Read Online People in Trouble by Sarah Schulman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sarah Schulman
Ads: Link
clean and soft matching sheets, she thought. She looked through the books on Kate's shelf.
Any distraction.
Thank God, Molly thought as Kate and Peter finally got to the op-ed page. I'd so much rather be the lover sitting here in silence than the husband being lied to on the phone.
When she hung up, Kate took off her dress and placed it carefully on a hanger. Then she came to lie next to Molly and held her breasts in her hands.
"What's this?" Kate said, finding an extra texture between Molly's legs.
"Take a look."
Molly watched Kate's face framed by Molly's legs, one cheek against one thigh, looking at the layers of her cunt and realizing how specific they were.
When it became that time when Kate had to be accounted for they parted.
Something about that close loving and sexy sharing disappeared for Molly as she put on her clothes. While Kate readied herself for the next event, Molly left something of herself behind, as anyone does who begins an experience with another person and always finishes it alone.
Peter examined himself in the window of Tiffany's. He was in no rush.
There was plenty of time until he had to be at the theater by five. He could run uptown and down again by then and still have an hour to check up on things. He had to be constantly vigilant with technicians to ensure the designs were completed with perfect accuracy. Every instrument must be precisely focused or the lighting would have no soul. It would be muddy, not crisp. Sometimes muddy is the best choice, of course, but it must be chosen. Whenever he worked a show with dubious structure, like this one, he could correct the shape without anyone ever suspecting. When an actor crossed the stage for no reason, Peter could give him a light to step into, which was at least an illusion of meaning. That's what it was to build shape.
Technicians were grunts for the most part. If they could be artists they would have been. So they didn't care as much as they should and often violated the design by being sloppy. Peter was never sloppy. He was diligent.
He continued down Fifth Avenue, stopping suddenly in front of something very unusual. There was a billboard, of all things, hanging over Rockefeller Center. It was Ronald Home's huge nondescript face, about two stories' worth, and underneath his nostrils in red, white and blue, it said: Home: For a Better America After that Peter walked for a minute and then decided to step into Saint Pat's. Peter often walked into churches but he never got down on his knees. He never lit a candle. He just sat back and watched the show. There were a lot of tourists in the cathedral on Sundays. They were not only Americans with mobs of towheaded kids fresh from hotel breakfasts, but also wealthy visitors from Latin America in good suits. There was a sprinkling of African students with Instamatic cameras dangling from their languid wrists. Asian families lined up for photographs in front of someone's patron saint. There were street people everywhere who just needed a rest, trying to be inconspicuous in the pews.
In fact, it seemed that every time Peter entered a church, a park or waiting room anywhere in the city, there were street people looking very tired. Every square of public space was occupied by someone asking for money or too out of it to be asking. But in the cathedral they were seated right next to little-old-lady good Catholics in tiny hats and gloves with patent leather pocketbooks and legs that could easily snap. On the edges of the crowd were visiting nuns traveling in packs or in couples on vacation. Peter wasn't Catholic but he often ended up in Catholic churches. They were everywhere, like Sheraton hotels. You could go anywhere in the world and there they were. His father hadn't belonged to any church. His mother went when she had to.
She'd
Any distraction.
Thank God, Molly thought as Kate and Peter finally got to the op-ed page. I'd so much rather be the lover sitting here in silence than the husband being lied to on the phone.
When she hung up, Kate took off her dress and placed it carefully on a hanger. Then she came to lie next to Molly and held her breasts in her hands.
"What's this?" Kate said, finding an extra texture between Molly's legs.
"Take a look."
Molly watched Kate's face framed by Molly's legs, one cheek against one thigh, looking at the layers of her cunt and realizing how specific they were.
When it became that time when Kate had to be accounted for they parted.
Something about that close loving and sexy sharing disappeared for Molly as she put on her clothes. While Kate readied herself for the next event, Molly left something of herself behind, as anyone does who begins an experience with another person and always finishes it alone.
Peter examined himself in the window of Tiffany's. He was in no rush.
There was plenty of time until he had to be at the theater by five. He could run uptown and down again by then and still have an hour to check up on things. He had to be constantly vigilant with technicians to ensure the designs were completed with perfect accuracy. Every instrument must be precisely focused or the lighting would have no soul. It would be muddy, not crisp. Sometimes muddy is the best choice, of course, but it must be chosen. Whenever he worked a show with dubious structure, like this one, he could correct the shape without anyone ever suspecting. When an actor crossed the stage for no reason, Peter could give him a light to step into, which was at least an illusion of meaning. That's what it was to build shape.
Technicians were grunts for the most part. If they could be artists they would have been. So they didn't care as much as they should and often violated the design by being sloppy. Peter was never sloppy. He was diligent.
He continued down Fifth Avenue, stopping suddenly in front of something very unusual. There was a billboard, of all things, hanging over Rockefeller Center. It was Ronald Home's huge nondescript face, about two stories' worth, and underneath his nostrils in red, white and blue, it said: Home: For a Better America After that Peter walked for a minute and then decided to step into Saint Pat's. Peter often walked into churches but he never got down on his knees. He never lit a candle. He just sat back and watched the show. There were a lot of tourists in the cathedral on Sundays. They were not only Americans with mobs of towheaded kids fresh from hotel breakfasts, but also wealthy visitors from Latin America in good suits. There was a sprinkling of African students with Instamatic cameras dangling from their languid wrists. Asian families lined up for photographs in front of someone's patron saint. There were street people everywhere who just needed a rest, trying to be inconspicuous in the pews.
In fact, it seemed that every time Peter entered a church, a park or waiting room anywhere in the city, there were street people looking very tired. Every square of public space was occupied by someone asking for money or too out of it to be asking. But in the cathedral they were seated right next to little-old-lady good Catholics in tiny hats and gloves with patent leather pocketbooks and legs that could easily snap. On the edges of the crowd were visiting nuns traveling in packs or in couples on vacation. Peter wasn't Catholic but he often ended up in Catholic churches. They were everywhere, like Sheraton hotels. You could go anywhere in the world and there they were. His father hadn't belonged to any church. His mother went when she had to.
She'd
Similar Books
