Full Frontal Fiction (17 page)

So one night I'm sitting in Bob's dungeon of an apartment— where else?—and he asks me to name my favorite memory of Shoshana. The question itself, hanging there in anticipation of my answer, had a little flame of wistfulness at its core. In another world, I might've thought Bob was leading me somewhere—if I managed to somehow provide an answer from the heart. But Bob's mind doesn't work that way; he just wants to know, and he doesn't know why, or he doesn't care to know why. And so I tell Bob about this one time, during our only shower together—after Shoshana and I had first slept together—how she leaned her wet head against the tiled wall, looked up, and gave me a kind of beastly snarl, sans sound. And this is your favorite moment, Bob says, very slowly, as though to give the television audience a wink of incredulity. The snarl wasn't meant to be taken seriously, I explain to him. It was meant to be playful. And so I said to Shoshana, What was that? What was what? That sneer, I said. That snarl. And then, before she could answer, I said to her, I feel like I've been granted entry. Did I actually use the word
granted
? Bob shrugs his shoulders. I can't remember for sure, I say, but I can remember that she seemed somewhat taken aback; she obviously thought I was commenting on the lovemaking we'd just finished, back in her bed, banging away in a rudderless frenzy. Getting inside of her, entering her—that kind of entry. No, no, I said to her. I like that, too, but I meant a different kind of entry. That snarl, I said, it means something about you, it means that I know something about you that I didn't know. And Shoshana did it again, showing off the shoddy orthodontic work of her adolescence. It does, it does, I said, almost exuberant in seeing the snarl again. She looked exuberant, too, maybe in the act or in seeing how much it meant to me. She asked me what it meant—this snarl of hers, this split-second baring of misaligned teeth—and I wasn't sure, but it said something about her. So what did it say? Bob asks, drawing his eyebrows up and over his thick glasses. And I tell Bob I have no idea whatsoever. But it was in that moment—not quite the snarl itself but the feeling of discovering something about her and feeling, because of it, exuberant— that I got sent right over the edge. Tumbling head over heels. Even in only now remembering it. And maybe you, too, know how it feels.

Reservation

BY SIMON FIRTH

THE ROOM WAS a wreck. She saw that now, and felt suddenly, overwhelmingly tired.

Leaning against the door, its cool paint a welcome balm against a pain she felt spreading diagonally across her naked back, she tried to work out if anything was broken. The room was on her credit card, she remembered, so she'd be the one charged for breakage. With relief she saw nothing smashed, just everything out of place. Only her flight bag seemed to have been untouched—still zipped, set square to the wall on a luggage support, the only straight lines in a room of disturbed curves and folds.

Her clothes were scattered everywhere. The curtains were only half closed and beyond the small balcony she could see the dawn beginning to dim the artificial lights of the airport, the first planes taxiing on the runways, a single jumbo taking off into the familiar early morning mix of cloud and fog. Looking for the rest of her uniform, she remembered that her skirt was ripped. Was that her bra behind the TV? She wondered where she had put her contacts.

Knowing she had to move, she rocked forward, testing the idea of motion, but instantly her limbs pleaded back: no, not yet. Her every muscle ached; it was as much as she could manage to keep where she was. It was as if she had had a month of massages; she felt wrung through. Was there a part of her, she wondered, that had not been held and kissed, lifted and bitten, that had not thrust against some part of his?

Besides, she liked the cold of the door on her back and buttocks. It contrasted with, prolonged for a few precious moments, the warmth she still felt in the last places he'd touched her, lovingly, his hands cupped, almost a ritual with them now. If she didn't move, if she stayed there at the room's door where they had last embraced, she could still sense resonating within her the tremor of his final soft caress.

Across the room the low-set mirror of the dressing table reflected back to her a pair of legs. She studied them. They were pale, not as thin as they used to be, but still good enough for her job. The distance obscured the veins, she knew, the front view better than the back, but there was something new in the reflection, just below her knees: two patches of skin rubbed to a raw red. She leaned down and gently examined one. It was puffed and sore to the touch. Where had they been, she wondered, looking back up at the room, when she did that? Were her stockings on at the time? Did she ruin them? She remembered and smiled.

