Lake. Translating sex into words is not meant to be. Sure, you can whip up all sorts of steam and whipped cream for dummies by verbally throwing body parts together, but it's so far from the real thing that it's like saying a picture postcard looks like the place itself.
Much of what she knew and did I had experienced before, but what thrilled me was the combination of her fluidity and ardor. Like being out on the floor with a superb dancer who knew every step, never wanted to sit down and made you feel like you were Fred Astaire.
I don't know when we fell asleep but I awoke in the middle of the night with her hair across my throat and a quiet, sleepy voice somewhere nearby singing Billy Joel's "Uptown Girl." At first I thought we'd left the radio on, but then remembered there had been no radio on. Then through the cobwebs of sleep I thought it came from out on the street until I realized the singing was too close. I pushed the hair off my face and turned toward the woman I'd fallen asleep next to.
"Veronica?"
"Uptown Girl . . ."
"Veronica?"
"You've been livin' . . ."
_"Veronica?"_
Her head was turned away from me. It came slowly around. "Hi," in that same sweet singing voice.
"You sing in your sleep!"
"I know."
"You were singing 'Uptown Girl'!"
"Press my nose and the song'll change. Kiss me?"
In the morning I woke before her and had a chance to look around. Her apartment and the things in it kept saying the word _shipshape_ to me. It was tidy but not obsessively clean. There were a few hairpins and women's things lying around the bathroom, some dirty cups in the kitchen sink. Despite that, there was an overall pleasing neatness and order to the place. There was only a bedroom and a living room that doubled as her study. The nicest thing about the apartment was sun, which came through the windows making everything feel more airy.
Page 24
Writers are inveterate snoops and these are some of the other things I noticed about my new lover's home. She read mostly books on film, some history, poetry and biographies of artists. The furniture was cozy rather than sleek and her living room was full of exotic cut flowers in vases of wildly different colors and sizes.
What was most interesting was an unfinished letter that had been left on her desk. I glanced at it, then looked again because the handwriting was magnificent. If I hadn't known it was hers, I would have thought a man had written it. Each letter was bold and perfectly vertical, extremely distinctive and artistic. Nearby was a fountain pen. Very large, it was a luminous blue with gold cap. I carefully picked it up.
"Isn't it a beauty?"
"I love fountain pens."
She came over and leaned her chin on my shoulder. "Are you looking around? That's what I like to do too after I've spent a night with someone.
See them through where they live. What conclusion did you reach? Don't lie."
I put the pen down and kissed her temple. "Shipshape. Everything is right where it should be.
You'd make a good sailor."
"Fair enough. And what about my things? Do you get a read from them?"
"Let's see. You like bundles of color, yet none of your flowers are alive. Which says you're not into high maintenance. Biographies of mostly maniac geniuses, but your apartment says you're orderly. Books on how great films were made and how things are designed. Let me guess --
you're an
Aquarius?"
"Nope. Virgo."
"Veronica, one of my wives was a Virgo. You are _not_ a Virgo. Virgos don't make love like you do. They make fists and look at the ceiling."
She yawned and stretched languorously. When she was done, she brought those long arms down around me. Her breath was stale and warm and I wanted to kiss her.
"I make love the way I am, not because I'm a Virgo."
The next time I went back to Crane's View, Cassandra came along. It was the week before school started and she was supremely cranky about having to go back to the grind for another year.
When I suggested we spend a day in my
Much of what she knew and did I had experienced before, but what thrilled me was the combination of her fluidity and ardor. Like being out on the floor with a superb dancer who knew every step, never wanted to sit down and made you feel like you were Fred Astaire.
I don't know when we fell asleep but I awoke in the middle of the night with her hair across my throat and a quiet, sleepy voice somewhere nearby singing Billy Joel's "Uptown Girl." At first I thought we'd left the radio on, but then remembered there had been no radio on. Then through the cobwebs of sleep I thought it came from out on the street until I realized the singing was too close. I pushed the hair off my face and turned toward the woman I'd fallen asleep next to.
"Veronica?"
"Uptown Girl . . ."
"Veronica?"
"You've been livin' . . ."
_"Veronica?"_
Her head was turned away from me. It came slowly around. "Hi," in that same sweet singing voice.
"You sing in your sleep!"
"I know."
"You were singing 'Uptown Girl'!"
"Press my nose and the song'll change. Kiss me?"
In the morning I woke before her and had a chance to look around. Her apartment and the things in it kept saying the word _shipshape_ to me. It was tidy but not obsessively clean. There were a few hairpins and women's things lying around the bathroom, some dirty cups in the kitchen sink. Despite that, there was an overall pleasing neatness and order to the place. There was only a bedroom and a living room that doubled as her study. The nicest thing about the apartment was sun, which came through the windows making everything feel more airy.
Page 24
Writers are inveterate snoops and these are some of the other things I noticed about my new lover's home. She read mostly books on film, some history, poetry and biographies of artists. The furniture was cozy rather than sleek and her living room was full of exotic cut flowers in vases of wildly different colors and sizes.
What was most interesting was an unfinished letter that had been left on her desk. I glanced at it, then looked again because the handwriting was magnificent. If I hadn't known it was hers, I would have thought a man had written it. Each letter was bold and perfectly vertical, extremely distinctive and artistic. Nearby was a fountain pen. Very large, it was a luminous blue with gold cap. I carefully picked it up.
"Isn't it a beauty?"
"I love fountain pens."
She came over and leaned her chin on my shoulder. "Are you looking around? That's what I like to do too after I've spent a night with someone.
See them through where they live. What conclusion did you reach? Don't lie."
I put the pen down and kissed her temple. "Shipshape. Everything is right where it should be.
You'd make a good sailor."
"Fair enough. And what about my things? Do you get a read from them?"
"Let's see. You like bundles of color, yet none of your flowers are alive. Which says you're not into high maintenance. Biographies of mostly maniac geniuses, but your apartment says you're orderly. Books on how great films were made and how things are designed. Let me guess --
you're an
Aquarius?"
"Nope. Virgo."
"Veronica, one of my wives was a Virgo. You are _not_ a Virgo. Virgos don't make love like you do. They make fists and look at the ceiling."
She yawned and stretched languorously. When she was done, she brought those long arms down around me. Her breath was stale and warm and I wanted to kiss her.
"I make love the way I am, not because I'm a Virgo."
The next time I went back to Crane's View, Cassandra came along. It was the week before school started and she was supremely cranky about having to go back to the grind for another year.
When I suggested we spend a day in my
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