"No," she said. And I knew she meant no. She didn't fight but just lay rigid. From there on in I knew it would be a question of cold-blooded rape. At that age I wasn't up to it, especially since I wasn't exactly sure what to do next. "Why?" I asked. "What's the matter. There's nothing wrong with it."
"I know. I know. I don't know."
We got up. She was crying, sobbing in bitter spasms that shook her body. I rocked her in my arms and ran my hand up and down her long back. After a while she calmed down, wiped her tears and put her arms around me. I put my head down between her breasts, I licked her nipples. She stared into space, absorbed, expressionless. She moved onto my lap. We were calm, sad, fraternal in defeat, cradled together in a melancholy equilibrium of lust and misery. I sighed and looked up. In the doorway I saw, barefoot in a strange, old-fashioned white nightshirt, hairy legs, skinny neck, his fringe of hair tangled his glasses askew, her father, silent, motionless, staring at us with a look impossible to decipher. Without saying a word, without changing his expression, he looked at me, turned, and disappeared up stairs.
Putting her sweater on, straightening her skirt, quickly, no time to talk about anything, in a panic, she hurried me to the door. Before I knew what was happening I was outside in the sad Brooklyn night fumbling with my tie. I could have vomited on the doorstep. I should have. And they call this a free country.
[Up, Sukenick, R.]
No comments:
Post a Comment