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Authors: Annie Murphy, Peter de Rosa
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could hear a voice telling me this love was doomed. But doomed or not, damned or not, this love, I sensed, would
have a beauty in it that would endure.
My gentle, kindly, amusing Eamonn now lay quietly, trustingly, beside me, this man whose whole life was a restless sunlike
dance.
But—moments later—had I truly won him? Did he love me, really love me, I mean, to the exclusion of all others and all
other concerns unto death? Was this possible for one who had so much more to lose than I who was a nothing person? Would he,
when he awoke, also abuse me in his own spiritual way?
The doubts persisted. I had so little regard for myself. Would he even remember the solace he had found in me? Would he ask
me when he awoke how I had tricked him into my bed?
Against the background roaring of wind and sea, I watched the rippling movements of his face. Even in sleep his mood had changed.
He seemed now to be thinking, scheming, making deals, preparing for action. I wanted to stroke him all over, to soothe his
disquiets, but I feared to wake him.
He awoke about three. He asked no questions. His smile seemed to say that he was in the right place with the right woman.
I whispered, “We did things earlier, Eamonn, you and I.”
“I remember some of it. I’m so sorry.”
“Oh my God,” I said, “that makes me feel horrible.”
Anticipating the question I most dearly wanted to ask, he said, “ ‘Twasn’t the drugs, Annie. ‘Twas bound to happen because
I feel for you as I know you feel for me.”
Once more a kind of adolescent passion took control of him. His blind, twitching hands raced again all over the Braille of
my body. His hands gripped me low from behind and drew me to him, twisting, grinding, while he whispered, “You are like silk
and, oh, the heat of you.”
I said nothing, content to be the fountain that quenched his desert thirst. A wrong word from me and he might lose concentration,
maybe think badly of himself.
When he tried to consummate his love, again the fiery foreplay exhausted all the sexual capacities he then possessed.
No matter. I reveled in the feel on my equally desiring flesh of his magnificent hands and his moist expressive lips.
Afterward, he nestled up to me and tickled my face with his growth of beard; and I gazed into his hazel eyes that seemed to
turn bright green. His were the only eyes I had ever been able to look right into. Yes, I was right from the start, I was
in his eyes, I belonged there.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “This is between you and me. We’ll keep it like that.”
He went back to sleep again.
The storm had somewhat abated and, when the first hint of the sun pierced my burgundy velvet curtains, I reluctantly nudged
him awake.
“What time is it, Annie?”
“Five o’clock.”
“I suppose —”
“Yes, you’d better go back to your room,” I said, smiling. “Don’t want Mary to find you here when she gets up.”
He wearily left the bed and got dressed. He blew me a kiss before quietly letting himself out.
I immediately got out of bed, threw back the bed covers, and raised both windows to lessen the musky smell.
I went into the small dark bathroom and turned on the shower at low pressure so no one else could hear it. Afterward, I partly
dried myself with a towel before standing at the window to let the Atlantic breeze, scented by honeysuckle, complete the job.
In the tall wardrobe mirror that reflected the big white smile of the moon, I surveyed my body that Eamonn had delighted in.
The tanned and radiant face and sparkling eyes, the young firm breasts, small waist, flared hips, long bronzed legs. I no
longer wholly despised myself and the way I looked. Love was binding up my wounds.
The muscled, salt sea wind had freshened the room but I dabbed myself with cologne to drive away the last vestiges of the
odors that so disturbed me. Then, getting back into my flowery nightgown, happier than I had ever been, I climbed
have a beauty in it that would endure.
My gentle, kindly, amusing Eamonn now lay quietly, trustingly, beside me, this man whose whole life was a restless sunlike
dance.
But—moments later—had I truly won him? Did he love me, really love me, I mean, to the exclusion of all others and all
other concerns unto death? Was this possible for one who had so much more to lose than I who was a nothing person? Would he,
when he awoke, also abuse me in his own spiritual way?
The doubts persisted. I had so little regard for myself. Would he even remember the solace he had found in me? Would he ask
me when he awoke how I had tricked him into my bed?
Against the background roaring of wind and sea, I watched the rippling movements of his face. Even in sleep his mood had changed.
He seemed now to be thinking, scheming, making deals, preparing for action. I wanted to stroke him all over, to soothe his
disquiets, but I feared to wake him.
He awoke about three. He asked no questions. His smile seemed to say that he was in the right place with the right woman.
I whispered, “We did things earlier, Eamonn, you and I.”
“I remember some of it. I’m so sorry.”
“Oh my God,” I said, “that makes me feel horrible.”
Anticipating the question I most dearly wanted to ask, he said, “ ‘Twasn’t the drugs, Annie. ‘Twas bound to happen because
I feel for you as I know you feel for me.”
Once more a kind of adolescent passion took control of him. His blind, twitching hands raced again all over the Braille of
my body. His hands gripped me low from behind and drew me to him, twisting, grinding, while he whispered, “You are like silk
and, oh, the heat of you.”
I said nothing, content to be the fountain that quenched his desert thirst. A wrong word from me and he might lose concentration,
maybe think badly of himself.
When he tried to consummate his love, again the fiery foreplay exhausted all the sexual capacities he then possessed.
No matter. I reveled in the feel on my equally desiring flesh of his magnificent hands and his moist expressive lips.
Afterward, he nestled up to me and tickled my face with his growth of beard; and I gazed into his hazel eyes that seemed to
turn bright green. His were the only eyes I had ever been able to look right into. Yes, I was right from the start, I was
in his eyes, I belonged there.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “This is between you and me. We’ll keep it like that.”
He went back to sleep again.
The storm had somewhat abated and, when the first hint of the sun pierced my burgundy velvet curtains, I reluctantly nudged
him awake.
“What time is it, Annie?”
“Five o’clock.”
“I suppose —”
“Yes, you’d better go back to your room,” I said, smiling. “Don’t want Mary to find you here when she gets up.”
He wearily left the bed and got dressed. He blew me a kiss before quietly letting himself out.
I immediately got out of bed, threw back the bed covers, and raised both windows to lessen the musky smell.
I went into the small dark bathroom and turned on the shower at low pressure so no one else could hear it. Afterward, I partly
dried myself with a towel before standing at the window to let the Atlantic breeze, scented by honeysuckle, complete the job.
In the tall wardrobe mirror that reflected the big white smile of the moon, I surveyed my body that Eamonn had delighted in.
The tanned and radiant face and sparkling eyes, the young firm breasts, small waist, flared hips, long bronzed legs. I no
longer wholly despised myself and the way I looked. Love was binding up my wounds.
The muscled, salt sea wind had freshened the room but I dabbed myself with cologne to drive away the last vestiges of the
odors that so disturbed me. Then, getting back into my flowery nightgown, happier than I had ever been, I climbed
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