The Lovers by Eden Bradley Page A

of being mermaids in the ocean, our hair streaming, our mermaid tails twining as we fuck in some lovely, mysterious, sea-creature way, her arms around me as we float out to sea.
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    It’s Sunday, and Patrice and I get up early and go to the small Goleta farmer’s market with Viviane to buy produce for the week. Everything is so beautiful, the colors of the fruits and vegetables laid out in orderly pyramids or piled in enormous tubs. There are flowers everywhere. We’re all quiet as we browse the aisles. I feel as though I can’t quite wake up today. I slept deeply after all those orgasms last night. Maybe the alcohol helped.
    We buy steaming lattes from a vendor and taste peaches and strawberries as we move from booth to booth, and there is a quiet camaraderie between us, even with Patrice. She is enjoying herself, her face more relaxed and open than I’ve ever seen it as she spies a particularly beautiful cluster of tomatoes red on the vine, a ripe honeydew melon, a bunch of purple grapes gleaming in the morning sunlight.
    On the way back to the house we stop at the grocery store for supplies, and I wander off to buy a bestselling suspense novel I’ve heard a lot about. One of Jack’s books is there, too, his latest thriller. I always love seeing books on the shelf from authors I know. Except that I don’t really know him yet.
    In the car we talk about unimportant things: movies we’ve loved, movies we’ve hated, the transvestite with a day’s growthof beard we spotted at the farmer’s market, bits and pieces of publishing industry news. It strikes me for a moment that what Viviane has told me about Patrice is true: that her bark is worse than her bite, and I’m glad I’m getting to know her. I think she may have some of the fears that I do, and I wonder if some of the things I feel are more universal than I thought. It makes me feel a little narcissistic, as though all this time I thought my pain was so unique, that I’ve spent too much time focused on me. But there is also a sense of relief, of community with the human race, which is something I don’t feel often.
    Back at the house it’s chore day. The guys have been cleaning off the patio furniture, preparing lunch, and the rest of the afternoon is spent doing laundry, writing on the patio, then everyone in the kitchen making dinner together. The evening is cool and cloudy. Kenneth has built a fire in the double-sided fireplace that opens on both the living and dining rooms, and we eat inside.
    The change in weather seems to have gotten to everyone, and they all retire to their rooms soon after the meal, leaving Audrey and me alone on the big sectional sofa in front of the amber glow of the fire.
    â€œWhat should we do now? Are you tired?” she asks me.
    She is sitting only a few feet away, Viviane having just vacated that spot. There is no way I’m going to bed while she’s still here. She is sitting with her legs crossed, her long cotton skirt spread around her. She’s wearing a white thermal top with her bohemian print skirt, but somehow it looks great on her. And she’s not wearing a bra, her full breasts outlined by the soft, clingy fabric, her nipples dimly visible if I look hard enough.
    â€œI’m not tired,” I tell her truthfully. No, my insides are warming up, alive, simply being alone with her.
    â€œWe should have our slumber party,” Audrey says, her eyessparkling in the firelight. “Do you want popcorn, or maybe just some wine?”
    â€œWine,” I decide. “I don’t know why, but being here makes me want to drink wine. Like I’m in the Italian countryside or something.”
    Audrey grins at me and we get up and head into the big kitchen without turning on the lights, but we can see our way around by the firelight coming through the doorway from the dining room. Audrey opens a bottle of Cabernet and I grab a large bar of dark