Kissing Through a Pane of Glass by Peter Michael Rosenberg Page A

didn’t I didn’t...
     
    I don’t know how much time passed before I eventually summoned up enough courage to whisper her name. It may have been minutes, it may have been as long as an hour. Either way she did not respond but her sobbing had abated, so very gently I placed my hand on her arm. She gave a small shudder but did not pull away. I left my hand there, applying only the merest hint of pressure, hoping this might comfort her. She said nothing; the occasional sniffs and swallowing noises were the only indications that she was awake, even alive.
     
    What else could I do? I was still so scared; what if she suddenly became completely crazy, started flailing at me with fists, broken glass, anything she could get her hands on? You think I was over-reacting? Why? I didn’t know the first thing about her. The rules and regulations had been abandoned; I was floating, drifting. I was in shock.
     
    For an hour we maintained this position, until I felt sure Liana was on the edge of sleep. I collected a sheet from the floor and pulled it up over us. Shortly, I could hear the deep regular breathing patterns of sleep.
     
    I watched Liana the whole night. I did not move. I kept guard, a silent, lonely vigil. When night broke and the first light brought stirrings of life to the lake city, I was still awake. At about eight o’clock, Liana opened her eyes and yawned. She shifted around, looked into my eyes and smiled. She reached out to me and kissed me warmly on the lips.
     
    ‘Mmmm,’ she hummed. ‘What a wonderful way to greet the day.’ Her expression was untroubled, her demeanour calm. She snuggled up close to me, kissed my neck a few times, then found my hand and brought it between her thighs. The intimacy of the gesture and the moist warmth beneath my fingertips had me aroused in a moment. Liana stroked me and smiled.
     
    ‘Well well,” she said, the trace of a giggle in her voice. ‘And a very good morning to you, too.’
     
    There was a gentle passion to our lovemaking that morning, a cooler fire, whose flames crackled and licked around us for several hours, during which time Liana showed not a hint of terror or fear, or gave any intimation of what had happened the previous night. She was, once again, the calm serene beauty who had walked into my life the previous day and set my whole world on fire. Once again I felt those strange, unique sensations. I gazed at her and every ounce of my being ached with desire. I dismissed the night’s outburst without further thought. It was nothing. I had to believe this. I responded to her as if nothing had happened, as if it had been a mirage, a dream, an episode from someone else’s life, not mine. Just a little misunderstanding; just a mistake.
     
    By midday exhaustion had overtaken me, and I collapsed back on to the mattress, no longer able to fight sleep. I did not know it then, but I was in serious trouble. I had discovered, or so I believed, the true meaning of love. I was in love, hopelessly, helplessly, and it was the warmest, most exciting, most glorious of feelings. I had tasted freedom, and now I was king of the world, emperor of the cosmos. I had enticed, aroused, possessed the most beautiful woman in the world. She had wanted me, she had taken me, she had loved me. And I had been the first. There could not, I thought, be a happier being on earth. And this was only the beginning.
     
    But it was not the beginning, at least, not the beginning of the brave new world that I imagined lay before me. It was already the end. I had, unwittingly, built a cage out of my desire, locked myself inside, and thrown away the key. I was trapped, restrained, a victim of my own passions, and I was too young to understand that I had just sentenced myself to a lifetime’s imprisonment.
     

Chapter 13
     
    Richard once gave me a lecture on the subject of love. His opinions were straightforward, unequivocal and concise.
     
    ‘There’s no such thing,’ said Richard.
     
    Love