he undoes the clasp of my bra. He places it carefully upon the growing pile.

I am naked from the waist up, still in my panties and high-heeled shoes. Waiting.

“Close your eyes,” he says. His voice is detached.

I close my eyes. Everything intensifies. The cool air on my skin brings out small gooseflesh; the fridge's hum sounds louder. Through his no doubt double-glazed windows, I hear the faintest honks of Friday-night traffic below us. It hits me with full force that I do not know this man. I don't know what he's capable of.

Then I feel his hot breath upon my neck. I hear the sound, and feel the motion, of his hands sliding down my legs as he kneels as if to worship at an altar.

I feel his mouth moving up my leg. Its soft warmth, higher up to just underneath my pelvic bone.

His face is directly opposite my crotch. He runs his nose down the front of my underwear. Plain, black, silky. I feel the ridge of his teeth through the cloth. I stiffen. The fine hairs on the nape of my neck rise. He exhales hot breath upward into me. He places his face against me. I shudder. I can't help it.

“Stand still,” he says.

I do.

“Keep your eyes closed,” he says.

I do.

I feel the outline of his tongue as he slowly, deliberately begins
to lick. From the thick, long movements of his tongue my underwear begins to cling to me. I can feel his tongue and not feel his tongue. It is agony.

He molds and molds the thin fabric to me. It becomes an impenetrable barrier. It's agonizing. I want more; I don't think I can handle more.

I exhale with a small groan.

There is a moment of nothing, a vacancy, an exposure; my underwear is gone.
But how?
I am lifted up. He is strong; he carries me.
He didn't pull it off, so how is it gone?
I am flung down, naked.

My eyes are still shut tight as I lie against the endless expanse of cool, smooth sheet. I hear the sound of the clothing he is pulling off, shoes, a belt, pants hitting the floor—
Where is it?
—keeping my eyes shut tight against the wanting, the shame of wanting him so badly and my own wantonness.

And he is on me, easing my legs apart. “Look at me.” His cock is hard, filled with blood.

He pushes into me. I am wet, but still, a part of me protests at the thick brutal length of him. But there is no stopping now. He holds me firmly down as he enters, inch by inch, his full length inside me. Then he begins to move and I must move with him. There is no choice but to move together. He holds me, one arm pulling me close and tight and the other supporting his weight as he thrusts.

“Come,” he says.

I look away. It's too intense.

He holds me so that I must look into his face.

I open my eyes.

His eyes are wide and stare back at mine.

It is too intimate.

Stop please stop.

He bites my neck. “Come.”

Don't stop don't stop.

He does not stop but intensifies, gripping my back, my ass, moving inside me, and the feeling builds and builds and builds and builds and I scream as my orgasm breaks—

—and breaks and my body releases and releases. He thrusts on and on, merciless, and then finally he comes, releasing into me on and on and on and then he is still and the full weight of him is upon me.

Silence. I feel him trembling. His breath is rapid. He feels me shifting underneath him.

Instantly he rolls over, alert. “Am I hurting you?”

“No, I need the bathroom, and some water.”

“Down the hall.”

“Do you want a glass?”

“No, thank you.”

In the bathroom, I take my time. I am overwhelmed. I have never come like that before, as if my orgasm was forced from me, as though I had no choice. Should I feel violated? In the mirror my face is flushed, my cheeks have high color, my eyes look dazed. I look beautiful.

What now?
I silently ask.

My reflection offers no advice.

I have had a handful of lovers in my life, but as I stand here the memory that floats up is the night one of my stepbrother's friends made a halfhearted pass at me. Our parents were away for the weekend and school was almost over, so he threw a party. Blink-182 and the Chemical Brothers played at screaming volume
in the living room, but as the night progressed the party gravitated to the backyard, where joints were being lit and make-out sessions were possible. There was no one in the kitchen and “Your Woman” by White Town was playing. It is impossible not to dance to that song, and I did my own sexy shimmy all the way through the darkened kitchen to the fridge, pretending that I was the prettiest girl at the party. I opened the door, grabbed an apple. In the light of the fridge I saw that a guy was in the corner, leaning against the sink, watching me. His name came to me. Brady. He was a friend of my stepbrother's and I had seen him a number of times at the house. I had noticed him—he was a good-looking guy with reddish hair and lean features—but as a senior he was as far removed from me as a Roman god would be from a mere mortal. I had never even thought to say hello.

“Nice moves.” He smiled.

I was mortified. I wondered how long he'd been there. I muttered something unintelligible and made to walk past him. He reached out, grabbed my wrist, and pulled me toward him. Up close I could see his high cheekbones and a peppering of pale freckles. Before I could speak he leaned forward and kissed me gently on the lips, then harder. My mouth opened under his. He tasted of beer, and behind that faintly of mint gum. I closed my eyes, feeling a guy's tongue in my mouth for the first time. After a moment he stumbled away to the garden. I stayed, weak and crumpled, in the kitchen. I can still taste that first beery kiss.

I cultivated a passion for him for months afterward. Whole diary entries were dedicated to him. You are more in love when you're fourteen then in any time after.

I fill a glass from the gleaming tap in Sael's spotless kitchen and I'm on my way back to the bedroom when I see it.

It lies next to my crumpled underwear, which is now nothing
more than a thin, damp shred of material. He must have cut my underwear off me as I stood. I look at it. A small pocketknife with a red handle, the gently curved blade so sharp that it cut off my underwear in seconds. No hacking or sawing necessary. I pick it up; it's light; it has a comfortable feel in my palm.