I Loved You Wednesday (7 page)

The first outgrowth of this defiance is the erection which springs up, without my consent, mind you, from the basement of guerrilla headquarters.

Since Chris and I are as adjacent as two sticks rubbing against each other, I assume she’s probably aware of this recent development as well.

But the green light is still lit, so I push on.

My hands begin roaming around the small of her back. Chris endorses this affection by releasing the slightest, most delightful audible moan of pleasure. I rub a little harder, and she moans a little louder. Dare I go on? More important, dare I stop?

I move my left hand underneath her sweater, and that feels so good I bring in the right one, too, for company, and hug her even tighter. She puts her hands around my neck, drawing closer. I know no one with her soft, loving touch. I could stand here like this, just holding her, for hours. I smile down at her and continue massaging her back. She lets me know how very much she’s enjoying all this with her constant purrs of pleasure. Humming along with her, I carefully cup each of her beautifully rounded breasts in my hands. The sensation from their touch gets me so excited, I press down harder on her mouth and nibble her lower lip. She elicits another of her sexy
mmmmmmmmmmmmms
and, moving her hand down to my crotch, gently caresses the unauthorized beast.

Now
I’m
moaning with pleasure.

Our breathing grows still heavier.

With a slight pull, Chris releases her mouth from mine. “We have to stop,” she whispers.

“No. Let’s not,” I whisper back.

“Let’s.”

“Let’s not.”

“We have to go downstairs.”

“We have to finish this.”

“We can’t.”

“We can.”

“We shouldn’t.”

“We should.”

“We can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.”

“Good. Come here.” I lead her to the bed and gently but surely press her down before slowly pushing her backward until we’re both lying next to each other.

Staring at me with great severity, Chris leans her hand against my cheek fondly and waits a few moments before finally saying, “Years from now, when you think about this . . . and you will ... be kind.”

And the mood is broken.

We are both vibrating on the bed now, not in sexual encounter, but in laughter. I try getting back to the mood of the piece again, bringing my lips to hers, but the two of us begin to giggle almost immediately.

Sitting up in bed, I dump the ashes from the fake cigar in my upheld hand and raising my eyebrows, launch into my Groucho:

“Martha dear, there are many bonds that will hold us together through eternity... your government bonds, your saving bonds, your Liberty bonds. . . .”

Chris raises her eyebrows and says, “Thank yo.”

“Thank yo,” I answer, flicking an imaginary ash on the bed. “Tell me, miss, do you rumba?”

“Why, yes,” Chris plays along. “I do.”

“Well then, take a rumba from one to ten.” I jiggle my eyebrows again.

Chris holds up a fake cigar of her own. “Have you got any stewed prunes?”

“Honk, honk.” I shake my head yes.

“Well, give them some black coffee, that should sober them up!”

“Thank yo.”

“Thank yo.” We gaze at each other several more moments until Chris breaks the silence.

“Hey, Steve?” “Yeah?”

“Can’t we go back to the city tomorrow?”

“How about Uruguay?”

“Uruguay?!”

“Sure!” I suggest, back as Groucho. “You go Uruguay and I’ll go mine!”

“Oh, come on. Please. For me, Stevie-poo. Wadda ya say, huh?”

“Well....” I feel myself bending. How does she always do this to me?

Hands on hips, Chris tosses off a Mae West: “Hey, fella, I’ll give ya head on the highway going home!”

That’s it! I send up the white flag. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place? Start packing!”

The following day starts off sunny enough but, typical of Vermont, turns overcast by early afternoon. Chris wakes with a small rain cloud of her own still floating above her head.

So, to lift her spirits, we stop off at the Swiss Pot Bar for a fast farewell drink with Maggie and Douglas.

For three hours.

Maggie insists that while she thinks she understands our early departure, she’s nonetheless disappointed, and Douglas says, “What a relief. I thought you two would never leave.”

Driving down Route 100, on our way out of Stowe, Chris turns back to look at the distant clouds and the pink colors drifting toward and sifting into the oranges of an early sunset.

Commenting on the beauty of the pastoral scene, she casually announces, “I wish we weren’t leaving. I’m going to miss Vermont so.”

Once again, logic to which I can find no adequate response.

Chapter Five
 

The drive home from Vermont lacks the dramatics of the ride
up.
It is not, however, without lumps of its own.

Specifically, it is something in the carburetor hookup which unhooks some twenty minutes into the trip, slowing all machinery in the engine to a snail’s pace, put-putting our way south, averaging a little worse than thirty-seven miles per. Which is probably good time if you’re moving by covered wagon.

Somewhere around Massachusetts I remind Chris of her intent to do me on the drive home.

“Silly. I was only teasing.”

“Story of my life, you shithead,” I fume.

“Maybe next time.”

“No next time. Hereafter we travel separately... by bus!”

We crawl into Manhattan a little before two in the morning. Chris and I, taken with the sight of the approaching George Washington Bridge, launch into all choruses we can remember of “America the Beautiful.”

Chris drops me and the hounds off first. She’s going to park the car near her apartment and call a still brooding Roger at his office in the morning, telling him where it is.

I get to my apartment where I fall asleep, even before the dogs, in fifteen minutes flat.

I hate being wakened from a sound sleep. Worse still, I hate being wakened when that dream is erotic.

