Chapter 10
He couldn't be sure now exactly whose idea it had been to eat at her apartment-Eileen's or his, but he knew it didn't matter. The important thing, he decided, as they sat silently together in the back of the cab, was the current running between them. Tight rapport. Unspoken assurance, that whatever it was that bothered him about the new job, Eileen would be there on his side. A friend, willing to help him. And suddenly, Stan felt obligated to tell her the truth. Tonight, he knew they would have to talk. Finally.
The crosstown traffic thinned out at the east side of Central Park. Stan leaned forward and glanced through the open window on his side of the cab. The warm spring evening had coaxed people out of their work clothes and out of their apartments. They lined the streets of Manhattan in walking shorts that exposed smooth, naked legs ... in sleeveless blouses that accented the shapes of pointed breasts ... in thin, light colored skirts that clung to round behinds and swayed with softly-curving hips. Stan turned away from the view and lowered the back of his head toward the cool leather seat. It was too warm.
"Sleepy?" Eileen's voice floated softly on air.
"That's too mild a word to describe it." Stan heard the deep rooted fatigue seeping into the hollowness of his voice. "What I need is about a year's vacation." He smiled and resisted the temptation to reach out and take Eileen's hand. She looked so cool and fresh in her mint green skirt and blouse. He wanted to touch her, to hang on and absorb some of the self-assurance and self-respect that seemed to carry her unfalteringly through her days. He wanted to share some of the peace and inner calm that made Eileen so irresistible to him. But he didn't move.
"When we get to my place I'll fix you something tall and cold," she said.
"I've given up drinking alone," he answered, thinking about the restaurant and hoping whatever he'd said hadn't embarrassed her too much.
"That's simple enough to remedy." Eileen's voice was light, unperturbed.
Stan sighed and pulled himself back up in the seat. It would be so easy for him to fall asleep and avoid the rest of the day. But he knew that wasn't the answer. Today seemed destined to mark a beginning for him. And, if he had anything to do with it, he intended to see that it was the beginning of something good.
The gleaming mosaic tiles in the lobby seemed to reflect the sparkling newness of the apartment house where Eileen lived. Stan smelled the fresh paint and smiled. He liked that odor. There was something about it that always seemed promising to him. Flexible. Yielding. He glanced at Eileen as she walked ahead of him toward the elevator. Yes, she belonged in that setting, he decided. She belonged wherever the spirit could be free to express itself openly and honestly.
"What are you thinking about so hard?" Eileen asked while they waited for the elevator.
He shook his head and hoped he looked mysterious.
The girl might not realize she was playing with fire. He must take it easy. They had to work together in the morning. Dammit, but she had smooth skin.
"I'm all the way up on the top floor," Eileen said, pushing the button inside the car. "It costs a few dollars more but the view is worth it."
"There's a girl after my own heart," he winked in approval. He'd never noticed how long her neck was before. He wondered how that skin would feel, sliding between his lips. His body seemed to be listening to his thoughts. He looked away from her, feeling his mouth go dry.
"Here we are." Eileen unlocked her apartment door and stepped inside. "The palace is at your disposal."
Stan looked around and felt the fresh atmosphere lift his spirits. Her apartment had suddenly become a refuge-a place where he felt safe from all the pressures that hounded him so mercilessly. He wished he could stay forever.
He didn't realize how caught up he'd been by the view from the living room window until Eileen nudged him with her elbow.
"We feature fast service in this establishment," she said, extending one of the two glasses she held.
"I'm sorry, I should have helped you." Stan accepted the iced drink gratefully. "I was looking at the...."
"Don't have to explain." Eileen pressed damp fingers against her forehead and smiled at the coolness. "I get lost in that view all the time. That's why I have it."
The vodka in the drink seemed to revive him. He took a long swallow and hoped he could get drunk quickly. So drunk, in fact, that he would forget to go back to the office altogether.
"Dinner won't take long." Eileen started back toward the kitchen, leaving her glass on the window sill beside his.
Stan glanced at her retreating figure and then at the barely touched drink. "Eileen...." he called after her, not quite sure what he was going to say when she turned around and answered him.
"Yes?" Eileen stood, questioning and waiting in the kitchen doorway.
"Don't knock yourself out with anything fancy; Stan felt his courage falter and then run for cover.
Eileen waved away his concern and disappeared into the other room. "You just guard the view," she called above the banging of pots and pans. "I'll take care of the kitchen."
For a moment Stan was tempted to do as she ordered. But then a strong familiar surge of self-loathing rushed over him. He placed both drinks carefully on a table and strode toward the kitchen. For once in his life, he was going to do what he wanted to, despite the presence of fear. "Come back into the living room, will you, Eileen?"
"What?" Eileen looked up from the salad she was mixing. "I'm in the middle of...."
"It's important." Stan knew that if she refused him again he'd lose his nerve. He felt the fear widening his eyes. She must see it. She wouldn't refuse him now.
As if in response to his silent need, Eileen put down the wooden fork, wiped her hands on a brightly-printed apron and walked out of the kitchen. "As long as you shanghaied me away from the cooking, I think I'll finish my drink." She sat down on an orange and brown striped sofa and waited for Stan to bring her the glass. "Now what was it you wanted?" she asked, after she'd taken a long, refreshing swallow.
Stan remained on his feet in front of her. He wanted to sit down, but he knew he was too nervous to remain in one position very long while he spoke to her. If only he knew exactly what he wanted to say ... just what he wanted to communicate. Then the conversation that was about to happen would be so much easier.
