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Authors: Marco Vassi
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all. What kind of creatures would we be if our motivation was something other than the release of tension?”
Joan listened to the words and heard their meaning. But the other woman had left something out.
“That’s not what made you cry,” she said.
Margaret glanced away, pursed her lips, looked like she was deciding whether or not to reveal herself further, and then looked back. “You’re right,” she said. “What made me cry was something else altogether.”
“What was it?” Joan asked her.
“Just the realization that I could really love you,” Margaret said.
The words hung on the air between them. They were to have two more rounds of sex before they fell asleep in one another’s arms, but the word “love” was not used again. It was too frightening to both of them, who were used to handling sex and power, and who would want to think a good while before taking the shields off their hearts.
THREE
The rest of the staff had left. It was the way Joan liked the office best, empty and still. Having arrived late that morning, a half hour before Margaret, she had some catching up to do. The two women had decided to come in separately, for at parting they were unable to keep their hands or their eyes off one another, and couldn’t go into work in that condition. Sitting at her desk, Joan sagged inwardly at the thought of having to finish the manuscript in front of her. It was one of those moments when life seems nothing more than a progression from one wearisome task to another, and existence appears as a broad path leading directly to the grave with no interesting distractions along the way.
“How odd it is,” she thought, “that each mood is so total, even when it is wildly different from the one that preceded it.” She was not conscious that this quality she possessed, of becoming fully the immediate vibration, was her most powerful faculty. She did not yet perceive that very few people had the instinct of living in the present still intact.
Her attention drifted away from the task at hand to reviewing what had happened with Margaret. Joan ran her tongue over her lips in a conscious imitation of Margaret’s habitual gesture, and remembered their good-bye.
Kissing her softly, Margaret had said, “I’ve done things with my body that were like what happened last night, but I’ve only felt that much with one other person before. I don’t know if you realize how deeply you’ve touched me.”
Joan had been at a loss. “It’s still all so confusing,” she said. “You’re the first woman I have ever had sex with, and I’m still reverberating from the novelty. But I feel that I could give myself to you totally, easily.”
“I know,” Margaret said. “And I wasn’t prepared for this. I wanted to bring you in with me on the changeover, if I can push Lou out and step into his place. And I also wanted to make love to you. And now, it’s all mixed up, and I’m not sure what’s happening with us.”
“Will our being lovers make it awkward at the office?” Joan asked.
“It doesn’t have to,” Margaret told her. “Especially if I take over. Then if people find out, we won’t have to be coy about it.”
“It’s all going so fast,” Joan said.
“Right now, the only way I can count time is in waiting to hold you in my arms again,” Margaret said. And right after, Joan had left for work.
Now she tried to shake the memory out of her head and concentrate on the book in front of her. It was a two-hundred-and-thirty-eight-page manuscript that had to be gone over with an editorial fine-toothed comb, its spelling corrected, its punctuation made uniform, and any discrepancies in internal consistency straightened out. The real trouble with that kind of work was that if the story was interesting, she became so engrossed in it that she forgot to pay attention to the mechanics; and if it was dull, then there was no pleasure perusing it so closely. This was one of the latter, a rather pedestrian
Joan listened to the words and heard their meaning. But the other woman had left something out.
“That’s not what made you cry,” she said.
Margaret glanced away, pursed her lips, looked like she was deciding whether or not to reveal herself further, and then looked back. “You’re right,” she said. “What made me cry was something else altogether.”
“What was it?” Joan asked her.
“Just the realization that I could really love you,” Margaret said.
The words hung on the air between them. They were to have two more rounds of sex before they fell asleep in one another’s arms, but the word “love” was not used again. It was too frightening to both of them, who were used to handling sex and power, and who would want to think a good while before taking the shields off their hearts.
THREE
The rest of the staff had left. It was the way Joan liked the office best, empty and still. Having arrived late that morning, a half hour before Margaret, she had some catching up to do. The two women had decided to come in separately, for at parting they were unable to keep their hands or their eyes off one another, and couldn’t go into work in that condition. Sitting at her desk, Joan sagged inwardly at the thought of having to finish the manuscript in front of her. It was one of those moments when life seems nothing more than a progression from one wearisome task to another, and existence appears as a broad path leading directly to the grave with no interesting distractions along the way.
“How odd it is,” she thought, “that each mood is so total, even when it is wildly different from the one that preceded it.” She was not conscious that this quality she possessed, of becoming fully the immediate vibration, was her most powerful faculty. She did not yet perceive that very few people had the instinct of living in the present still intact.
Her attention drifted away from the task at hand to reviewing what had happened with Margaret. Joan ran her tongue over her lips in a conscious imitation of Margaret’s habitual gesture, and remembered their good-bye.
Kissing her softly, Margaret had said, “I’ve done things with my body that were like what happened last night, but I’ve only felt that much with one other person before. I don’t know if you realize how deeply you’ve touched me.”
Joan had been at a loss. “It’s still all so confusing,” she said. “You’re the first woman I have ever had sex with, and I’m still reverberating from the novelty. But I feel that I could give myself to you totally, easily.”
“I know,” Margaret said. “And I wasn’t prepared for this. I wanted to bring you in with me on the changeover, if I can push Lou out and step into his place. And I also wanted to make love to you. And now, it’s all mixed up, and I’m not sure what’s happening with us.”
“Will our being lovers make it awkward at the office?” Joan asked.
“It doesn’t have to,” Margaret told her. “Especially if I take over. Then if people find out, we won’t have to be coy about it.”
“It’s all going so fast,” Joan said.
“Right now, the only way I can count time is in waiting to hold you in my arms again,” Margaret said. And right after, Joan had left for work.
Now she tried to shake the memory out of her head and concentrate on the book in front of her. It was a two-hundred-and-thirty-eight-page manuscript that had to be gone over with an editorial fine-toothed comb, its spelling corrected, its punctuation made uniform, and any discrepancies in internal consistency straightened out. The real trouble with that kind of work was that if the story was interesting, she became so engrossed in it that she forgot to pay attention to the mechanics; and if it was dull, then there was no pleasure perusing it so closely. This was one of the latter, a rather pedestrian
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