not as if he wasn’t fucking half the jail bait in town!”
Suddenly another voice cried, “That’s a lie, and you know it!” It was Grace, on the extension. “You’re a liar and a home wrecker, that’s what you are!”
Marion hung up. A few minutes later Grace came pounding down the stairs. “I wasn’t eavesdropping,” she said. “I was just about to dial out.” She was panting and her face was startlingly red. “Holy mackerel, is she ever a stinker.”
“I want to go away,” Marion said. “I want to live somewhere else.”
“Oh,” Grace said. They looked at each other. “Where?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Far enough from here that nobody will know who I am.”
Grace pushed her glasses up her nose. “Well, I can’t say as I don’t know the feeling,” she said.
The night before Sam leaves to have his operation, Marion dreams about somebody who starts out being her mother but seems to change into John. Marion is embracing this person, melting with love, when she discovers a hole in the small of his or her back. She sticks her hand in, reaches up and withdraws the heart. It pulses and half-rolls in her palm like a newly hatched bird. It is so exposed! She puts it in her mouth and tries to get it down her throat into her ribcage without scraping its delicate membrane or stopping its beat. It catches on something though, a tooth-like thing in the area of her vocal cords, and tears in half. She lets go of it and it just slips away. She starts to cry. She wakes up crying.
She buries her face in the pillow so that Sam won’t hear. She wants her mother.
She
knows better, but year after year her heart goes on pumping out love as if all
it
knows is circulation, as if the beloved is right there in front of her to receive the love and purify it and send it back. She tries to envision her mother’s face, but she can’t. Instead she sees the heart she extracted in her dream. Then she sees an erect penis, a solid, ordinary thing, like a bird perch. Then a face—Sam’s face.
He’s standing in the doorway. She can feel him there. She opens her eyes but it’s so dark it doesn’t make any difference. He sits on the bed and begins to stroke her hair and her back. His hand draws the grief into his own hand, draws it in, lets it go. When she finally calms down, he slips under the sheet and lies beside her. Her bare back just touches his bare chest. She doesn’t move away. She is so grateful for the solid, living length of him.
Neither of them speaks. The room is pitch dark, and they breathe in unison. On her thigh his right hand rests lightly. Hisfingers are cool and not quite still. He keeps the nails on his right hand long for playing the guitar. It used to excite her to see that hand on her breast, the thumb and forefinger plucking her nipple into hardness.
She has brought her own hand to her breast. She doesn’t fully realize it until she feels his fingers brushing her knuckles. Something just clears out of her mind, gives up. She turns over and kisses him on the mouth.
He jerks his head back.
“It’s all right,” she says, meaning that everything is. Meaning that her love is panoramic, racing like an ignited wick from the night of the wedding to this moment. She kisses him again. She pushes her tongue between his teeth. She licks his teeth, bites his bottom lip. She drops onto her back and pulls him on top of her.
She keeps clinging to him as he sits up. She thinks he’s trying to get away. But he kneels between her legs and parts her labia with his fingers. Then he licks her there. It’s the first time this has been done to her. She assumes it’s preliminary. He keeps it up, though, soft, steady, devoted, cat-like licking until her body begins to loosen. Her joints unhinge. Her vulva breaks free and levitates, and her skin spreads like dough, a lovely, funny sensation, and then a disturbing one. And then she doesn’t care—she’d die to prolong it.
Her orgasm is like a series of
Suddenly another voice cried, “That’s a lie, and you know it!” It was Grace, on the extension. “You’re a liar and a home wrecker, that’s what you are!”
Marion hung up. A few minutes later Grace came pounding down the stairs. “I wasn’t eavesdropping,” she said. “I was just about to dial out.” She was panting and her face was startlingly red. “Holy mackerel, is she ever a stinker.”
“I want to go away,” Marion said. “I want to live somewhere else.”
“Oh,” Grace said. They looked at each other. “Where?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Far enough from here that nobody will know who I am.”
Grace pushed her glasses up her nose. “Well, I can’t say as I don’t know the feeling,” she said.
The night before Sam leaves to have his operation, Marion dreams about somebody who starts out being her mother but seems to change into John. Marion is embracing this person, melting with love, when she discovers a hole in the small of his or her back. She sticks her hand in, reaches up and withdraws the heart. It pulses and half-rolls in her palm like a newly hatched bird. It is so exposed! She puts it in her mouth and tries to get it down her throat into her ribcage without scraping its delicate membrane or stopping its beat. It catches on something though, a tooth-like thing in the area of her vocal cords, and tears in half. She lets go of it and it just slips away. She starts to cry. She wakes up crying.
She buries her face in the pillow so that Sam won’t hear. She wants her mother.
She
knows better, but year after year her heart goes on pumping out love as if all
it
knows is circulation, as if the beloved is right there in front of her to receive the love and purify it and send it back. She tries to envision her mother’s face, but she can’t. Instead she sees the heart she extracted in her dream. Then she sees an erect penis, a solid, ordinary thing, like a bird perch. Then a face—Sam’s face.
He’s standing in the doorway. She can feel him there. She opens her eyes but it’s so dark it doesn’t make any difference. He sits on the bed and begins to stroke her hair and her back. His hand draws the grief into his own hand, draws it in, lets it go. When she finally calms down, he slips under the sheet and lies beside her. Her bare back just touches his bare chest. She doesn’t move away. She is so grateful for the solid, living length of him.
Neither of them speaks. The room is pitch dark, and they breathe in unison. On her thigh his right hand rests lightly. Hisfingers are cool and not quite still. He keeps the nails on his right hand long for playing the guitar. It used to excite her to see that hand on her breast, the thumb and forefinger plucking her nipple into hardness.
She has brought her own hand to her breast. She doesn’t fully realize it until she feels his fingers brushing her knuckles. Something just clears out of her mind, gives up. She turns over and kisses him on the mouth.
He jerks his head back.
“It’s all right,” she says, meaning that everything is. Meaning that her love is panoramic, racing like an ignited wick from the night of the wedding to this moment. She kisses him again. She pushes her tongue between his teeth. She licks his teeth, bites his bottom lip. She drops onto her back and pulls him on top of her.
She keeps clinging to him as he sits up. She thinks he’s trying to get away. But he kneels between her legs and parts her labia with his fingers. Then he licks her there. It’s the first time this has been done to her. She assumes it’s preliminary. He keeps it up, though, soft, steady, devoted, cat-like licking until her body begins to loosen. Her joints unhinge. Her vulva breaks free and levitates, and her skin spreads like dough, a lovely, funny sensation, and then a disturbing one. And then she doesn’t care—she’d die to prolong it.
Her orgasm is like a series of
Similar Books
