42. Zelda
ZELDA
Ihave changed the saucepan twice and put on the sweater Jeremiah likes, although he has never said he likes it. He looks at the place where it slips off my shoulder. That is enough.
It is late September, nearly four weeks since he stayed here. Hedy has Otto tonight because I have an early shift tomorrow. The quiet feels extravagant. I have planned pasta, the rest of a bottle of wine, and an uninterrupted shower in the morning.
When the bell rings, I check the sauce with no idea what I am checking for.
Jeremiah kisses me before taking off his coat. I put my hand inside it, against his waist, and he makes a pleased sound that I have been thinking about since August.
“I’d like to stay tonight,” he says softly, still close after the kiss.
I step back a little.
“I thought we were having supper.”
“We are. I brought a change of clothes, in case.” He lifts the small bag in his hand. “May I?”
Beyond him, the hall is empty. I had pictured him going down those stairs after a good evening, and myself coming back to this room alone. I had wanted that too.
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
He lowers the bag.
“All right.”
He says it, but his face changes. I feel the urge to explain my early shift, Hedy’s offer, the shower. To make being alone sound necessary enough that he won’t be hurt.
“You sound disappointed.”
“I am.”
I turn toward the stove. The water is beginning to climb the sides of the pan.
“I thought I was being invited into your life, Zelda.”
My hand stops over the burner.
“You are standing in my kitchen.”
“I know.”
“Then what do you mean?”
He looks at the table, set for two. “I miss waking up with you.”
“I liked that night. I don’t want every evening alone to mean I’ve changed my mind about you.”
“That isn’t what I—” He stops. “That is how it sounded.”
The water spills over. I turn off the heat, wipe the stove too hard, and drop the wet cloth in the sink.
“I don’t want to have to give you a good enough reason.”
“You don’t.”
“Even if the reason is that I want the whole bed?”
His mouth moves, almost a smile. It doesn’t get there.
“Even then.”
I look at the bag. “Were you asking, or had you already decided?”
“I was hoping. Too much, apparently.”
“You can hope. I need to be able to say no without feeling I’ve put you out in the cold.”
He runs the bag back down to the car and comes back quickly, breathing heavily while he takes off his coat.
“I have a house,” he says. “I can go to it. I’d still like my supper first.”
I let out the breath I have been keeping behind my teeth.
“It may be overcooked.”
“Then we’ll find out how much sauce it can carry.”
The first few minutes at the table are awkward. I ask whether he wants pepper while holding it over his plate. He says yes twice before I hear him. Then he asks about my early shift, and I give him the hours instead of the story I had meant to tell him.
He eats another mouthful.
“Were there still twenty-seven corrections?”
I look up. “Twenty-eight. He came back.”
The child has been returning books with lists of mistakes tucked inside. Yesterday he objected to a fox having no pockets for his keys. Today he has found a door without a handle.
“Perhaps the fox can’t get in anyway,” Jeremiah says.
“I’m not telling him that. He’ll start a second page.”
He laughs. I begin describing the tiny writing, the seriousness of the folded paper, and how pleased the child looked when I found an envelope big enough for his letter to the publisher.
Halfway through, I stop checking Jeremiah’s face for disappointment.
He asks what the publisher will do. I say I hope somebody there has good handwriting.
After the dishes he takes his bag down to the car. He comes back carrying the towel he tucked into his belt while drying the plates.
“Nearly took this home.”
“I’d have come after you.”
“For a towel?”
“It’s my good one.”
He hangs it carefully over the chair, frayed corner and all. I laugh and pull him toward the sofa.
We put on music. He tells me about the neighbor who has been trying to identify a noise in the fence and has finally discovered his own wind chimes. I lie with my feet against Jeremiah’s thigh. He warms one between his palms while he talks. I had forgotten I was cold.
When the music stops, he looks at the clock.
“I should go. You’re up early tomorrow.”
He means it. There is no question waiting beneath the words. He kisses me, gets up, and reaches for his coat.
I watch his hand go into the sleeve. I have wanted him since I put on this sweater. Now I want the sleepy morning too, even with the early alarm, even if he takes up half the bed.
“Stay.”
He turns.
“Bring the bag back.” I’m smiling too much to sound casual.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I’ll still want the whole bed, though.”
“I remember your negotiating position.”
He goes downstairs. I stand at the window, watching him take the bag from the car, impatient for him to come back up. When he opens the door, I catch the front of his shirt and kiss him before he can put it down.
“Let me drop this,” he says against my mouth.
“Quickly.”
We go to the bedroom with his bag abandoned beside the door. I undress him, because I want to watch his face while I do it. I take my time over his shirt buttons. By the fourth one he is breathing through his mouth.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” he says.
“I’m being thorough.”
I let the shirt fall and kneel to pull his trousers and briefs down. He steps out of them, catching my shoulder for balance. When I stand, he lifts my sweater. I raise my arms for him, then take off my bra and step out of my trousers and underwear while he sits on the edge of the bed.
He draws me between his knees. His feet are planted on the floor and his hands move slowly up the backs of my thighs. I kiss him until he leans back on one hand to look at me.
“Come closer.”
I do. He kisses my breast and touches me with his free hand. I have to hold his shoulder. When his fingers move inside me, I stop trying to kiss him and listen to the sound I make instead.
“Slower,” I say.
He slows down. “God, that’s good,” I say. He presses a kiss to my stomach while I catch my breath.
I put one knee beside his hip and then the other. “I want to sit here.”
He takes his hand away and helps me settle over him. I lower myself onto him with both arms round his shoulders. For a few seconds neither of us moves. His mouth is open against my neck, and I can feel him trying to be still.
Then I move. He holds my waist while I find the pace, and when I ask him to touch me again he does. I can see the flush spreading down his chest. I come with my forehead pressed to his and my fingers hard in his shoulders. He holds me there until I can breathe.
I lift myself away from him and sit beside him on the edge of the bed. He is still hard, his hand clenched on his thigh. I kiss him and take him in my hand.
“You can let go,” I say.
He laughs once, helplessly. Then I stroke him and he stops laughing. He grips the mattress beside him and says my name. I keep my mouth against his shoulder while he comes, feeling every shudder through the arm he has put around me.
We sit together for a while. Then he gets a cloth from the bathroom and brings water back with it. When we lie down, I drink half the glass and pass it to him.
He reaches to set it on the little table and nearly misses. I catch his wrist.
“Careful. That’s my side.”
“I noticed.” He puts the glass down properly and moves over, giving me room to pull the sheet free.
I settle beside him. For a while we lie awake listening to a car being parked badly outside. He starts laughing when the engine revs for the fourth attempt. I press my mouth to his shoulder to keep from joining in, and make it worse.