Read Online Lies of the Heart by Michelle Boyajian - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Michelle Boyajian
Ads: Link
most of this part of the story all for myself.
5
K atie’s class that summer was an elective, a boring survey course of films from the sixties, taught by a short, stocky man who spoke in monotone, his sentences drifting off at the ends. His voice lulled Katie back to her weekends with Nick, and when her professor shut off the lights and turned on the projector, the effect was complete. In the darkness she felt Nick’s fingers on her again, pulling at her skin, caressing her neck, his tongue trailing slowly from her breasts to her pelvis. Sitting there in the back row, the hum of the projector in her ear, Katie could actually feel his elbows gently urging her legs apart, the heat of his breath on the inside of her thigh. Sometimes she hid her face in her arms, sure that even in the dim light another student would turn and see the telling glow on her cheeks; other times she had to squeeze her hands between her knees to keep them still, to keep her fingers from gingerly touching places where Nick’s hands or lips had traveled.
When the lights came up and the professor resumed his droning lecture, Katie would focus on a spot on the wall, and in only a few seconds Nick would reemerge: straining above her, eyes closed tightly as he moved inside her, his hands gripping her hips. Katie, he would say in a dissonant whisper, and each time Katie’s body seemed to expand, to fill up with the sound of Nick speaking her name.
Other times, when her professor scribbled on the board or sorted through his dusty collection of videotapes, other scenes pushed their way to the forefront, intruding into Katie’s blurry happiness: Nick, examining a callus on his hand, fingers splayed, and Katie’s own hand finding his—then waiting for his reaction, which always formed gradually, as if he needed time to remember how to assemble the smile that would eventually come. Or that humid Sunday afternoon when they were in the water at Potter’s Cove, Katie’s arms wrapped around Nick’s neck, ankles crossed around his middle. Blissful, the sun warming the tops of their heads, their limbs slippery and sliding while they looked into each other’s eyes. But then that diver surfaced a few yards away, pulling off his mask, walking to the beach: an old man, his white beard dripping into the water, a canvas sack roped around his torso and a heavy air tank in one hand.—Do you know him? Katie asked, but then instantly let go of Nick. The haunted look on his face scared her, made her turn back to the old man in an attempt to see what Nick saw in his grizzled, sun-worn features. She didn’t repeat her question or ask what he was thinking, afraid that she would be one of those girls who requested too much, who pushed away her lover with too many questions. But she collected those times, too, when Nick turned away from her, when he became quiet and distant, sequestering them to a corner of her mind for later inspection. And she watched him.
She watched Nick all the time, how his body moved when he was close to her, how he looked at her, and away from her and at the world, and then the need would come to Katie in heavy, rolling waves. Because she wanted all of him, wanted to crawl inside him and know every single piece of him, to hold those pieces in her hand and examine them, inch by inch—wanted the confirmation that he understood her, that he knew about loneliness, too. She needed to know that somewhere in those prolonged silences between them, when his eyes would wander away from her to places she felt uninvited, his love for her was growing, was real. That she was the only girl for him, the only and exactly right girl, and this was just Nick’s way. So like Katie’s, but unnecessary now, finally, because they had found each other.
One Thursday afternoon in class, Katie was dreaming of her escape to Rhode Island in just a few hours when her professor announced that they would review several short documentaries. Minutes later Katie was again
5
K atie’s class that summer was an elective, a boring survey course of films from the sixties, taught by a short, stocky man who spoke in monotone, his sentences drifting off at the ends. His voice lulled Katie back to her weekends with Nick, and when her professor shut off the lights and turned on the projector, the effect was complete. In the darkness she felt Nick’s fingers on her again, pulling at her skin, caressing her neck, his tongue trailing slowly from her breasts to her pelvis. Sitting there in the back row, the hum of the projector in her ear, Katie could actually feel his elbows gently urging her legs apart, the heat of his breath on the inside of her thigh. Sometimes she hid her face in her arms, sure that even in the dim light another student would turn and see the telling glow on her cheeks; other times she had to squeeze her hands between her knees to keep them still, to keep her fingers from gingerly touching places where Nick’s hands or lips had traveled.
When the lights came up and the professor resumed his droning lecture, Katie would focus on a spot on the wall, and in only a few seconds Nick would reemerge: straining above her, eyes closed tightly as he moved inside her, his hands gripping her hips. Katie, he would say in a dissonant whisper, and each time Katie’s body seemed to expand, to fill up with the sound of Nick speaking her name.
Other times, when her professor scribbled on the board or sorted through his dusty collection of videotapes, other scenes pushed their way to the forefront, intruding into Katie’s blurry happiness: Nick, examining a callus on his hand, fingers splayed, and Katie’s own hand finding his—then waiting for his reaction, which always formed gradually, as if he needed time to remember how to assemble the smile that would eventually come. Or that humid Sunday afternoon when they were in the water at Potter’s Cove, Katie’s arms wrapped around Nick’s neck, ankles crossed around his middle. Blissful, the sun warming the tops of their heads, their limbs slippery and sliding while they looked into each other’s eyes. But then that diver surfaced a few yards away, pulling off his mask, walking to the beach: an old man, his white beard dripping into the water, a canvas sack roped around his torso and a heavy air tank in one hand.—Do you know him? Katie asked, but then instantly let go of Nick. The haunted look on his face scared her, made her turn back to the old man in an attempt to see what Nick saw in his grizzled, sun-worn features. She didn’t repeat her question or ask what he was thinking, afraid that she would be one of those girls who requested too much, who pushed away her lover with too many questions. But she collected those times, too, when Nick turned away from her, when he became quiet and distant, sequestering them to a corner of her mind for later inspection. And she watched him.
She watched Nick all the time, how his body moved when he was close to her, how he looked at her, and away from her and at the world, and then the need would come to Katie in heavy, rolling waves. Because she wanted all of him, wanted to crawl inside him and know every single piece of him, to hold those pieces in her hand and examine them, inch by inch—wanted the confirmation that he understood her, that he knew about loneliness, too. She needed to know that somewhere in those prolonged silences between them, when his eyes would wander away from her to places she felt uninvited, his love for her was growing, was real. That she was the only girl for him, the only and exactly right girl, and this was just Nick’s way. So like Katie’s, but unnecessary now, finally, because they had found each other.
One Thursday afternoon in class, Katie was dreaming of her escape to Rhode Island in just a few hours when her professor announced that they would review several short documentaries. Minutes later Katie was again
Similar Books
