She dreamed about Kip.
Maybe it wasn’t a dream. She couldn’t tell
whether she was asleep or awake or somewhere in between. But her
eyes remained closed, her mind floating. The air in her bedroom was
warm and humid, and the top sheet caressed her body like
hands.
Kip’s hands.
In her dream he kissed her. His lips danced
over hers, and his tongue found hers, and she felt all those
dangerous sensations again. Her breasts seemed heavy and overly
sensitive, the cotton of her nightgown chafing her swollen nipples,
and because this was a dream she could imagine that not her
nightgown but Kip was touching her, stroking her skin. She could
imagine his long, patrician fingers, light and agile, playing
across her flesh, sliding from her breasts lower, to her belly and
lower yet, down where she’d never let a boy touch her
before.
She shouldn’t think these things, but she
couldn’t seem to stop. What had frightened her in the cupola
excited her when she was alone in the sagging single bed, just her
and her fantasies of Kip doing things that made her skin burn and
her flesh tremble, her hips tense and her breath grow
short.
Just her and Kip, exploring each other in her
sleep-drugged mind. Here in the darkness of her room beneath the
eaves, Shelley was beginning to figure it out.
***
IT WAS RAINING when she woke up. She’d slept
past nine o’clock, but when she dragged herself out of bed she felt
tired and achy, as if she’d run a marathon overnight. She got
dressed, broke a tooth of her comb trying to unravel the snarls in
her hair, and stumbled down the stairs, her head throbbing and her
vision blurred.
The bright kitchen light hurt her eyes. Her
mother was preparing a shopping list, looking offensively energetic
in her denim skirt and striped shirt. “What kind of cereal do you
want me to buy?” she asked. “We’re almost out of
Cheerios.”
The thought of cereal—of any food at all—made
Shelley queasy. “I don’t care,” she said, moving directly to the
coffee maker and filling a mug with hot coffee.
Her mother eyed her with mild disapproval. “You
shouldn’t have stayed so late at Kip’s last night.”
Shelley checked herself before embarking on a
vehement defense of her virtue. Nothing had happened with Kip—and
yet everything had happened with him in her mind, in the secret
confines of her bed. It was Kip’s fault that she was so poorly
rested, even if he hadn’t actually done anything to her.
“I was home by eleven,” she said, recalling not
what she’d dreamed but what had happened. “We were playing
backgammon and I lost track of time. Anyway, eleven isn’t so
late.”
Her mother shrugged. “It’s vacation. I don’t
care if you sleep in. I just don’t want you overstaying your
welcome at the Strouds’.”
On cue, Shelley heard a tap on the screen door,
followed by Kip’s voice: “Hello?”
Her mother rolled her eyes. “You two are
inseparable,” she said with a tolerant chuckle as she left the
kitchen to unlatch the door and let him in.
Shelley was grateful to have a moment alone.
Simply hearing her mother describe her and Kip as “inseparable”
reawakened her memory of Kip’s kiss, his mouth inseparable from
hers, and then her dreamy mental elaborations on that kiss. Hearing
the approach of footsteps, she hid her face behind her mug and took
a sip of coffee.
“‘ Morning,” Kip greeted her. His
yellow slicker glistened with moisture. He took it off and draped
it on the back of a chair.
Shelley peered up at him over the rim of the
mug. Despite the slicker’s hood his hair was damp and his
eyeglasses were mottled with raindrops. He pulled them off and
dried them on the hem of his T-shirt. Shelley remembered how he’d
taken them off last night before kissing her. She hastily averted
her gaze so she wouldn’t have to see the pinpoints of light
sparkling in his dark brown irises, the enviable thickness of his
lashes and the intriguing bump in his nose.
It wasn’t
Maybe it wasn’t a dream. She couldn’t tell
whether she was asleep or awake or somewhere in between. But her
eyes remained closed, her mind floating. The air in her bedroom was
warm and humid, and the top sheet caressed her body like
hands.
Kip’s hands.
In her dream he kissed her. His lips danced
over hers, and his tongue found hers, and she felt all those
dangerous sensations again. Her breasts seemed heavy and overly
sensitive, the cotton of her nightgown chafing her swollen nipples,
and because this was a dream she could imagine that not her
nightgown but Kip was touching her, stroking her skin. She could
imagine his long, patrician fingers, light and agile, playing
across her flesh, sliding from her breasts lower, to her belly and
lower yet, down where she’d never let a boy touch her
before.
She shouldn’t think these things, but she
couldn’t seem to stop. What had frightened her in the cupola
excited her when she was alone in the sagging single bed, just her
and her fantasies of Kip doing things that made her skin burn and
her flesh tremble, her hips tense and her breath grow
short.
Just her and Kip, exploring each other in her
sleep-drugged mind. Here in the darkness of her room beneath the
eaves, Shelley was beginning to figure it out.
***
IT WAS RAINING when she woke up. She’d slept
past nine o’clock, but when she dragged herself out of bed she felt
tired and achy, as if she’d run a marathon overnight. She got
dressed, broke a tooth of her comb trying to unravel the snarls in
her hair, and stumbled down the stairs, her head throbbing and her
vision blurred.
The bright kitchen light hurt her eyes. Her
mother was preparing a shopping list, looking offensively energetic
in her denim skirt and striped shirt. “What kind of cereal do you
want me to buy?” she asked. “We’re almost out of
Cheerios.”
The thought of cereal—of any food at all—made
Shelley queasy. “I don’t care,” she said, moving directly to the
coffee maker and filling a mug with hot coffee.
Her mother eyed her with mild disapproval. “You
shouldn’t have stayed so late at Kip’s last night.”
Shelley checked herself before embarking on a
vehement defense of her virtue. Nothing had happened with Kip—and
yet everything had happened with him in her mind, in the secret
confines of her bed. It was Kip’s fault that she was so poorly
rested, even if he hadn’t actually done anything to her.
“I was home by eleven,” she said, recalling not
what she’d dreamed but what had happened. “We were playing
backgammon and I lost track of time. Anyway, eleven isn’t so
late.”
Her mother shrugged. “It’s vacation. I don’t
care if you sleep in. I just don’t want you overstaying your
welcome at the Strouds’.”
On cue, Shelley heard a tap on the screen door,
followed by Kip’s voice: “Hello?”
Her mother rolled her eyes. “You two are
inseparable,” she said with a tolerant chuckle as she left the
kitchen to unlatch the door and let him in.
Shelley was grateful to have a moment alone.
Simply hearing her mother describe her and Kip as “inseparable”
reawakened her memory of Kip’s kiss, his mouth inseparable from
hers, and then her dreamy mental elaborations on that kiss. Hearing
the approach of footsteps, she hid her face behind her mug and took
a sip of coffee.
“‘ Morning,” Kip greeted her. His
yellow slicker glistened with moisture. He took it off and draped
it on the back of a chair.
Shelley peered up at him over the rim of the
mug. Despite the slicker’s hood his hair was damp and his
eyeglasses were mottled with raindrops. He pulled them off and
dried them on the hem of his T-shirt. Shelley remembered how he’d
taken them off last night before kissing her. She hastily averted
her gaze so she wouldn’t have to see the pinpoints of light
sparkling in his dark brown irises, the enviable thickness of his
lashes and the intriguing bump in his nose.
It wasn’t
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