Still not ready to move, she tried to recall if she had a spare pair in the suitcase. In there, too, was her wash bag. She marveled that she hadn't even opened it. To not even think about her face, the creams she always used at night—to make no pretense that she was getting ready to go to sleep, shutting herself in the bathroom, making him wait. This time she must have needed him badly. A sudden small wave of the tiny hairs on her breasts and belly pricked up at the thought. But the rash of goose pimples that followed, spreading to her arms, persuaded her she was actually getting cold and that she should move.

Pulling away from the door her back stuck slightly to its surface. She pulled a little harder and felt a sharp sting as her flesh broke free. Turning, she saw impressed across the paintwork a faint broken line of dried blood. A little startled, she reached behind her to find a long weal running from one shoulder blade down into the small of her back. She looked at her nails, wondered what she, in turn, had done to him.

Standing free now of the door's support, her legs felt suddenly weak, her head slightly dizzy. She registered the digital clock on its side by the bed, not really absorbing the time but knowing she was late. She stepped over and unzipped her bag, fished out her bathroom things and made for the shower, but midway across the room she tripped on something in her path and collapsed sideways onto the bed. Lying there she realized just how tired she was, how little sleep she'd had, how much she wanted to just roll the blankets over herself and shut her eyes against the breaking day.

The bathroom, too, was a mess. A towel was dumped in a corner, the soap in the sink had been unwrapped. He'd left the toilet seat up. On the floor she noticed a few of his graying hairs. Picking one up, she thought of his body, of its covering so different from hers, of the line of small tight curls that ran up to his stomach, of how it was always a surprise how firm he was under his skin, year after year.

She tried to imagine where he was now, if he had washed completely before he left or if he would try to keep her smell on some part of him. She asked herself again whether he was truly as faithful as he always claimed, waiting for her, seeing no one else but his loveless wife.

An itch in her crotch reminded her how much of him she still had inside. She looked around—no bidet. Fine, she thought, I'll keep him for a while. Setting down the seat of the toilet she peed, amazed at how she could forget for hours her usual bodily routines.

As she wiped herself, the nub of her thumb brushed lightly against her clitoris. It, too, was rubbed sore, but the touch reminded her of the excitement and anticipation she always felt walking off the plane in San Francisco, knowing he was in his truck, driving over the bridge and across the city to meet her. She thought about what they did for each other, what they had found they could do together, and she wondered if it really wouldn't be the same if they had decided to make it something more permanent, if they had broken off the tangle of their separate lives and made a go of it somewhere in the world.

She caught herself staring at the opposite wall. Chastising herself for doing what she had promised herself she would never do, she got up and stepped into the shower. For a brief moment, as the hot water hit the wound upon her back, the pain was intense. But it was a welcome shock and it melted quickly as her stiff muscles surrendered to the battering, her mind now a little more awake, beginning to take her forward into the coming day.

With the heat of the spray her knees had turned a new, more livid red. Perhaps they'd swell so much she'd be unable to work the returning flight. There had been close calls before—the worst when he actually broke one of her ribs—but she had always made it through. She knew no one better at disguising pain. Asbestos hands, they called her in the galley.

Bending over to soap her feet, she wondered what her colleagues would think of her if they knew. Going off with a passenger: at least she hadn't done it right after the flight, like some. On that flight, years ago now, she'd seen him look at her, returned his glance, felt foolish, told herself off for even thinking of breaking the rules that in those days the other girls broke nightly.

She thought it would be just that one time as she took him back that night to the hotel by the airport. But in that room she had found what she had despaired of ever finding: an education in the possibilities of pleasure, a trusted body against which to dash her own. Relief. She had found that despite feeling it had been wrong to do, perhaps even because she felt that way, she wanted nothing more achingly than to experience the thrill of it again.

Since then there had been times when they didn't speak for tens of months, when she thought she was finally over him. They had set up separate lives but as she grew older, as she had grown further from the person she was when she was with him, she had come to need these meetings more and more. From that first night it was only in this room—their room—that she could ever release herself from herself. In some way, and it shocked her that she didn't know him well enough to know how, it was the same for him.

