wall. They lay for a minute not touching, though this must have required Jobe to practically not breathe. Finally, he relaxed and his body contoured against hers, all ridges and planes, long angled bones, and the distinct shape of his erection.
She moved her hips slightly, and it grew. Carmen was caught between disgust and a sense of power. It required so little effort for herto control a man’s body—this man in particular, it seemed, who wanted her despite the fact that she’d soaked his sleeping bag with blood. She reached down with one hand and touched the hard, curled lump that was straining against his cotton scrub pants, causing Jobe to jump back a half inch or so.
“Does it hurt?” she whispered. “It’s like a rock. I can’t imagine having a part of me just … change like that.”
“Uh, no, not hurt, exactly.” Jobe was still edging back in the bed, but he couldn’t get quite far enough away from her for his penis not to be touching. “I’m sorry, it’s just something that happens sometimes. Maybe if I lie on my back.”
“Oh.” Carmen had been preparing to close her hand on his cock, but it looked now like she didn’t have to do anything in order to stay.
Outside there were drops falling like coins on the roof and Carmen relaxed into Jobe’s side. The arm he’d stretched out under her neck—because where else was there to put it?—tightened and curled a little, drawing her in. And she sighed and drifted as if she were being carried on a raft toward sleep, nose against Jobe’s upper arm, the faint, spicy deodorant smell of him mixing with the steel scent of the rain.
M AY 2007
Tuesday afternoon, flopped on a bed at the airport Holiday Inn, Carmen looked out the smeared window at planes lifting, showing her their bellies as they rose through the air.
“It’ll be strange going back to work.” She reached for her glass. There was no longer any concern about Jobe’s smelling the wine on her breath when she got home at five, having to come up with some invented client meeting that involved marinated olives and a bottle of Chardonnay.
“Afraid you’ll have to play the part of a devastated widow?” Danny, lying beside her, reached for her free hand.
“Sort of.” She sighed. The truth was that Carmen was confused. The house felt large and lonely, she was perpetually turning corners expecting Jobe to be there. But how did she explain this?
I didn’t expect to be sad about my husband’s death, but in fact, I am
. Instead, she had to pretend that there had been no such gap—that she was slowly ascending from dark horror rather than just now going into it. “People will be whispering about me, asking constantly how I’m holding up. Even if Jobe
had
been the great love of my life, I doubt I’d have known how to grieve.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll get you a copy of Joan Didion’s book. You can study up.” Danny ran his hand up Carmen’s torso, tobogganing it roughly over her nipples and sending sparks through her chest and up into her throat. “Just wear dark clothes, buttoned all the way up to your neck. You’ll have to hide these beautiful breasts for at least a year.” He grew serious then, wearing his library face. “Or you could tell them the truth: that you’re exhausted from the last year and relieved that Jobe’s not in pain anymore. People will give you space.”
Carmen took the last swallow and lay back as Danny used both hands to massage her breasts then moved his mouth slowly down her body, finding the place he wanted between her legs. She couldn’t even talk to her lover, revealing that she wasn’t simply relieved; she was, to her surprise, constantly wistful, thinking about Jobe. His death had released memories that puzzled more than distressed her, but he was always present in her thoughts—even now. She closed her eyes and floated on the sensation of Danny’s gentle licking and it became like a series of warm rings that kept expanding out. Infinite
She moved her hips slightly, and it grew. Carmen was caught between disgust and a sense of power. It required so little effort for herto control a man’s body—this man in particular, it seemed, who wanted her despite the fact that she’d soaked his sleeping bag with blood. She reached down with one hand and touched the hard, curled lump that was straining against his cotton scrub pants, causing Jobe to jump back a half inch or so.
“Does it hurt?” she whispered. “It’s like a rock. I can’t imagine having a part of me just … change like that.”
“Uh, no, not hurt, exactly.” Jobe was still edging back in the bed, but he couldn’t get quite far enough away from her for his penis not to be touching. “I’m sorry, it’s just something that happens sometimes. Maybe if I lie on my back.”
“Oh.” Carmen had been preparing to close her hand on his cock, but it looked now like she didn’t have to do anything in order to stay.
Outside there were drops falling like coins on the roof and Carmen relaxed into Jobe’s side. The arm he’d stretched out under her neck—because where else was there to put it?—tightened and curled a little, drawing her in. And she sighed and drifted as if she were being carried on a raft toward sleep, nose against Jobe’s upper arm, the faint, spicy deodorant smell of him mixing with the steel scent of the rain.
M AY 2007
Tuesday afternoon, flopped on a bed at the airport Holiday Inn, Carmen looked out the smeared window at planes lifting, showing her their bellies as they rose through the air.
“It’ll be strange going back to work.” She reached for her glass. There was no longer any concern about Jobe’s smelling the wine on her breath when she got home at five, having to come up with some invented client meeting that involved marinated olives and a bottle of Chardonnay.
“Afraid you’ll have to play the part of a devastated widow?” Danny, lying beside her, reached for her free hand.
“Sort of.” She sighed. The truth was that Carmen was confused. The house felt large and lonely, she was perpetually turning corners expecting Jobe to be there. But how did she explain this?
I didn’t expect to be sad about my husband’s death, but in fact, I am
. Instead, she had to pretend that there had been no such gap—that she was slowly ascending from dark horror rather than just now going into it. “People will be whispering about me, asking constantly how I’m holding up. Even if Jobe
had
been the great love of my life, I doubt I’d have known how to grieve.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll get you a copy of Joan Didion’s book. You can study up.” Danny ran his hand up Carmen’s torso, tobogganing it roughly over her nipples and sending sparks through her chest and up into her throat. “Just wear dark clothes, buttoned all the way up to your neck. You’ll have to hide these beautiful breasts for at least a year.” He grew serious then, wearing his library face. “Or you could tell them the truth: that you’re exhausted from the last year and relieved that Jobe’s not in pain anymore. People will give you space.”
Carmen took the last swallow and lay back as Danny used both hands to massage her breasts then moved his mouth slowly down her body, finding the place he wanted between her legs. She couldn’t even talk to her lover, revealing that she wasn’t simply relieved; she was, to her surprise, constantly wistful, thinking about Jobe. His death had released memories that puzzled more than distressed her, but he was always present in her thoughts—even now. She closed her eyes and floated on the sensation of Danny’s gentle licking and it became like a series of warm rings that kept expanding out. Infinite
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