onto the quilt, then sat back on her heels. “Wow, look at you, you’re amazing. Stay just like that.”
He’d thought she was reaching for a condom when she grabbed the little quilted bag that usually held her wallet and phone, but it was her phone that emerged. This surprised him, but only for a moment, when he realized what she had in mind.
She said, “You look like a statue of some Greek god—Apollo, the god of prophecy and truth.”
“And of justice, and plagues, and poetry, don’t forget.” English class, asserting itself in the most unlikely of times.
She held the phone up in front of him, then took a picture. “Hmm …” she said, viewing it. “Bend your leg—no wait, lean back on one elbow, then bend your leg. Right. Like that.” She took another picture, viewed the result, and said, “I need more light for this.”
“But not for this ,” he’d said, reaching for her hand and bringing her down onto the quilt.
They kissed, they touched each other with slow deliberation, the crickets thrummed and the frogs sang from the trees and from the creek bed. Anthony reached for his jeans and took out one of the condoms he’d brought and Amelia rolled it onto him. She lay back then, blushing under his regard.
“Is this all right?” he asked as he pressed into her, watching her face, ready to stop if she flinched or frowned.
She whispered, “This is amazing.” Her expression was so serious, as though he were not only making love to her but also tethering them, binding them, something like the way the choir sang of in Our Town. “Blessed be the tie that binds our hearts .…” He wasn’t a religious person, but this, what he was feeling, it was spiritual. He wanted to say something significant, maybe quote something, maybe the song, but the sensations, the heat of her.… “I love you,” he rasped, the best he could do.
“I love you,” she said, gazing up at him. She pulled him closer and put her lips to his neck, in the sensitive spot beneath his ear.
Just that—the touch of her tongue—did him in. “Amelia …” he groaned, but there was no stopping it now. In a blinding moment unlike any in the past, he let go. When his vision returned, he was looking through tears at her own tearful, happy face.
“ ‘Every, every minute,’ ” she said.
Driving home later, Anthony left his windows down. As he’d done on the night he’d first seen Amelia at auditions, he sang her name to the tune of West Side Story ’s “Maria.”
“A-mel-ia, I’ll never stop saying A-mel-ia.” Then he laughed aloud. “Ridiculous, dude. You’ve got it bad .” Turning his car onto the highway, he said her name again, “Amelia.” This time it was a sigh.
The chilly wind was bracing, and he felt he’d become a part of the universe in a way he’d never been before. It wasn’t just the pleasure of sex—though it was that. And it wasn’t just the pleasure of love—though it was that, too. It was, he thought, the combination of those two things, along with a sense of timelessness, and the feeling of being somehow miniscule and also tremendous at the same time. As though he, Anthony Winter, was a mere pinprick of energy, in the way the stars appeared to be when seen from Earth, while being, in fact, incredibly powerful and strong.
A little over two weeks later, Amelia and her parents were en route to Bald Head Island. Anthony pictured her sitting in the far backseat of the posh SUV for the four-hour drive, her dog, Buttercup, taking the middle seat, her parents up front talking ferry schedules or dinner plans they’d made with their island neighbors. This trip, she’d said when they talked earlier that morning, was the antithesis of getting to realize her life—or the life she wanted, at least. But she was going to try her best to appreciate the sand and sea. The turtles. The marsh birds. “I know that’s life, too. I just want you to be in it.”
“Trust me,” he said, “I’d be there
He’d thought she was reaching for a condom when she grabbed the little quilted bag that usually held her wallet and phone, but it was her phone that emerged. This surprised him, but only for a moment, when he realized what she had in mind.
She said, “You look like a statue of some Greek god—Apollo, the god of prophecy and truth.”
“And of justice, and plagues, and poetry, don’t forget.” English class, asserting itself in the most unlikely of times.
She held the phone up in front of him, then took a picture. “Hmm …” she said, viewing it. “Bend your leg—no wait, lean back on one elbow, then bend your leg. Right. Like that.” She took another picture, viewed the result, and said, “I need more light for this.”
“But not for this ,” he’d said, reaching for her hand and bringing her down onto the quilt.
They kissed, they touched each other with slow deliberation, the crickets thrummed and the frogs sang from the trees and from the creek bed. Anthony reached for his jeans and took out one of the condoms he’d brought and Amelia rolled it onto him. She lay back then, blushing under his regard.
“Is this all right?” he asked as he pressed into her, watching her face, ready to stop if she flinched or frowned.
She whispered, “This is amazing.” Her expression was so serious, as though he were not only making love to her but also tethering them, binding them, something like the way the choir sang of in Our Town. “Blessed be the tie that binds our hearts .…” He wasn’t a religious person, but this, what he was feeling, it was spiritual. He wanted to say something significant, maybe quote something, maybe the song, but the sensations, the heat of her.… “I love you,” he rasped, the best he could do.
“I love you,” she said, gazing up at him. She pulled him closer and put her lips to his neck, in the sensitive spot beneath his ear.
Just that—the touch of her tongue—did him in. “Amelia …” he groaned, but there was no stopping it now. In a blinding moment unlike any in the past, he let go. When his vision returned, he was looking through tears at her own tearful, happy face.
“ ‘Every, every minute,’ ” she said.
Driving home later, Anthony left his windows down. As he’d done on the night he’d first seen Amelia at auditions, he sang her name to the tune of West Side Story ’s “Maria.”
“A-mel-ia, I’ll never stop saying A-mel-ia.” Then he laughed aloud. “Ridiculous, dude. You’ve got it bad .” Turning his car onto the highway, he said her name again, “Amelia.” This time it was a sigh.
The chilly wind was bracing, and he felt he’d become a part of the universe in a way he’d never been before. It wasn’t just the pleasure of sex—though it was that. And it wasn’t just the pleasure of love—though it was that, too. It was, he thought, the combination of those two things, along with a sense of timelessness, and the feeling of being somehow miniscule and also tremendous at the same time. As though he, Anthony Winter, was a mere pinprick of energy, in the way the stars appeared to be when seen from Earth, while being, in fact, incredibly powerful and strong.
A little over two weeks later, Amelia and her parents were en route to Bald Head Island. Anthony pictured her sitting in the far backseat of the posh SUV for the four-hour drive, her dog, Buttercup, taking the middle seat, her parents up front talking ferry schedules or dinner plans they’d made with their island neighbors. This trip, she’d said when they talked earlier that morning, was the antithesis of getting to realize her life—or the life she wanted, at least. But she was going to try her best to appreciate the sand and sea. The turtles. The marsh birds. “I know that’s life, too. I just want you to be in it.”
“Trust me,” he said, “I’d be there
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