Rafael Yglesias - The Work Is Innocent

“No. He met her a few months ago.” The phone rang in one of the other rooms and Joan went to answer it. She was gone for a while, and with each passing minute Richard criticized himself for his ungraceful and unsympathetic response to hearing of Joan’s mother’s death. It didn’t occur to him that no one would take such news without a sign of being stunned. He had felt constricted after his reaction to the news. He was convinced that Joan had been offended.

The pot was whistling when Joan re-entered the kitchen. “That was Ann,” she said, pouring the water. “Some cousins from California are visiting and she can’t come.”

Richard slid off the countertop, partly from shock. He said nothing.

Joan turned to face him and she said with a sly dimpled smile, “That isn’t too much of a drag, is it?”

Richard couldn’t help smiling. “Oh no.” He stood there, feeling that he must say something but unable to do so.

“Milk and sugar, sir?” Joan went to the refrigerator and got a carton of milk.

“Yeah,” Richard said, going over to the coffee and staring at the floating brown foam that instant coffee creates. Joan brought him the milk and sugar, and Richard fixed his drink. Joan, without speaking, left the kitchen. Now Richard was convinced that he had disgusted her.

He carried his cup gingerly into the living room and was surprised at not seeing Joan. He was deciding whether or not to search for her when she briskly entered. Joan flopped onto the couch and put a pipe and a plastic bag of marijuana on the glass table in front of the couch. “That’s a good idea,” Richard said, and sat in an easy chair opposite her. “Maybe it’ll improve my novel.”

Joan smiled distractedly while she rolled a joint. Richard watched silently and with apprehension. He might be very foolish indeed once stoned. Joan looked gleefully naughty.

They smoked two joints solemnly, as if it were a wondrous ritual, heavy with the ardor of preceding young lovers. Richard was accustomed to getting high very quickly on little grass, but he felt nothing after an amount that should have overwhelmed him. Joan stretched her legs and put her head back on the cushions until Richard lit a cigarette, and she asked him for one.

“Oh,” she said while taking it from him. “Do you want to hear some music?” He said yes. She put on Otis Redding and returned to her relaxed pose on the couch. He watched her, tensing against the drug and confused by the randomness of events. When the record ended and left an oppressive silence Joan’s eyes were closed. Richard got up, without thinking, and stood in front of her. What was he doing there? She stirred and he squeezed past her legs and picked up his coat and novel, tossing them to the side. He flopped awkwardly onto the couch.

Joan sat up and smiled at him. “Do you want to read the novel now?”

“Naw,” Richard said, convinced she didn’t mean it. “When I’ve rewritten it and have extra copies I’ll give you one.”

“I’d love to hear it. I wanted to get into the mood. But I won’t push you.”

“I’ll confess something. As long as you’re really interested—”

“I am! I really am.”

“Good. Then it doesn’t matter. Actually I’d rather we didn’t sit around and read it tonight. All I’ve been doing for the past four or five months is write it. So I’d rather—” He was going to say, have some fun, but that seemed crudely sexual. “I’d rather, you know, talk. Do anything but relate to that novel.” He laughed with pleasure at speaking of it casually. “I’m so bored with it.”

“Not really. It must be very nice to be working on something of your own.” Joan sounded as if she had led a long tragic life, deprived of self-fulfillment.

“I suppose so,” Richard said with a sigh. He decided to play up the struggling writer pose. “It’s hard in a lot of ways, though. You know, I mean it’s good, you feel like it’s something that really counts but it’s tough maintaining that daily concentration. I always thought writing was a kind of ecstasy, but there’s a lot of drudgery. You get that great idea and you have to hold it day after day.” He had gone too far in trying to give the impression of struggle: he made it sound like pitching baseballs.

“It took you a long time to write?”

“Well, I’m not really finished yet. Probably it’ll take me another month for the final draft. I guess that makes it about six months. But that’s pretty fast.”

“I’ve always wanted to do something that I could feel really expressed who I am,” Joan said. She went on about the different arts she had tried, but Richard heard only isolated words. He was looking at her firm long neck and the slope down to her breasts. He would meet her eyes sharply when her words intruded, but he would be drawn down again to look at her body with mounting desire. Reality, the white cardboard walls, the bright print of the couch they were sitting on, seemed to sharpen and vibrate with threats.

I’ve got to kiss her, he thought, realizing that it was impossible to do. He edged his leg closer to hers so that they touched. It was a great relief to him that she didn’t jump up in protest. He looked at her and she was staring into his eyes: she seemed aware of his thoughts and he felt his face collapse in dismay.

“I’m sorry,” Joan said. “I forgot that you don’t want to talk about the novel.”

“Well,” Richard said, hoping the word would allow him to rediscover the logic of their conversation. “It’s just that I’m depending on it to get me out of school. I have so much invested in it that I haven’t really stopped thinking about it for months.” He put his arm back over her shoulders, resting it on the couch. She turned slightly to face him, and Richard found the tension of her lips being so close too great. He averted his face, saying, “You know, I’m amazed at how unlike myself I am—I mean I don’t act normally with you.” Richard breathed deeply and looked at her. She was beautiful.

Joan looked at Richard with knowing, pursed lips and said, “Why? I mean to be friendly.”

Richard was encouraged by her expression. “You know why,” he said, feeling so relaxed that he tilted his head toward hers as if to kiss her. He stopped himself, but she moved closer to him and he went on. She closed her eyes, but he did this with his eyes open, his consciousness splitting in half. He worked hard at moving his lips over hers in endearing light touches, but, despite the cold-bloodedness of his kiss, his groin tightened with pleasure. She opened her lips slightly and he wandered inside, arms tense, his head cracking with disbelief. He was kissing her!

And it lasted. He moved his hands and rubbed her back, feeling the bump of her bra strap. She didn’t leap away. He heard their bodies shift on the couch as she settled into the kiss. His eyes wandered around the room casually, his penis pushed its way upward so that it made a little tent of his right pocket. He slowly moved one arm and put his hand on one of her breasts. She murmured her approval but he felt the material of her bra more than her breast; the kiss and her clothes made him restless. He was tilted toward her in an uncomfortable pose, his erection pulling away from his body so violently that he was afraid any more excitement might seriously injure him.

He leaned away from her, stopping the kiss. He kissed her throat, he bit lightly at her neck and its warmth, her body’s enjoyment made her stretch out and he moved almost on top of her, his hard lump soothed by the softness of her thigh. He rubbed it furtively against her and his legs weakened, his stomach suffused with heat. This is it, he thought, and the feeling left him. He was hardly conscious of its departure while he began calculating how to get her undressed. He felt silly, almost crouched and nibbling at her neck. He could look down and see the beginnings of an inexpressible delight. He shifted uncomfortably to position his hand to unbutton her blouse.