while they discussed the evils of the Cacciamanis. No one said they were such good kissers. I was dreaming, sinking, swimming in a warm dark river of kissing, kissing hands and chins, every kiss soft. I could smell the soap on his skin and the fabric softener in his undershirt. I could smell his hair and taste his mouth, which still tasted like sake and rice. Oh, Romeo, this makes it all worthwhile, all those nights of working late and coming home alone, crying over the books and the roses that came in with brown spots on every petal, the worrying about Sandy and Nora and the children, the anger at Mort, the missing my parents, all of it lifted off of me and was washed back by the sea of tender kissing, maybe not forever but for now, and frankly, what else was there? I was lighter in that moment. I was my best self, loving and gentle and kind. It was so good to see that woman again, so good to hold another person in this way and be held. If a giant asteroid fell on us at that moment, parked in a car at the end of my block, the touch of Romeo Cacciamani’s tongue against my teeth, mine would be counted as a happy life, a good life.
I kissed him again. I knew nothing about time, but after a time we decided it was late enough.
“Can I walk you down?” he said.
“Better not.” I leaned forward and kissed him again.
“We’ll manage this, right? We’ll find a way to do this.”
“I have every intention of it,” I said. I put my hand on his hand and then let myself out of the car. I had walked all the way from Boston to Somerville. Tonight I felt like I could walk past my house and keep heading west. I could walk to Rochester, to Cleveland, to Fort Wayne, Indiana. I could walk all the way to Iowa and through Nebraska, over the Rockies until I got to Oregon, and even then I wouldn’t stop if I didn’t want to. I could go into the ocean, I could swim. I was that sure of myself tonight. I could go on forever.
chapter six
I WENT UP THE STAIRS TO MY ROOM IN THE DARK. I knew the way. My lips were puffy and I kept touching them with my fingers, my tongue. They still had the goods. They could still come through for me when I needed them. After such a period of neglect, what a thrill to find they still had all their spring intact, they were still capable lips. I found the lamp beside my bed and turned it on. I sat down on the edge of the bed, bounced a couple of times. If I had been twenty, I would have gone to bed with him. I would not have known how to get out of the car after kissing like that. After twenty minutes or so I would have gone straight for the buttons like a lemming goes for the sea. But now I was older, more sensible. Theoretically, I was supposed to believe in relationships, getting to know a person, enjoying the magic of the time. I was supposed to be grateful for what I got.
So why was I sitting there on top of my bedspread thinking I was going to jump out of my skin? Why did I want to go running down the street to see if I could catch up to his car? Oh, they were beautiful things, those kisses, every one a masterpiece, but here alone in a room with a bed I wanted to put my headthrough the wall, I was so eaten up by desire. Sex. I had not had sex in five years. No, let’s be honest, it had been more than five years. It was more like five years plus the last four or five months when Mort was here and we didn’t have any sex and I didn’t much care because I didn’t know he was going. And before that how long had it been? My fifties had more or less been a sexual wasteland. Those were good years that I blew, years I could have been burning down the house night after night had there been someone who wanted me, someone I wanted. So maybe tonight I had a chance and I decided what … to wait? Why? Because maybe five years and four months wasn’t long enough to get the hang of celibacy? Because I wanted to be sure, to get to know him better? Who did I know better than a Cacciamani? Because I didn’t
I kissed him again. I knew nothing about time, but after a time we decided it was late enough.
“Can I walk you down?” he said.
“Better not.” I leaned forward and kissed him again.
“We’ll manage this, right? We’ll find a way to do this.”
“I have every intention of it,” I said. I put my hand on his hand and then let myself out of the car. I had walked all the way from Boston to Somerville. Tonight I felt like I could walk past my house and keep heading west. I could walk to Rochester, to Cleveland, to Fort Wayne, Indiana. I could walk all the way to Iowa and through Nebraska, over the Rockies until I got to Oregon, and even then I wouldn’t stop if I didn’t want to. I could go into the ocean, I could swim. I was that sure of myself tonight. I could go on forever.
chapter six
I WENT UP THE STAIRS TO MY ROOM IN THE DARK. I knew the way. My lips were puffy and I kept touching them with my fingers, my tongue. They still had the goods. They could still come through for me when I needed them. After such a period of neglect, what a thrill to find they still had all their spring intact, they were still capable lips. I found the lamp beside my bed and turned it on. I sat down on the edge of the bed, bounced a couple of times. If I had been twenty, I would have gone to bed with him. I would not have known how to get out of the car after kissing like that. After twenty minutes or so I would have gone straight for the buttons like a lemming goes for the sea. But now I was older, more sensible. Theoretically, I was supposed to believe in relationships, getting to know a person, enjoying the magic of the time. I was supposed to be grateful for what I got.
So why was I sitting there on top of my bedspread thinking I was going to jump out of my skin? Why did I want to go running down the street to see if I could catch up to his car? Oh, they were beautiful things, those kisses, every one a masterpiece, but here alone in a room with a bed I wanted to put my headthrough the wall, I was so eaten up by desire. Sex. I had not had sex in five years. No, let’s be honest, it had been more than five years. It was more like five years plus the last four or five months when Mort was here and we didn’t have any sex and I didn’t much care because I didn’t know he was going. And before that how long had it been? My fifties had more or less been a sexual wasteland. Those were good years that I blew, years I could have been burning down the house night after night had there been someone who wanted me, someone I wanted. So maybe tonight I had a chance and I decided what … to wait? Why? Because maybe five years and four months wasn’t long enough to get the hang of celibacy? Because I wanted to be sure, to get to know him better? Who did I know better than a Cacciamani? Because I didn’t
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