do you feel about us? So far?”
I kissed him. “Like that.”
He smiled. “That’s how I feel, too.”
“Good.”
“I lived with somebody for three years,” Matt said. “We met while we were at Brown. The Vineyard wasn’t right for her, but
it was for me.”
“Four years. Another doctor,” I confessed.
Matt leaned in and lightly kissed me on the lips again. “Would you come home with me tonight, Suzanne?” he asked. “I want
to do some more dancing.”
I told him I would love to.
I have this wink that Matt calls “Suzanne’s famous wink.” I did it for the first time to Matt that night. He loved it.
Matt’s house was a small Victorian covered in gingerbread lace that draped itself over the eaves and softened all the corners.
The trellises, railings, and overhangs looked as if they’d been lifted off some elaborately trimmed wedding cake and carefully
placed around the rim of the roof.
It was the first time I had been invited, and I was suddenly nervous. My mouth was cottony and dry. I hadn’t been with anyone
like this since Michael, and that was still a bad memory for me.
We went inside and I immediately noticed a library. The room had been remodeled to be made up of nothing but shelves. There
were thousands of books in there. My eyes traveled up and down the bookshelves: Scott Fitzgerald, John Cheever, Virginia Woolf,
Anaïs Nin, Thomas Merton, Doris Lessing. An entire wall was devoted to collections of poetry. W. H. Auden, Wallace Stevens,
Hart Crane, Sylvia Plath, James Wright, Elizabeth Bishop, Robert Hayden, and many, many more. There was an antique globe;
an old English pond boat, its sails stained and listing; some nautical brass fittings; a big pine table covered in writing
pads and miscellaneous papers.
“I love this room. Can I look around?” I asked. “I love it, too. Of course you can look.”
I was totally surprised by the cover page on top of a stack of pages. It read,
Songs of a House-painter,
Poems by Matthew Harrison.
Matt was a poet? He hadn’t told me about it. He really didn’t like to talk about himself, did he? What other secrets did he
have?
“Okay, yes,” he admitted quietly. “I do some scribbling. That’s all it is. I’ve had the bug since I was sixteen, and I’ve
been trying to work it out since I left Brown. I majored in English and Housepainting. Just kidding. You ever write, Suzanne?”
“No, not really,” I said. “But I’ve been thinking about starting a diary.”
In the south of France there is supposedly a special time known as the Night of the Falling Stars. On this night, everything
is just so. Perfect and magical. According to the French, the stars seem to pour out of the sky, like cream from a pitcher.
It was like that for us; there were so many stars, I could imagine I was up in heaven.
Matt said, “Let’s take a walk down to the beach. Okay? I have an idea.”
“I’ve noticed that you have a lot of ideas.” “Maybe it’s the poet in me.”
He grabbed an old blanket, his CD player, and a bottle of champagne. We walked on a winding path through high sea grass, finally
finding a patch of sand to spread the blanket.
Matt popped open the champagne, and it sparkled and blinked in the midnight air. Then he pushed PLAY and the strains of Debussy
whirled up into the starry night sky.
Matt and I danced again, and we were in another time and place. Around and around we went, in sync with the rhythm of the
sea, turning up fountains of sand, leaving improbable footprint patterns in our wake. I let my fingers play on his back, his
neck. I let my hands comb through his hair.
“I didn’t know you could waltz,” I said.
He laughed. “I didn’t know, either.”
It as late when we made our way back up from the beach, but I wasn’t tired. If anything, I was more awake than ever. I was
still dancing, flying, singing inside. I hadn’t expected any of this to happen. Not now, maybe not ever.
I kissed him. “Like that.”
He smiled. “That’s how I feel, too.”
“Good.”
“I lived with somebody for three years,” Matt said. “We met while we were at Brown. The Vineyard wasn’t right for her, but
it was for me.”
“Four years. Another doctor,” I confessed.
Matt leaned in and lightly kissed me on the lips again. “Would you come home with me tonight, Suzanne?” he asked. “I want
to do some more dancing.”
I told him I would love to.
I have this wink that Matt calls “Suzanne’s famous wink.” I did it for the first time to Matt that night. He loved it.
Matt’s house was a small Victorian covered in gingerbread lace that draped itself over the eaves and softened all the corners.
The trellises, railings, and overhangs looked as if they’d been lifted off some elaborately trimmed wedding cake and carefully
placed around the rim of the roof.
It was the first time I had been invited, and I was suddenly nervous. My mouth was cottony and dry. I hadn’t been with anyone
like this since Michael, and that was still a bad memory for me.
We went inside and I immediately noticed a library. The room had been remodeled to be made up of nothing but shelves. There
were thousands of books in there. My eyes traveled up and down the bookshelves: Scott Fitzgerald, John Cheever, Virginia Woolf,
Anaïs Nin, Thomas Merton, Doris Lessing. An entire wall was devoted to collections of poetry. W. H. Auden, Wallace Stevens,
Hart Crane, Sylvia Plath, James Wright, Elizabeth Bishop, Robert Hayden, and many, many more. There was an antique globe;
an old English pond boat, its sails stained and listing; some nautical brass fittings; a big pine table covered in writing
pads and miscellaneous papers.
“I love this room. Can I look around?” I asked. “I love it, too. Of course you can look.”
I was totally surprised by the cover page on top of a stack of pages. It read,
Songs of a House-painter,
Poems by Matthew Harrison.
Matt was a poet? He hadn’t told me about it. He really didn’t like to talk about himself, did he? What other secrets did he
have?
“Okay, yes,” he admitted quietly. “I do some scribbling. That’s all it is. I’ve had the bug since I was sixteen, and I’ve
been trying to work it out since I left Brown. I majored in English and Housepainting. Just kidding. You ever write, Suzanne?”
“No, not really,” I said. “But I’ve been thinking about starting a diary.”
In the south of France there is supposedly a special time known as the Night of the Falling Stars. On this night, everything
is just so. Perfect and magical. According to the French, the stars seem to pour out of the sky, like cream from a pitcher.
It was like that for us; there were so many stars, I could imagine I was up in heaven.
Matt said, “Let’s take a walk down to the beach. Okay? I have an idea.”
“I’ve noticed that you have a lot of ideas.” “Maybe it’s the poet in me.”
He grabbed an old blanket, his CD player, and a bottle of champagne. We walked on a winding path through high sea grass, finally
finding a patch of sand to spread the blanket.
Matt popped open the champagne, and it sparkled and blinked in the midnight air. Then he pushed PLAY and the strains of Debussy
whirled up into the starry night sky.
Matt and I danced again, and we were in another time and place. Around and around we went, in sync with the rhythm of the
sea, turning up fountains of sand, leaving improbable footprint patterns in our wake. I let my fingers play on his back, his
neck. I let my hands comb through his hair.
“I didn’t know you could waltz,” I said.
He laughed. “I didn’t know, either.”
It as late when we made our way back up from the beach, but I wasn’t tired. If anything, I was more awake than ever. I was
still dancing, flying, singing inside. I hadn’t expected any of this to happen. Not now, maybe not ever.
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