She looked down at her legs to see if they needed shaving, but she'd done them specially for him and they were fine. And he had noticed, too, he always did—he went over her every pore, kissed each square inch of her every time.

She forced herself to concentrate on leaving. She needed to dress and tried to empty her head of thoughts as she went around the room collecting the pieces of her uniform, putting them on in turn, trying at the same time to straighten what she could. The doors to the balcony, where they had stood not bothering to hide themselves from the planes that landed through the night, wouldn't open now. The room would just have to go unaired.

Reaching under the bed for her jacket, she felt a sudden stabbing pain rip down her arm, through her shoulder, spine and hips, into her legs. It ended with a cramp that clenched her thigh and made her gasp in shock. She knew that if she tried to back out now she'd only make it worse and that she was stuck there, until her muscles relaxed and she could ease herself back out.

Frustrated at herself, at being late, at being stuck alone and too embarrassed to call for help from under the wreck of a bed that stank of sex, at the indignity to which her desire had driven her, she felt a wave of self-disgust. How had she come to crave a relationship that left her always covering her tracks, alone, in pain? Why couldn't she be satisfied with what she had in London? Why, when she got to SFO, did she always make the call? If it was such a good thing, if it was what she lived for, why did they meet so rarely and why did they need to keep their meetings secret? She couldn't let it end as it always did. Instead of walking out of the door and onto a plane that would take her half a world away from him she wanted to stay there, have him return to her, help her up, pull her onto the bed, hold her, press inside her again and stay there for days, his moans loud in her ear, his nails dug deep into her flesh, his arms enfolding her.

Utterly exhausted now, she picked herself up, put on her jacket and bent down to grab her bag. From deep within she felt slip some of what he'd left inside her. She wondered if she should quickly use the loo. Then she decided: no, this time she wouldn't.

Instead she grabbed the bag, unlocked the door and stepped onto the threshold. She could not, and now she would not, leave alone. As she walked down the plane's long aisle, she would feel him with her, dampening her, perhaps a drop running down the inside of her leg. As people beckoned to her she would walk toward them, placing one foot in front of the other, so that her thighs would rub together; and as she walked so each drop would slip away from its still moist mooring and fall onto the white cotton of her briefs, drying and fusing with her red-brown hairs, until a bend, a reach, the fetching of a blanket or the stowing of a coat would tear a single hair from its swollen follicle, and the sharp pain of each momentary prick would force her other, proper self to admit that she was intimate with him, that he could give her pleasure, that they should be allowed at last to find some other heaven than the awful prison of this airport hotel.

Complex Electra

BY ILISE BENUN

THIS IS WHAT I remember. My father was an imposing man, tall, with ink-black hair in short, hard waves that lay back from his temples. He was bearded and wooly, his heft covered with a coat of coarse and curly dark hair, like a grizzly bear, like a caveman. Thin-lipped and heavy-jawed, he had a wide neck, with a prodigious Adam's apple, set atop a pair of broad shoulders.

At thirteen, I was thick in the waist, wide in the hips and not what you'd call smooth-of-skin. But my father saw none of that. To him, I was Beauty, and he always had a compliment for me, whether it was about my outfit, my hairstyle or my calves, muscular from years of ballet.

One Friday, my father was working late at the factory of our family business and I'd offered to help with the paperwork. When I arrived, the cutters and sewers were lined up at the time clock, chatting with my father as they punched out. He shook the hand of each one of them, thanked them for their good work that week, and patted them on the back as they left. I stood close and, as he talked, I smoothed under my palm the dark hairs that blanketed the back of his hand.

When everyone was gone, my father turned to me and opened his arms for our hug. I reached around his waist, pressed my face against his chest, took a deep breath and squeezed as hard as I could.

“You're pretty strong for a girl,” he said, following our script.

“The tighter to squeeze you with, my dear.”

His long arms hung over my shoulders and his hands came down to rest on my schoolgirl skirt. “Oh, man, this little bottom of yours,” he said, with a firm squeeze. “I just can't help myself.” And for a blessed moment he held me with such authority it was as if I were suspended above the ground. Then, with a pat, he let me go.

“Okay, Beauty, enough horsing around. Let's get to work. I have a new job for you today, so sit right down here.” Like a gentleman, he held the chair and like a lady, I curtsied.

