A. Barrett - Love Is Power, or Something Like That - Stories

At first he lay still. Then he turned to face her back, to assume her fetal position. His movement rocked the bed, and she shifted her weight. She moved again, and again, heat rising in the closing gap between their bodies. She had slid across half of the bed; the blanket was bunched about their legs; breakaway tendrils of her plaited hair tickled his face. He saw the trembling in the back of her neck and heard the hum, the thump, the irregular motoring of her heart. He inched forward his hand and touched her shoulder, and she heaved a monsoon sigh, rolled over to face him, and wound her arms round his neck.

He awoke the way one does on the eve of a long journey. It was daybreak. A spray of sunlight dappled his right shoulder, and his cousin — warm-fleshed, fully clothed — lay in his arms. His groin was pressed against her haunches. He disentangled his arms, stretched them wide, and yawned. Then he sat up and said, Good morning.

She rolled over to look at him. The smile on her sleep-puffed face, the affectionateness, the unaffectedness of the smile, made him want to lean down and bruise her mouth with kisses.

Morning, she said, her words muffled by a wide pink yawn. Her teeth glistened like wet pebbles. Her breath, that old familiar, wafted into his face. He fought it ferociously, the urge that knifed through him, but he was overpowered, and he lowered his head.

After the kiss they avoided each other’s eyes and rose to prepare for whatever lay ahead. While she used the bathroom, he fixed the bed. She emerged from the crash of flushing water to find him blocking her path.

He said her name: his voice trembled. I’m sorry, I took advantage. .

She shushed him with a snigger. Don’t be silly, nothing happened. And I’ve told you, but you won’t hear — my name is Shakira!

They had breakfast at the hotel, and then headed home. When they entered the gate of the house they met the twins digging up weeds in the garden, and she skipped from his side to join them. He walked on, followed by the trill of her voice, till he reached the front door and went in. The falsetto of his father’s singing floated from the sitting room, above the burr of the vacuum cleaner. His mother stood midway up the staircase, polishing the mahogany banister. In response to his greeting she threw him a baleful glance, then turned away to instruct his younger brother to water the potted dieffenbachia that stood beside the hallway bookshelf.

For the rest of Saturday he kept to his room.

The next day, Sunday, he woke up late, to a silent house. Everyone had left for church. He went downstairs to find something to eat. The kitchen was untidy — they had left in a hurry. The floor around the dustbin was strewn with yam peels and onion skins and Maggi wrappers. A used pot sat on the cooker, and the serving ladle rested in a pool of amber-colored oil on the countertop, beside the uncapped, sweating bottle of cranberry juice. The sink was stacked with plates.

He’d opened the sink tap and squirted dishwashing liquid into the collected water, when he realized there were only five plates. He screwed the tap closed and dried his hands on the seat of his pajamas, then ran from the kitchen, up the stairs, to the door of the girls’ bedroom.

At the first knock, she answered. He entered to find her sitting cross-legged on the bed, playing a game on her phone. She was still in her nightdress, the yellow, Daffy Duck — patterned one. The hemline rode up her thighs, revealing the slopes of her knees.

Hey, he said, as he shut the door and leaned against it.

Morning, she said, not looking up. Her fingers skittered across the keypad, scoring points.

Can I sit?

She shrugged in reply, and he walked to the bed, sank down beside her, and asked: Why didn’t you go to church with them? No answer. Her breath quickened.

Are you not talking to me? he asked, and reached his hand forward to grip her ankle.

Her fingers stopped moving; the phone drooped in her hands; the game played the same cartoon melody over and over.

Looking at her averted face, he remembered how, when she was little, every time he went to her parents’ house he used to place her in his lap, and while she swung her legs about and sucked the sweets he’d brought her, he chatted over her head as he stroked her knees. He felt a stab of nostalgia for those happy, guiltless days. He wanted to show her that she was still his favorite, that the years hadn’t eroded his affection, that the previous night hadn’t changed anything, so he lifted her leg, pulled it toward him, placed her ankle in his lap, and caressed her knee. His hand whispered over her skin.

You’re beautiful, you know that?

At his words, she looked up, and a cloud-shadow of expressions flitted across her face; then she rested her head against his shoulder. He eased her sideways, onto the bed, pinned her down with his chest, worked his knee between her legs. When she gasped, he kissed her.

You’re sure you love me?

She lay on her belly beside him, with her chin propped on his chest. Her right leg was cocked at the knee, the foot waving in the air.

Yes, he said. His hand played round-and-round-the-garden with her pants line, and when his fingers took two steps and tickled, she squirmed and clamped her thighs.

Why do you love me? she asked, staring at his beard stubble, at his lips, into his eyes.

Because, he said, with a jerk of his shoulders. I’ve loved you for a long time, since you were nine.

Serious? I didn’t know. Her eyes shone. Her breath scalded his face.

After a pause. So what do you love about me? she asked.

Everything, he said, and nuzzled her cheek. His nose left a dab of sweat on her skin. His right hand, in slow circles, rubbed the back of her thighs.

Like?

Like, you know. .

My ass?

Come on, don’t say that.

Then tell me, what do you like?

Okay, he said, and dug his elbow into the bed, braced his jaw against his fisted hand, stared at her with widened eyes and pouted lips, a playful face that fell away as he continued — since you’re forcing me. I like your eyes. I like the way they light up when you’re happy. I like your legs. I like the way you walk, especially when you’re hurrying, the way you throw your feet, like a child who’s about to fall. I like your nose, and your mouth, and your breath. I like the way your breath smells. Like melted ice cream.

Wow, she said in a hushed, wondering voice; and then she adjusted her legs. His hand slid between her thighs.

But.

But what? he asked, and kissed her earlobe.

But won’t it cause trouble, that we’re, you know, cousins?

Yes. It will.

So what will we do?

We have to keep it a secret, at least for now. People won’t understand my feelings for you. They’ll say you’re too young, that. . that we’re related. We can’t let anyone know.

Okay.

That’s my girl, he said, and flashed a broad, toothy smile. Then he dipped his head, and chased her elusive lips with a teasing zzzing in the back of his throat.

At the sound of his father’s car pulling into the driveway their lips broke apart. He scrambled to his feet, adjusted the crotch of his pajama bottoms. I’ll see you later, he said over his shoulder, walking with short, awkward, frantic steps toward the door.