Fragile by Chris Katsaropoulos Page B

supposed to go, like putting her head into a type of harness. Now he has her there, wrists pinioned againstthe arms of the chair, he throws his weight on top of her, the bulk of his chest pressing her down. His mouth is seeking, she feels his lips against her collarbone, then further down, to the flattened exposed flesh of her right breast. He always goes for the right one first; she arches her back to meet him. In the basement office her stepfather led her, said
I have something to show you.
His secret place, his sanctuary. And he opened the drawer of his metal Sears desk, brought out a small leather-bound book. Red. Its cover was bright red with gold lettering embossed into the spine, like a holy book. Rick is pulling her blouse off now, she tilts herself up in the chair and complies, undoing the bra, she helps him, his hands fiddling with the latches, tangled up with hers. The pages he flipped through in no particular hurry, not especially eager, like a lesson in school. He was going to show her something, and she knew it was somehow not right, a vibration in the air between them, hanging there, like two dissonant notes in a chord on the piano. But she wanted so much to please him, she leaned over his shoulder and there—on the glossy slick page of the book, a photograph in black and white. He paused and they saw it together, without comment, he turned the next page and another photo, he said
This is what it looks like, have you ever seen it before,
as if he were telling her a story. And still she trusted him to be there inside the house alone with the other girl, they seem to know him, he said I brought you something from the stables, the horseshoe rusty and brown. I came to see you girls, stopped by for a visit. The youngest one turned away. She says, “Look at the moon,” andit’s still rising past the roof of the house, it swings up and away, then down and back towards us again. “Look at the moon.” Almost full, a bright orange ball looming up in the sky, not a harvest moon yet. What do they call a full moon in August, is it a harvest moon? Up and away it swings, then down and back it approaches us, then pulls away. The feeder and birdbath are swathed in yellow light, now more golden than before. The flowers in Elmer’s bed shimmer in the light. The other girl has been inside some time now, his crooked teeth and the sweet sour smell of his cologne. “Honey, let’s stop now, it’s getting late. We better go inside her, he pushes himself close and her legs go wider, knocking against the hard metal arms of the chair, she feels her self locked into place beneath him, underneath him, within him, she rocks her back up to meet him. They are together now, at last, she has given her self to him, the bones at the base of her skull knocking against the hard ceramic lip of the sink, she feels as if she is pouring her self up out of this basin into him. There is nothing more she can do for him, she is giving all that she has to give and when he closed the red book with the startling odd pictures in it he took her hand and placed it where it wasn’t supposed to be, where she never should have left that girl inside the house with him alone, what was I thinking? I’m an old maid who has no understanding of the world, only my own little slice of it, my own little tunnel, a cave I live in, my house, my garden, and the shame of it is I have chosen this way, this enclosure, this structure I have built around myself like aframework of steel that sustains me, holds me together. My memories, my visions hold me together. I have nobody but you. The girl tries to go ahead of me, but I hold onto her hand and keep her beside me. We go up the steps, and I pull open the screen door, and the moonlight bounces off the mirror beyond his shoulder, bounces its golden light at her as she loses her self within him, as the red book goes away for a moment it is all washed away, all the guilt and shame and