says Reynolds, interposing herself as usual. She casts herself as his interpreter; as if he’s an oracle, spouting gnomic sayings that only the high priestess can decipher. “So why don’t you tell him what you’re working on? What part of his work? I’ll go and make us some tea.”
“I’m all ears,” says Gavin, holding his leer.
“Don’t bite her,” says Reynolds with a parting twitch of her tight jeans. Good exit line: the possibility of biting, so double-edged, so vague as to location and intent, hovers in the air like an aroma. Where would he begin, if biting was on offer? A gentle nibbling at the nape of the neck?
It’s no use. Even this prospect fails to stir him. He stifles a yawn.
Naveena fidgets with a miniature gadget that she then places on the coffee table in front of him. She’s wearing a miniskirtthat rides up over her knees – displaying patterned stockings like lace window curtains dyed black – and also painfully high-heeled boots with metal studs. It makes Gavin’s feet hurt to look at the boots. Surely her toes must be squashed into wedges, like bound Chinese feet in sepia photos. Those deformed feet were a sexual turn-on, or so Gavin has read. Guys would slide their Mr. Wigglies into the moist orifice formed by the recurved, stunted toes. He can’t see it himself.
She’s wearing her hair in a bun, like a ballerina’s. Buns are so sexy. They used to be a treat to take apart: it was like opening a gift. Heads with the hair pulled back into buns are so elegant and confined, so maidenish; then the undoing, the dishevelment, the wildness of the freed hair, spilling down the shoulders, over the breasts, over the pillow. He enumerates in his head:
Buns I have known
.
Constance did not have a bun. She didn’t need one. She more or less was a bun: neat and contained, and then so tumultuous when unleashed. His first live-in, Eve to his Adam. Nothing could ever replace that. He remembers the ache of waiting for her in their cramped, stuffy Eden with the hotplate and the electric kettle. She would come in through the door with that supple but luscious body of hers and the remote, contradictory head on top, her face pale as a waning moon, with the floss of her light hair escaping from around it like rays, and he would enfold her in his arms and sink his teeth into her neck.
Not
into
, not in actuality; but he’d feel like doing that. Partly because he was always hungry then, and she’d smell of Snuffy’s fried chicken. And because she adored him, she would melt like warm honey. She was so pliable. He could do anything with her, arrange her as he pleased, and she would say yes. Not just yes.
Oh yes!
Has he ever been adored like that since, purely adored, withno ulterior motives? Because he wasn’t famous then, not even famous with the moderate in-group fame accorded to poets. He hadn’t won anything, any prizes; he hadn’t published any thin, meritorious, envied collections. He had the freedom of a nobody, with a blank future unrolling before him on which anything at all might be written. She’d adored him only for himself. His inner core.
“I could eat you all up,” he’d say to her. Mmm, mmm. Rrrr, rrrr.
Oh yes!
“Excuse me?” says Naveena.
He snaps back into the present. Was he making a noise? A yum-yummy noise, a growling noise? And if so, so what? He’s earned his noises. He’ll make all the noises he wants.
But soft you, the fair Naveena. Nymph, in thy glossaries be all my puns remembered. Some more practical remark is called for.
“Are those boots comfortable?” he says cordially. Best to ease into this: let her talk about something she knows, such as boots, because pretty soon she’ll be in over her depth.
“What?” says Naveena, startled. “Boots?” Is that a blush?
“Don’t they pinch your toes?” he says. “They look very fashionable, but how can you walk?” He would like to ask her to get up and prance across the room – it’s one of the
“I’m all ears,” says Gavin, holding his leer.
“Don’t bite her,” says Reynolds with a parting twitch of her tight jeans. Good exit line: the possibility of biting, so double-edged, so vague as to location and intent, hovers in the air like an aroma. Where would he begin, if biting was on offer? A gentle nibbling at the nape of the neck?
It’s no use. Even this prospect fails to stir him. He stifles a yawn.
Naveena fidgets with a miniature gadget that she then places on the coffee table in front of him. She’s wearing a miniskirtthat rides up over her knees – displaying patterned stockings like lace window curtains dyed black – and also painfully high-heeled boots with metal studs. It makes Gavin’s feet hurt to look at the boots. Surely her toes must be squashed into wedges, like bound Chinese feet in sepia photos. Those deformed feet were a sexual turn-on, or so Gavin has read. Guys would slide their Mr. Wigglies into the moist orifice formed by the recurved, stunted toes. He can’t see it himself.
She’s wearing her hair in a bun, like a ballerina’s. Buns are so sexy. They used to be a treat to take apart: it was like opening a gift. Heads with the hair pulled back into buns are so elegant and confined, so maidenish; then the undoing, the dishevelment, the wildness of the freed hair, spilling down the shoulders, over the breasts, over the pillow. He enumerates in his head:
Buns I have known
.
Constance did not have a bun. She didn’t need one. She more or less was a bun: neat and contained, and then so tumultuous when unleashed. His first live-in, Eve to his Adam. Nothing could ever replace that. He remembers the ache of waiting for her in their cramped, stuffy Eden with the hotplate and the electric kettle. She would come in through the door with that supple but luscious body of hers and the remote, contradictory head on top, her face pale as a waning moon, with the floss of her light hair escaping from around it like rays, and he would enfold her in his arms and sink his teeth into her neck.
Not
into
, not in actuality; but he’d feel like doing that. Partly because he was always hungry then, and she’d smell of Snuffy’s fried chicken. And because she adored him, she would melt like warm honey. She was so pliable. He could do anything with her, arrange her as he pleased, and she would say yes. Not just yes.
Oh yes!
Has he ever been adored like that since, purely adored, withno ulterior motives? Because he wasn’t famous then, not even famous with the moderate in-group fame accorded to poets. He hadn’t won anything, any prizes; he hadn’t published any thin, meritorious, envied collections. He had the freedom of a nobody, with a blank future unrolling before him on which anything at all might be written. She’d adored him only for himself. His inner core.
“I could eat you all up,” he’d say to her. Mmm, mmm. Rrrr, rrrr.
Oh yes!
“Excuse me?” says Naveena.
He snaps back into the present. Was he making a noise? A yum-yummy noise, a growling noise? And if so, so what? He’s earned his noises. He’ll make all the noises he wants.
But soft you, the fair Naveena. Nymph, in thy glossaries be all my puns remembered. Some more practical remark is called for.
“Are those boots comfortable?” he says cordially. Best to ease into this: let her talk about something she knows, such as boots, because pretty soon she’ll be in over her depth.
“What?” says Naveena, startled. “Boots?” Is that a blush?
“Don’t they pinch your toes?” he says. “They look very fashionable, but how can you walk?” He would like to ask her to get up and prance across the room – it’s one of the
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