Part Two of Two
The First Kiss launched a thousand clichés in the minds of the lovers. While apart, they incessantly turned thoughts of each other over like shiny gold coins between their fingers. At mid-week he asked her to dinner and, time permitting, a movie. (Friday night was his only option, due to obligations related to his wife’s family—they were still in that stage of divorce that required elaborate and mutual charade.)
On Friday night her work kept her detained longer than expected. She arrived at the guesthouse at eight-thirty. (Geography dictated the shuttle protocol: she lived on the backside of a mountain in a nether-region of Los Angeles County, while the guesthouse was close in to noise and bustle.) When he met her at the gate he did not immediately fall upon her in an attempt to replicate the results of the previous weekend’s experiment, about which they had not spoken a word. He busied himself with the dogs and led her up the walkway. They went inside just long enough for him to finish dressing and finalize their plans: dinner, no movie. At this point they allowed one another a belated and brief “hello” kiss. The restraint they exercised was not indicative of doubt, but rather the contrary.
He drove her to the restaurant, where he had made staggered reservations. He chose a place new to both of them, where contamination from his other half-life seemed less probable. While free of distracting associations, it was more affectedly romantic than either had expected. They were seated dead center of the room, in a bubble of light that sat on the white tablecloth and made them feel displayed. A brief negotiation with the maitre d’ allowed them to take advantage of a corner booth fortuitously reserved by no-shows. Though there was some sensible conversation, the dinner was generally an all- thumbs affair with a great deal of teasing, blushing and grinning—fascinating to the participants but trying to the waitperson. The lovers could not seem to make their instructions understood, ate little, were too drunk with each other to take wine, and skipped desert.
Here’s what happened back at the guesthouse: While the tea-water was heating up he lifted her to the countertop and invented new embraces. They kissed with heads atilt. Their hands, on reconnaissance, were frank without being rude. Neither realized that the other was thinking, for a moment, of a particular incident many weeks prior. It had happened at the third or fourth mutual friend party. Socializing was tedious for her, so, during a party, she could often be found helping in the kitchen. It was late in the proceedings when he saw her there, washing dishes at the sink. She wore a modest black dress, of a knit that tends to an attractive electrical charge, pulling in dog hair and lint. Some mention had been made of it earlier, and now some quip. He hunted around and found a sticky-roller. Starting at her shoulders, and with gallant familiarity, he picked off the lint. His touch was unbrusque as he rolled methodically down to the small of her back. She continued washing dishes. He continued downward, rolling over the pleasing contours below her waist. His action was blatantly provocative, yet gentle, and was received without protest.
The teapot whistled. He turned the burner off without looking. He lifted her and carried her across the room to a brief stairway. A wisp of steam evaporated above the teapot. The two cups were chagrined, holding their dry and forgotten teabags. He floated her up the steps to the bedroom (which was situated above the landlord’s garage, but still reasonably posh). They stared into one another’s eyes even as he placed her carefully on the bed. Neither could believe this was happening. Both wanted to take it slow. Feelings had to be respected, behavior responsible. While these clichés caromed through the minds of the lovers, they had the sense not to verbalize them. He took her silence to be a sign of superior wisdom of allure. She didn’t want to hear any words. Words confused her. Words were not necessary. They had made the agreement, by telepathy, that they would not behave in an ethically scuzzy way. The kissed. They touched. They touched everything. They kissed everything that was possible to kiss while remaining fully clothed. Outside, the dogs roamed around in a stupor from the pheromone emissions. Wisps of estrogen and testosterone hung close to the floor like the fog in the canyons. These experiments continued unabated till the dopamine and serotonin reserves were exhausted. At four in the morning the lovers made chaste farewells. He walked her to her car. The restraint they showed (if one can call it that), they took as evidence that this was the real thing. Astronomically speaking, cosmic. Covalent, in chemistry terms.
The sex started the following weekend. They had arrived at a heartfelt recognition of the merits of delay (until his marital situation was properly and ethically resolved). Considering their respect for the uniqueness and purity of their unspoken but True Love, there could be no other choice. They were in awe of each other, maturity-wise, but somehow the simple equation (2-1) + 1 became trigonometry. She agreed to his vow of responsible chastity by convincing him, wordlessly, that it should be immediately broken. And so the physical sciences gave way to the humanities, to the literature they wrote for themselves, the part of love that’s fiction, which is our favorite part to tell.
David Warfield
