slacks.”
“And then you’d lose interest in me,” Josie said. “I’d look like all the women you know. Your wife and your wife’s friends. Your business associates.”
“My wife—”
“I’m sorry,” Josie said. The unspoken rule. The unspoken wife. Off limits. Keep her out of the bedroom, the cabin, the motel room, off the futon in the middle of the field.
“Come here,” Simon said, and she stepped into his arms, silencing both of them.
Josie began to pull him toward the bed, but he resisted, smiling mischievously at her.
“We’re not going to bed,” he said. “Yet.”
“I can’t wait,” she told him. “I’ve already buried my face in your neck.”
She loved the smell of him, the soapy, musky Simon smell of him, and had told him that she could live off it, that if she could breathe him in every day she’d never need food again. “You’re losing weight,” he had told her. “Then let me breathe in more of you,” she had said.
“You have to wait. I rented a rowboat.”
“It’s freezing!”
“I have blankets. I brought a thermos of hot buttered rum.”
“You’ve done this before.”
“Stop.”
It was the other taboo, the other locked door. She didn’t believe that she was his first lover. He was too good at it. He knew how to have an affair and she was a novice, a child in an adult’s world.
“I’ve never loved like this,” he would insist.
“How have you loved?” she’d ask him. “Tell me.”
“No. Stop. Believe me.”
She never believed him.
Now he took her hand and led her out of the cabin. He retrieved a duffel bag from the trunk of his car and threw it over one shoulder. They walked toward the lake, which was shrouded in fog, a cold, damp fog that chilled her despite the down jacket she wore. The sky was bleached gray and the lake was the color of iron. A rowboat bobbed on the water at the end of the dock, candy-apple red, astonishing against all that muted color.
“The oars are in the boat!” a voice called, and they both turned toward the office. The old lady stood there, arms locked across her heavy chest, squinting at them.
“Thanks!” Simon called back.
The woman kept her eyes on Josie. The look was hateful, as if Josie had stolen all the good men from all the older women in the world.
“She scares me,” Josie whispered to Simon.
“Ignore her,” he said.
“I can’t. I can feel her watching me.”
But the door slammed behind them and the old crone was gone.
Simon held the side of the boat and Josie climbed in. He placed the duffel bag on the floor of the boat. Then he stepped in and took the oars.
“Grab some blankets,” he told her. “Stay warm while I row.”
She pulled out a Hudson Bay blanket, a couple of fur hats, and the thermos. She placed a hat on Simon’s head and leaned over to kiss him.
“Put yours on,” he said.
She pulled the hat low on her head and was immediately warmer. She took a swig from the thermos and the sweet, thick liquid spread through her body.
She passed it to Simon, who paused mid-row, drank, smiled, and then rowed again. After a few moments, the world around them vanished and they were engulfed by fog. The colors around them bled into one another—sky, fog, water—and only the red outline of the boat held them in, containing them.
Simon stopped rowing. At first the boat moved, rocking slightly, and then it slowed and finally stopped. They were silent and the only sound they could hear was the call of a crow somewhere far away.
“I want to make love to you here,” Simon said, his voice soft in the hushed air.
“It’s so cold.”
“We’ll bury ourselves in blankets.”
“We’ll tip over and drown and no one will ever find us.”
“Then we better not thrash around.”
“Impossible.”
“We’ll do our best.”
They drank more hot rum and they cocooned themselves in blankets on the bottom of the rowboat. They shimmied out of their clothes and the boat rocked. Icy water splashed
“And then you’d lose interest in me,” Josie said. “I’d look like all the women you know. Your wife and your wife’s friends. Your business associates.”
“My wife—”
“I’m sorry,” Josie said. The unspoken rule. The unspoken wife. Off limits. Keep her out of the bedroom, the cabin, the motel room, off the futon in the middle of the field.
“Come here,” Simon said, and she stepped into his arms, silencing both of them.
Josie began to pull him toward the bed, but he resisted, smiling mischievously at her.
“We’re not going to bed,” he said. “Yet.”
“I can’t wait,” she told him. “I’ve already buried my face in your neck.”
She loved the smell of him, the soapy, musky Simon smell of him, and had told him that she could live off it, that if she could breathe him in every day she’d never need food again. “You’re losing weight,” he had told her. “Then let me breathe in more of you,” she had said.
“You have to wait. I rented a rowboat.”
“It’s freezing!”
“I have blankets. I brought a thermos of hot buttered rum.”
“You’ve done this before.”
“Stop.”
It was the other taboo, the other locked door. She didn’t believe that she was his first lover. He was too good at it. He knew how to have an affair and she was a novice, a child in an adult’s world.
“I’ve never loved like this,” he would insist.
“How have you loved?” she’d ask him. “Tell me.”
“No. Stop. Believe me.”
She never believed him.
Now he took her hand and led her out of the cabin. He retrieved a duffel bag from the trunk of his car and threw it over one shoulder. They walked toward the lake, which was shrouded in fog, a cold, damp fog that chilled her despite the down jacket she wore. The sky was bleached gray and the lake was the color of iron. A rowboat bobbed on the water at the end of the dock, candy-apple red, astonishing against all that muted color.
“The oars are in the boat!” a voice called, and they both turned toward the office. The old lady stood there, arms locked across her heavy chest, squinting at them.
“Thanks!” Simon called back.
The woman kept her eyes on Josie. The look was hateful, as if Josie had stolen all the good men from all the older women in the world.
“She scares me,” Josie whispered to Simon.
“Ignore her,” he said.
“I can’t. I can feel her watching me.”
But the door slammed behind them and the old crone was gone.
Simon held the side of the boat and Josie climbed in. He placed the duffel bag on the floor of the boat. Then he stepped in and took the oars.
“Grab some blankets,” he told her. “Stay warm while I row.”
She pulled out a Hudson Bay blanket, a couple of fur hats, and the thermos. She placed a hat on Simon’s head and leaned over to kiss him.
“Put yours on,” he said.
She pulled the hat low on her head and was immediately warmer. She took a swig from the thermos and the sweet, thick liquid spread through her body.
She passed it to Simon, who paused mid-row, drank, smiled, and then rowed again. After a few moments, the world around them vanished and they were engulfed by fog. The colors around them bled into one another—sky, fog, water—and only the red outline of the boat held them in, containing them.
Simon stopped rowing. At first the boat moved, rocking slightly, and then it slowed and finally stopped. They were silent and the only sound they could hear was the call of a crow somewhere far away.
“I want to make love to you here,” Simon said, his voice soft in the hushed air.
“It’s so cold.”
“We’ll bury ourselves in blankets.”
“We’ll tip over and drown and no one will ever find us.”
“Then we better not thrash around.”
“Impossible.”
“We’ll do our best.”
They drank more hot rum and they cocooned themselves in blankets on the bottom of the rowboat. They shimmied out of their clothes and the boat rocked. Icy water splashed
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