fruit farms pick up girls in bars. They want the girls to go home with them. If the girls don’t want to go home with them, they say no.”
She tried to laugh, but her teeth were chattering. She said, “I’m a bloody fool. I know I’m a bloody fool. I’m sorry.”
“Drink your tequila.”
She lifted the glass with difficulty to her lips and drank. “I said no to him. I’m all right.”
I was watching her, the way her hair came around her face, the trace of blue under her eyes like the veins in an iris, the wonderful curve of her lips.
“Marietta, tell me something. If you didn’t want him, why did you let him take you away from the bar?”
“I don’t know, Peter. I don’t know about myself. Perhaps because you didn’t want to go with me. Perhaps because I didn’t want to be alone.” She paused. “That’s why I came back here—because I don’t want to be alone tonight. Do you mind?”
I grinned. I held up my hands, letting the sleeves slip back. “No red hair on the wrists.”
She smiled the sort of radiant smile that comes after tears, although she hadn’t been crying. She leaned back against me, relaxing. There was a faint fragrance to her. I didn’t know how cowslips smell, but it made me think of cowslips.
“It’s all right when I’m with you, Peter. The jitters go. I don’t know why. Perhaps because you’re so big.”
I said, “You’re a problem child, too, aren’t you? You and Sally.”
“God,” she said. “I hate problem children.”
“Why don’t you want to be alone? Is it Sally? Are you afraid of what she’s going to do tomorrow?”
“Yes.” She twisted around so that she was facing me. Her eyes were pleading. “Peter, can I sleep here tonight?”
“Carnally?”
“Don’t be silly. You know you don’t want that. I’ll sleep on the couch in here. I’m used to sleeping on couches. When I lived with Martin, I always slept on a couch. There was only one bed.”
“Which he took, of course.”
“Of course.”
Although she was being flippant again, I could trace the undercurrent of need. I had given up trying to understand her, but if she wanted to sleep on my couch it was okay with me.
I patted her arm and got up. “I guess you don’t need pajamas. I guess when you lived with Martin there was only one pair and he used them.”
She smiled. “No. I’ll take pajamas.”
I should have behaved like a gentleman and given her the bed, but I didn’t. I’d lost my wife in Mexico. I could at least cling to my bed.
I got sheets, a pillow, and a blanket from the other room and a pair of cream-colored pajamas. She took the bedclothes and began gravely to spread them over the most un-bedlike Porfirio Diaz couch.
I went to her, put my hands on her arms. “Okay now?”
“Yes, thank you.” She twisted around, looking at me, her lips half parted. “You must be horribly bored with me.”
“You’re difficult, not boring.”
“You’ve been terribly kind.”
“Don’t be so British,” I added. “You’re not going to tell me what it is Sally has against you and Martin?”
She shook her head. “You’ll know soon enough. Everyone will know.”
“Maybe we can fix it yet,” I said. “Maybe we’ll think up something tomorrow.”
Her whole body seemed to sag like a flower wilting.
“No,” she said. “No, we won’t think up anything. It’s too late now.”
She slid her hands up my arms. Her lips brushed mine. They were cool and soft. It was the first time we’d ever kissed.
“Goodnight, Peter. Try not to dream of Iris.”
Six
I didn’t dream of anyone. I lay in my massive French bed, smoking cigarettes and thinking of women. For the last three weeks I had been smothered by women, confused by women’s thinking, tugged at by women’s desires, goaded by women’s malice. I felt impregnated by femininity, like a cigarette from a woman’s handbag tainted with the taste of face powder. I felt rebellious and muddled, because I didn’t understand
She tried to laugh, but her teeth were chattering. She said, “I’m a bloody fool. I know I’m a bloody fool. I’m sorry.”
“Drink your tequila.”
She lifted the glass with difficulty to her lips and drank. “I said no to him. I’m all right.”
I was watching her, the way her hair came around her face, the trace of blue under her eyes like the veins in an iris, the wonderful curve of her lips.
“Marietta, tell me something. If you didn’t want him, why did you let him take you away from the bar?”
“I don’t know, Peter. I don’t know about myself. Perhaps because you didn’t want to go with me. Perhaps because I didn’t want to be alone.” She paused. “That’s why I came back here—because I don’t want to be alone tonight. Do you mind?”
I grinned. I held up my hands, letting the sleeves slip back. “No red hair on the wrists.”
She smiled the sort of radiant smile that comes after tears, although she hadn’t been crying. She leaned back against me, relaxing. There was a faint fragrance to her. I didn’t know how cowslips smell, but it made me think of cowslips.
“It’s all right when I’m with you, Peter. The jitters go. I don’t know why. Perhaps because you’re so big.”
I said, “You’re a problem child, too, aren’t you? You and Sally.”
“God,” she said. “I hate problem children.”
“Why don’t you want to be alone? Is it Sally? Are you afraid of what she’s going to do tomorrow?”
“Yes.” She twisted around so that she was facing me. Her eyes were pleading. “Peter, can I sleep here tonight?”
“Carnally?”
“Don’t be silly. You know you don’t want that. I’ll sleep on the couch in here. I’m used to sleeping on couches. When I lived with Martin, I always slept on a couch. There was only one bed.”
“Which he took, of course.”
“Of course.”
Although she was being flippant again, I could trace the undercurrent of need. I had given up trying to understand her, but if she wanted to sleep on my couch it was okay with me.
I patted her arm and got up. “I guess you don’t need pajamas. I guess when you lived with Martin there was only one pair and he used them.”
She smiled. “No. I’ll take pajamas.”
I should have behaved like a gentleman and given her the bed, but I didn’t. I’d lost my wife in Mexico. I could at least cling to my bed.
I got sheets, a pillow, and a blanket from the other room and a pair of cream-colored pajamas. She took the bedclothes and began gravely to spread them over the most un-bedlike Porfirio Diaz couch.
I went to her, put my hands on her arms. “Okay now?”
“Yes, thank you.” She twisted around, looking at me, her lips half parted. “You must be horribly bored with me.”
“You’re difficult, not boring.”
“You’ve been terribly kind.”
“Don’t be so British,” I added. “You’re not going to tell me what it is Sally has against you and Martin?”
She shook her head. “You’ll know soon enough. Everyone will know.”
“Maybe we can fix it yet,” I said. “Maybe we’ll think up something tomorrow.”
Her whole body seemed to sag like a flower wilting.
“No,” she said. “No, we won’t think up anything. It’s too late now.”
She slid her hands up my arms. Her lips brushed mine. They were cool and soft. It was the first time we’d ever kissed.
“Goodnight, Peter. Try not to dream of Iris.”
Six
I didn’t dream of anyone. I lay in my massive French bed, smoking cigarettes and thinking of women. For the last three weeks I had been smothered by women, confused by women’s thinking, tugged at by women’s desires, goaded by women’s malice. I felt impregnated by femininity, like a cigarette from a woman’s handbag tainted with the taste of face powder. I felt rebellious and muddled, because I didn’t understand
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