“Here we have today's orders.” He rapped on a stack of papers with the eraser end of a pencil. He was standing behind me, leaning over so that his arms encircled me and I could feel the heat from his body. “In each of these columns, I want you to write the store name, the dollar total and the shipping date. Got it?”

I lifted my chin and breathed in his warm exhale, blended with the cinnamon gum he chewed all day. His Adam's apple stared down at me, then promptly disappeared. He was talking, saying something and pointing with the pencil back to the pile, but I couldn't hear a word. I could only smile up at him and nod.

“Okay, get to work.” He walked over to his desk and sat down. I shifted in my seat, coughed, sniffled and sneezed, erased loudly, shuffled papers, even came close to dropping them on the floor. He didn't budge. Then I pushed the chair back and walked toward the door.

“Taking a break already?”

“I'll be back, “ I said, and picked up my book bag.

In the ladies' room, I dug hurriedly among my books and old sandwich remnants until I found the small vinyl makeup kit I'd bought several months before at Bullocks. I leaned close to the mirror and inspected my nose, my chin, my upper lip. With a tiny dollop of foundation, I covered a bright red pimple on the tip of my nose, then dusted it with powder from a compact that clicked open and closed. Mascara baton in hand, I isolated, elongated and thickened each eye-lash. Next came the blush, which I applied in long, clean lines up along my cheekbones and toward my temples, as I had practiced in my own bathroom with the door locked.

Moving quickly now, I pursed my lips and applied Rouge Sublime. I pulled my hairbrush down my back, through tangles that wouldn't give. As a final flourish, I undid two buttons on my white shirt and leaned toward the mirror to see what a view from above would reveal: a peek of black lace and a tiny pink rose.

Dad sat at the conference table, his back to me, and I stood at the threshold of his office, leaning against the doorjamb, my elbow extended as high as it would reach, my cheek pressing into my upper arm. Imagining myself as Lauren Bacall, or Lucille Ball, tall and sleek and thin in a floor-length red dress, I shifted my weight back and forth, my hips swaying, almost circling.

Then I approached silently and stood behind my father for a moment, stealthlike. With a deep breath, I reached forward and placed my trembling palm on his shoulder. I squeezed once and held my hand there.

“Thank you, honey. My shoulders are a bit stiff.” I squeezed again.

“Do you want a massage, Daddy?” My voice was high and tight, not what I'd intended.

“No, Beauty,” he said. “We've got a lot of work to do.”

I stepped closer, put my other hand on his shoulder and began to knead gently. I pressed my thumb over the neckline of his shirt, inching my finger slowly along his clavicle. A low moaning sound arose from him, and I pressed harder. Then with both hands, I spread my fingers up his neck, and softly raked his scalp with my nails.

“Honey, really,” he said, waving his hand above his shoulder. “We don't have time to play.”

I leaned in toward his throat at that moment, my lips parted, and my chest grazed his back.

That's when he stood up. Suddenly he was towering over me, his eyes wide and full and I watched as they moved slowly, seeing my strategically unbuttoned shirt, the tiny flower, my red mouth. All I could do was stand there waiting, for punishment or absolution or ecstasy.

At first, nothing happened. He didn't smile with pity. He didn't take me in his arms. He didn't sit me down on his lap for a little talk. He just stood there, motionless, looking. His watch ticked loudly and a car passed by outside.

Then his face changed, it softened a little and he sighed deeply. He drew me toward his chest, and said quietly, “No, honey.” He cradled my entire head in the hollow of his hand, repeating over and over, “No, honey, no.” I began to weep. All that unspeakable desire I'd been nursing for so long, melted and drained out in long, deep sobs. All the while, he held me to him.

When my sobs tempered to a sniffle, he released my head, took me by the outer arms and pulled me away from him. “I love you,” he said, bending down and looking directly into my swollen, mascarableared eyes. “You know that, right?” I nodded and kept nodding as I buried my head back in his chest. Again, he pulled me away, this time with a little more force. He kissed me once on each wet eyelid and whispered, “Okay. Now, go clean yourself up, and we'll get back to work.”