Chapter 24 Kal
24
KAL
Me: Just sent it off!
Along with my text to Miz, I attach an exterior shot of the post office in the shopping atrium, the last in a series of photos I have been sending her since I left my house earlier, the thick envelope containing the spousal sponsorship application tucked in my arm like a precious infant.
Miz: Woohoo!
I can’t help feeling disappointed by her response. Two weeks after the Halloween party, our marriage certificate, the final missing piece, finally arrived. I had hoped we would send the application off together. But that’s just me being sentimental. Besides, I’ve already asked enough of Miz. Except, that is, the one question that’s been knocking around in my head since that kiss. Am I imagining it, or have things changed between us?
With one last glance behind me as the postal worker tosses my potentially life-altering envelope around like it’s nothing, I step onto the descending escalator. One thing I do know is that I will follow Abay’s advice. I will. I am not a Son-of-Legesse if I do not say what I’m thinking about her, to her, out loud and in her presence. New Year’s Eve. That is my hard deadline. The work of putting together the application is behind us, for now at least. We can move on to more delicate matters.
I gaze up at the imitation snow dusting the towering Christmas tree that soars past all three levels of the atrium. When we were on the terrace, I was almost ready to tell her that my father had found out about us being “married,” but I lost my nerve. I was afraid—no, I was sure —her follow-up question would be What did he say ? And I would either tell her a redacted version of the truth (that he was optimistic for us and glad that it was her) or the full truth (he is convinced there are true romantic feelings involved). That would’ve been the perfect segue to have the talk . But it didn’t feel right with us dressed in silly costumes in the middle of a house party.
Me: That’s it then.
Miz: That’s it!
Is that it? Whatever happens with the sponsorship, I can’t help feeling deflated that we won’t commemorate having come this far by doing something special. We have made bigger occasions out of lesser moments!
Miz: So that’s a yay or a nay?
Me: To…?
Miz: Scroll up.
I do, looking for a message I seem to have missed. There it is, sent right after my photo of the sealed application.
Miz: We should do something to celebrate this!
I grin. So we are of like mind. And I’m not surprised at all that Miz is the one who took action, instead of me. Just like I think, I think , she did on my rooftop. Was that…invitation a subtle signal? But since when did Miz do subtle?
The following night, I arrive at Miz’s place, dressed up to go out for our celebratory dinner, carrying a bottle of champagne for a predinner toast. Everest buzzes me in, so I text Miz to let her know that I am on my way up.
Her door is ajar, which means the hallway is now eucalyptus-scented, just like her body wash. I close my eyes and take a deep inhale, scolding my mind for imagining her in the shower. Not wanting to assume the door has been left open for me, I knock lightly. “Housekeeping.”
From the bathroom just past the entrance, I hear her. “Kal, why do you insist on being a stranger?” she calls out, her voice bubbly.
I tap the door wider with the head of the champagne bottle and slide in like a wannabe Don Juan. Miz is standing in front of the bathroom mirror, applying mascara, her lips parted, butt poking out as a counterweight to her forward-leaning torso and spilling cleavage. Again, I give myself the mental equivalent of a slap on the wrist, feeling as if I’m crossing a line by taking her in this way. Yet as I lean against her kitchen island, my eyes go where they will, taking in the precision of her hand, the curve of her lower lip, how her black dress drapes smoothly over her backside.
A glint from her open makeup bag catches my eye. I imagine it’s her wedding ring, giving me a little Do you dare? wink. When she switches the mascara wand to her other eye, we lock eyes through the mirror. Feeling caught in my gawking, I quickly imitate her posture, hanging my mouth in a silly way, and blurt out, “Why do women always do that?”
“Explain I could, but hurting your brain I wouldn’t want,” she says, imitating Yoda.
Forget my brain—it’s my heart I am concerned about. “You look…”
She smooths her dress over her hips. “Fine as red wine? I’ll also accept sensational.” She throws me a red carpet over-the-shoulder look. “It’s not too much for a sushi restaurant, is it?”
“Not at all. You do have to live up to this, after all,” I say, sliding my hand down my completely unexceptional black-on-black dress pants and blazer.
“Whateverrr.” She sticks out her tongue and gives me the middle finger poorly disguised as a nose rub.
Before I misbehave any further, I go around to the cupboards, take out two champagne glasses, and carry them to the living room, where I can’t see her. But through the open door of her bedroom, I can see that mattress…to which I have a standing offer. A blip of a thought flashes in my mind about who else has a standing offer. Daniel? But I swat that thought away.