I’m having one of my frequent lewdies about me and Chris going at each other, finding something to stuff into every orifice, when the nagging ringing of the telephone brings me back to that part of our existence we sometimes refer to as reality.

Looking over at my digital, I see it is six twenty. On Saturday morning, mind you.

I pick up the receiver, mustering, “Hello, Chris/’

“How did you know it was me?”

“Psychic, I guess.”

“Did I wake you?”

“No. I just got in from jogging around the park.”

“You sound exhausted.”

“I pushed too hard.”

“You’re kidding me, aren’t you?”

“No sense trying to pull any wool over your eyes.”

“Seriously, did I wake you?”

“Yes, damn it. I was having one of our sexy dreams.”

“Oh, good. Tell me about it.”

“It was pretty heated. I was doing you. You were doing me. We stopped only at including the dogs.”

“I’m so excited. Did you climax?”

“No. You called.”

“Oh. Sorry. Why don’t you go back to sleep and finish what you were dreaming? Then when you wake up, call me.

“I don’t think I could do that.”

“Why not? I do it all the time.”

“You’ve had more practice. You’re a professional sleeper.”

“When I’m sleeping.”

“When you’re sleeping. Right. Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“Are you crazy? Who wants to sleep? I haven’t even been to bed yet! I’ve got the most fabulous news!”

“Who is he?”

“How did you know?”

“Told you. I’m psychic.”

“You’re so smart.”

“Well?”

“Well ... I’m in love!”

“I had a hunch.”

“Let me tell you what happened.”

“All right.” I lie back in bed, placing the receiver next to my ear on the pillow in between me and Harry. “Go!”

“Well ... oh, I’m
so
excited! . . . After I dropped you off last night, I just didn’t feel like going back to an empty apartment. Too depressing. So I drove around and found a parking space right near this restaurant called the Blue Owl. You know it?”

“Columbus Avenue.”

“Right. OOOH. I’m so excited!!”

“Chris, calm down. You’re waking Harry.”

“Oops. Sorry.” She calms down. But not for long. “Anyway, I walked into the Blue Owl, and they’ve got the nicest little bar there, so I thought why not have a little nightcap. So I have a seat and order a very dry Beefeater’s martini on the rocks.”

“Something light to end the day.”

“Right. Anyway, the bartender who makes my drink is
so
gorgeous I’m having trouble sitting on my stool. And since business is quiet, thank God, he comes over to me and we talk and his name is Bradley Forrester, don’t you just love the name and he looks exactly like a Bradley too he’s got these wonderful eyes and a smile so sexy with shoulders from here to there and blond curly hair oh my God you can’t imagine how bright he is in medical school working nights because he comes from a lot of money but doesn’t speak to his folks anymore because they had a big fight so now he’s doing it on his own which I think is so commendable don’t you and we talked for an hour and a half and closed up the place and he didn’t charge me anything for my four drinks which was so gallant and sweet, except I’ve now got the most annoying hangover and he took my phone number and said he’d call today and just wait till you see him my bright beauty with dimples so deep. . . . Steve, are you listening to any of this?”

“Zzzzzzzzzzz.”

“Steve!”

“Wha?”

“I said are you listening to any of this.”

“Hanging onto every word.”

“Good. What do you think?”

“I think it sounds very nice.”

“Aren’t you excited for me?”

“Very.” I yawn.

“Do you think I could enjoy being married to a doctor?”

“Sure. Get all your drugs free.”

“And children. I think three. Two boys and a girl. A town house in the east sixties and a summer place in East Hampton.”

“Perfect.”

“Or maybe Amagansett.”

“Either’s fine with me.”

“What if he doesn’t like the ocean?”

“Divorce him.”

“No. We’ll go to the Berkshires.”

“I’m glad you worked it out.”

“I’ll kill myself I’m so excited you will not believe a perfect row of teeth top
and
bottom and we talked and talked and talked and OH MY GOD I’M IN LOVE! This is it, Steve! I know this is it, the real thing. I see it now. All of it. Hank was just a passing fancy. I never loved him. Plastic phony. Now that I met Bradley I know the difference between yucky and the real thing. And this is the REAL THING. I’M IN LOVE! I’M IN LOVE! I’M
IN LOVE!”

“Chris, get ahold of yourself.”

But it’s too late for Chris to take hold of anything, especially herself, evidenced by her breaking into song.

“I fell in love with love one night when the moon was low....”

“Chris, please. . . .”

“I was unwise with eyes too foolish to seeeee. . . .”

“Do I need this?”

“Love walked right in and yad da dad da da da.”

“Chris....”

“Love makes the world go ‘round. Love makes the world go ‘round. Somebody soon will love you, if no one loves you now.”

“. . . Um. . . .”

“High in some silent sky, love sings a silver song. . .”

“....”

“Love; look at the two of us. Strangers in many ways....”

“Zzzzzzz.”

“Steve, where are you?”

“Right here.”

“Then who is snoring?”

“Ruth.”

“Well, wake her and tell her I’m in love.”

“She heard. That’s why she went back to sleep.”

“Oh.”

“Anything else, Chris?”

“Anything else, what?”

“Anything else interesting happen to you last night?”

“Nope. I just fell in love.”

“Well, some nights are slower than others.”

“Steve, he’s so intelligent, he’s read Proust’s entire
Remembrance of Things Past”