Christopher Sorrentino - The Fugitives

WE STOOD UNDERthe shower, bunched up at one corner of the tub as the pulsating spray of the massaging head buffeted us. I had my hands on her shoulders and was kissing her, but I was spent, a deep, satisfied exhaustion that required only the burrow of kind words and sleep. Or so I thought. Kat reached down and grabbed the bar of hotel soap from the dish, removed the paper wrapper from it.

“Ugh,” she said, her voice reverberant in the close tiled space, “I hate this stuff. When you’re close enough to get below the fake patchouli and herbal scent, it always smells like you could clean an oven with it.”

She worked the bar in her hands, building up a lather, then began washing my dick, shampooing my pubic hair with the tips of the fingers of her right hand, almond eyes studying my face, her black hair slick and beaten down by the water. She put the soap back in the dish and began kneading me gently with both hands. I looked down, saw mostly her impossible body, its curves and angles, the prominence of the veins stretching from her pubis to her hip, ghostly and slightly green under the dark skin, but with weight, weight and texture. She had very prominent veins, I saw now, veins across her upper torso, her throat, encircling her forearms like old wisteria vines, massing on the backs of her hands. Flaw or miracle, who knew. I ran my hands from her shoulders down to her backside, hefted both cheeks slightly and then let them drop. She stepped to one side to allow the spray from the showerhead to rinse me off, and when it had, I removed the thing from the mount and adjusted it so that fat pulses of water rushed from the nozzle, felt the throb of the thing in my hand, lowered it to her crotch and pointed it at her clitoris, watching the flow of water against gravity, pooling bubbling in her dark pubic hair, then falling against the enameled metal of the tub floor, a solid concentrated drumming keeping time against the ostinato of liquid whining through pipe. Kat put her head back against the tiles, eyes closed, breathing through her mouth, and I put my mouth next to hers, we breathed each other in and out for a minute, the shared taste and smell and sound as powerful an intimacy as any, and I hung the showerhead up again, half-crouched before her, and pushed into her.

It was too late when we had finished and stumbled from the bathroom’s steam-bath fog to the bed. The same fifty or hundred words appeared on the screen of the laptop, though it seemed as if I’d first glimpsed them days or weeks before, in a context I no longer recognized.

“Maybe,” I said — and even as I was summoning the words I realized that I’d said the very same thing to Susannah when things had seemed simple and clear, when the state of ignorance in which we’d willfully placed our spouses still seemed a kindness and not a form of contempt—“Maybe,” I said, “we could carve out a space for ourselves, just the two of us, where nobody else can come.” But it’s never that simple.

Kat just said, “Let’s not go overboard here.”

We were done talking for the night. Kat lay with her eyes closed, and we contented ourselves with distracted, Tourettic touching. Soon she was breathing slowly and deeply; her face relaxed into the unselfconscious composure of sleep, while I considered the emotional siege of a first encounter. Here we go again, is what I thought.

I Twas a little after ten a.m. by the clock radio on the nightstand, and I lay in bed, watching idly as Kat dressed. I felt vaguely jealous as she dipped into her enormous suitcase to pull out a clean pair of rust-and-maroon-striped corduroys and a beige cashmere sweater — not merely envious of her fresh clothes (mine had spent the night in a tangled heap on the floor), but jealous of the million subtle puzzle pieces, the life in and out of the suitcase, all the magpie accretions women gathered and kept, and where were you supposed to begin asking how to put it all together? Why did people like me who couldn’t be bothered to learn another language, who would never study flower arranging or avidly reconstruct historic chess games, who would never dream of mastering hang gliding or woodworking, persist in taking on the monumental and disappointing task of trying to decipher other people? And to start, always, with the crudest parts of the puzzle: Who else has seen you take those cords off and put them on? Did you ever leave one of those earrings behind in someone’s bed? What does your husband say when he comes? Attraction and its discontents. A trade-off, I thought, admiring the curve of Kat’s ass in clean white panties. She turned and caught me looking. “Do you want to meet a friend of mine today?”

“Sure. But.” I pointed at the clock. “Story time.”

“If you insist.”

“You’re the one doing the piece on him.”

She pulled on her corduroys, which fit as if they’d been tailored particularly for her, and sat down beside me on the bed. “You never did tell me your news about him, by the way.”

“I never got the chance.”

“Sue me. So?”

“No big deal,” I said. “I talked to him the other day. He confirmed some of the stuff I told you about him.”

“He did, OK. So?”

“He asked where you were.”

“Me? That’s weird.”

“He noticed you. You’re kind of noticeable. Plus,” I added, “he’s convinced you’re an Indian.” A peculiar look crossed her face. “What?”

She shook her head. “He’s right. So what?”

“So nothing, I guess,” I said. Actually, I was astonished.

“Am I supposed to wear a star, or something?” She shook her head again, pushed her hair out of her face. We were silent for a long moment. “Wait a minute, why’s he asking you?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. He saw us together, I guess. Anyway, I told him you were interested in him.”

“Geezum, like I need some Indian on my butt.”

“No,” I said. “I told him you were a journalist and that you might want to write about him.”

“Alexander. You didn’t. Shoot.” She got up and rapidly began to pack things into her purse.

“What?” I said. “It came up.”

“Get dressed if you’re coming.”

WE SAT SIDEby side at one of the big tables. I needed coffee; the cup I’d bought at Gagliardi’s I had surrendered to the librarian who had wordlessly glanced at the sign beside her forbidding food and drinks and then extended her hand for the contraband, eyes still averted as if it was a practiced gesture.

It was ten past eleven, and Salteau hadn’t appeared. I couldn’t remember Salteau ever having been late before. The kids were beginning to get unruly, the unfolding awareness of Salteau’s absence apparently freeing them from the unspoken contract that ordinarily bound them to their good behavior. Adults who had settled into chairs or sat cross-legged on the floor suddenly had to vault themselves back into their roles as umpires and police. One kid pushed another off the bear. Throw pillows that had been piled neatly on the floor in a reading nook began flying. Whatever force held the library together as an idea, as a set of conventions, was coming apart simply because Salteau had failed to show up.

Finally one of the librarians entered the room and began clapping her hands loudly until she’d gotten everyone’s attention.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “John apparently has been seriously delayed. He hasn’t contacted us and we haven’t been able to reach him. I’m afraid that at this time we’re going to have to cancel today’s event. We’re very sorry for any—”