“Hey, Miz!” I call out, draping my arm over the back of the sofa.
“Yeah?”
“That offer still on the table?” I try to sound as if I’m joking, but I know I’m starting something. I feel like a hormone-addled teenager these days, always insinuating something.
An excruciatingly long silence follows, although in reality, it’s probably no more than ten seconds before she replies.
“Oh, that!” Another beat. “Anytime!”
No time like the present then. Before my surge of courage leaches into the sofa, I jump up. Hands in my pockets, I stroll languidly into her bedroom, a performance for an audience of zero. I stand where I know she can see me in the bathroom mirror, where she’s moved on to sweeping an enormous brush over her cheekbones in upward strokes. All that is between us is the walk-in closet, and an expanse of freshly vacuumed carpet, like the plush earth of undiscovered territory. I take one step closer to the bed, bringing my shins flush against the side of the mattress. My hands still in my pockets, I bend one knee, sinking part of my weight into the softness.
Immediately, as if she was waiting for that exact moment, Miz says, “Uh uh uh! Excuse me!” I freeze. “Tell me you’re not about to get up on my bed in your street clothes!”
“Oh. Sorry.” Feeling like a complete buffoon, I remove my offending knee and back away.
“Take ’em off.”
The air crackles. “Are you serious?”
“Just your top layer, goof.”
Of course. Slowly, I start undoing my shirt buttons, waiting for her to say Psych! Any second now. But she continues calmly sweeping that brush over her cheekbones until she seems satisfied with whatever imperceptible effect she’s created. Kind of like what she’s doing to me, with her silence, as I get all the way down to the bottom button, then peel both my shirt and blazer off in one piece. I fold them lengthwise and drape them on the nearest surface without looking. I think I hear them fall, but I don’t care. I wait, visualizing what could happen on this mattress moments from now. I hear a sharp intake of breath and the sound of Miz’s makeup brush clattering to the sink. I smile. That tells me what I need to know. There has never been sweeter music, not even among my old people songs, than the sound of that makeup brush hitting the porcelain. She’s seen me less clothed and never batted an eye, much less lost her precious breath. Something is going on.
“Go ahead. Don’t let me stop you,” she recovers, still addressing me through the mirror.
Is the brave, bold Miz too nervous to turn around and look at the real me? No big hero myself, I fumble with my own belt.
“Do you need help?”
“No, I have done this before.”
But I feel helpless, as if I have never done this before. I try to not let the relief show on my face when she does turn, finally, and starts walking toward me. By the time I have mastered my belt and shed my pants, she is in the bedroom with me. We watch each other, no longer in reflection but in reality.
“May I, now?” I ask playfully.
Wordlessly, she lowers herself to the mattress and sits before me. Her face is directly in line with the elastic of my boxers. Is what I think is about to happen about to happen? I feel a rush of blood to my head—I’m surprised that there’s any left for that when it feels as if all my life force has been diverted downward. With a coy smile, she eyes me through the fabric, and I can feel myself aching for her. She slides up and away on the mattress, and I follow as if I’m hooked on a line. Her scent, a meld of lotions and potions, intoxicates me. Desire is roaring through me, testing my control, but I must maintain it in case we are still playing the charade of testing out the mattress. Lying on her side in front of me, her body no more than a hand’s breadth away from mine, she arches an eyebrow. “So? How does it feel? Never want to leave, right?”
I reach out a finger and trace the S-curve of her body, tugging at the fabric of her dress. “Not fair.”
She trails the dome of my shoulder with her fingertips, her eyes on my lips. I feel her bare toes slide down my calves, flirting with the tops of my socks. “My bed. I can do whatever I want.”
I grip her hip firmly, pulling her closer by a fraction. “You can do whatever you want to me.”
“I want to kiss you again,” she whispers, then bites her lip.
Our first kiss was a surprise. Our second, an order. But our third is all ours, by us and for us. No script, no photos, no record but the flavour we leave on each other’s tongues. She relaxes into me as we close the gap between our bodies, and I welcome her with everything I have in response to everything she gives me. She slides her hand past the waistband of my boxers and wraps it around me, and I am free-falling, no parachute, no land in sight. “Where…where’s all that supposed to go?” she says against my mouth.
My answer is to skim my hand up beneath her dress to cup her between her legs, churning her centre over the thin lacy cloth that separates us, sending a bolt of pleasure through her that makes her seize and hold me tight, as if she’s falling through space with me. She gulps in all the air in the room.
“We’re really doing this,” she whispers, asking, telling, begging me all in the same breath.