Burlington, Vermont, back home to Portland. Iâd shown her around, and then weâd come back to the house and talked and gone to bed. I thought of it often. Until Arthur had died, it had kept me smiling like a fool.
Roxanne was refreshing, rejuvenating, energetic, uninhibited, and, unlike the last woman Iâd been involved with, in New York, didnât make me feel like I was needed to act out a fantasy from the pages of Cosmopolitan . With Roxanne, I didnât feel like a foil. She didnât pattern herself after some abstraction of the ideal woman. Roxanne was the way she was. If you didnât like it, that was tough.
But I liked it.
Her hair was pulled back and her cheeks were flushed from cooking. She was wearing ripped Leviâs and a blue-and-white-striped sailorâs jersey from L.L. Bean.
âDid you wear those clothes to work?â I asked.
âI changed in the guest bedroom,â she said, pouring the wine.
We clinked bottle and glass and walked into the living room. Through the bedroom door, I could see a skirt and blouse and stockings strewn on the bed.
âSo go ahead and mess up my house,â I said. âIâve been cleaning all week.â
âYou could clean up all year and still not make a dent in this place. Iâd go crazy if I lived here.â
âIâd go crazy if you lived here.â
She put the guacamole and tortilla chips on the table and sat down on the couch. I put my beer down and eased her back on the cushions. She laughed and quickly turned to me and we kissed. I loved the taste of her, the smell of her, soap or perfume or whatever the hell it was.
âDo you want to eat now or later?â she said, pulling her mouth away.
âWhat are you serving?â
âYouâre going to smell it burning if I donât turn the stove down.â
âTurn it way down,â I said.
I grabbed my beer and her glass and went into the bedroom. Roxanne came behind me and sat on the edge of the bed and kicked off her running shoes. I unlaced my boots and tossed them toward the door.
âSo how was Waterford?â I asked.
She pushed me down on the bed and rested her chin on my chest.
âIf Iâd wanted to talk about Waterford, I would have gone back to work,â she said.
âWhat do you want to talk about?â I asked.
âYou,â Roxanne said. âAnd how good youâre going to make me feel.â
âIs that an order or a prediction?â
âI brought my crystal ball.â
She pulled her shirt off over her head and slid out of her jeans as I did the same. We sat on the bed and kissed, and I leaned back a moment to look at her. She smiled and raised herself up, arching her back and lifting her breasts. I grinned.
Roxanne knew she was beautiful. She reveled in it. She knew I thought she was beautiful, that I wanted her. She turned her head to let her long dark hair fall across her shoulders. No coyness. No self-consciousness. Just that open smile, delicate white shoulders, a statueâs breasts, strong smooth legs.
I shook my head as I leaned toward her.
âI think Iâm developing a taste for younger women,â I said.
âTaste this younger woman,â Roxanne said.
She smiled.
I gulped.
We made love deliberately and steadily but with a gathering momentum, like a wave moving toward shore, an offshore roller. Before it broke, we were face-to-face, sitting up with her hair falling on my chest and shoulders. She was forceful. Intent. Then out of control.
When I finally reached down to the floor for my beer, it was warm. I drained it anyway, but Roxanne said sheâd get me a cold one. She went over to the closet and took a faded tan chamois shirt out of the closet and put it on. I watched.
She went to the kitchen and from the bed I heard the refrigerator door open and shut. Outside, shriveled oak leaves rattled against the dormer window. Roxanne came back into the room with two
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