"I wanted to talk to you...." His tongue felt swollen, made of lead.
"I know." Eileen looked calm and patient. "I'm listening."
Stan felt stupid. The words wouldn't come. He knew he couldn't just stand there and leave her hanging, but there was nothing he could say. In his panic, he'd almost blotted out what he wanted to tell her in the first place.
The silence was lengthening uncomfortably. Stan smiled shyly and wondered why Eileen even wanted him as a friend. "About last night...." he began, and fidgeted noticeably, "I hope I didn't say anything to upset you."
"Not in the way you think." Eileen rescued him quickly. "You talked plenty, but nothing offensive came out, if that's what's worrying you."
Stan shook his head. It was his reflex gesture of helplessness. He felt the despair flooding through his body.
Without stopping to reason his actions, he removed Eileen's glass from her soft hand. Then he reached down and slid his arms beneath hers. A second later, she had risen, willingly, into his arms. Her kiss was like air to a drowning man.
He held her very close, not wanting to end the moment, not wanting to break the spell that obliterated the need for meaningless talk and banal explanations. Soon, too soon, he knew, they'd be saying things-things to explain and rationalize their actions. For now, all he wanted was to feel, to experience, to revel in the moment.
Her lips were soft, willing beneath his own. Forcibly and willfully, Stan contained his need, not wanting to frighten her, not wanting to hurry her. So much could be revealed through a kiss-so much of the real personality that lurked beneath the veneer that people were able to affect. He did not want to give the wrong impression. He kissed her softly. Again ... and again....
He felt her fingers knotting and unknotting behind his neck. Stan knew she was nervous-as nervous as himself. Where was this going to lead? He knew that she must be wondering the same thing, too. For even now, with nothing more than the kiss between them, he felt that this evening was going to be unlike any other he'd ever spent.
"Stan...." The sound of the word seemed haunted, heavy with fear. "Don't hurt me."
"I'd never do that ... never." He couldn't suppress the surprise and delight he felt. Eileen wasn't the type to whimper ... to offer pleas. How much and how deeply was she feeling? How long had she been waiting for this night? Things suddenly were becoming very clear. Silently, he asked himself how he, supposedly an artist, had walked around for so long without seeing. It was time to change all that....
He must be high, Stan told himself as he began to cover Eileen's body with his hands. Everything he did he watched himself doing, as if he were somebody else-a third person in the room. He tried to find a reason for his actions. But then, there was no need to have a reason. They both wanted the same thing.
Everything seemed to move very slowly. He was detained for what seemed like hours by the softness of her breasts, rising and falling before him like hills of white cake frosting in the late afternoon light. Her nipples were dark and tasty as he teased and nibbled while Eileen sighed and whimpered and her knees sagged.
"How are you?" He didn't really want to speak at all but he felt somehow obliged to ask permission to go further. Eileen nodded, kissing his neck in reply. Carefully, they sank to the rug and he pulled her on top of him.
He held her firmly at the shoulder and the hip. Part of him told him he was crazy-completely out of his mind to think he could get away with what he was doing. And another part couldn't control the wild thing that had begun inside of him and was determined to see it through to the absolute end.
Her quivering hand fought the buttons on his shirt until it was open to the waist. Her quick tongue seared the flesh along his chin, down his chest until Stan thought he would explode from the power of his wanting.
His fingers pushed up the back of her skirt and kneaded the soft insides of her thighs. She felt like silk to him ... warm, live, luxurious silk-exactly what he wanted to feel against all of his own flesh.
Stan rubbed his hand slowly where she wanted him to. He rocked and strained beneath every quickening spasm of her body. And finally, when he felt he could stand the waiting no longer, he moved her gently off his body and glanced around for a bedroom door.
"I don't have a bedroom." Eileen seemed to have sensed his unspoken question. Her tone was an apology-
"That's all right," Stan assured her, before she had a chance to tell him that the sofa opened into a bed. He didn't want to hear her say it. He didn't want to spoil anything. He wanted only to act. That was all that was necessary now.
The mattress floated smoothly and silently into view beneath his grip. Stan pulled it out to full length, then turned back to face Eileen.
She stood, just as he had left her ... breasts exposed, lipstick smeared, the hem of her skirt tilted at a drunken angle above her knees. He wanted her more than he could ever remember desiring anything ... anything at all.
They covered the mattress with their bodies. Stan felt the fresh sheet beneath him and nodded without realizing it. That was as it should be. New. Clean. Just like they were, together.
Eileen tried to crawl back on top of him but he forced her beneath him. It was time. Time for him to set the style for whatever was in the future for them. Time to show Eileen, and maybe even himself, that he wasn't invisible after all.
He thought she was going to scream with need as he pulled the panties off her legs, forcing her skirt above her waist. He knew, vaguely, that he should take all her clothes off-that they should be completely nude-but he couldn't wait. It had taken too long for them to get this far.
He'd never tried to undress himself with one hand before. Despite the inconvenience, he liked it. The necessity implied something different for him ... something unplanned and unrehearsed ... very unlike the way his lovemaking with Toni suddenly seemed. No, he mustn't think of her, Stan cautioned himself. It would be tragic to spoil what he felt now.
As he took her, Stan felt the breath leave her body. Then, he became lost ... absorbed in her arms ... in her sweet, moist willingness. His head weighed a ton and then hardly an ounce. No one moment was remotely the same as the next. Today was Independence Day. And liberation would be upon them both, in a few moments.
Eileen purred and started to move sensually, beneath him. Stan knew what that meant. Now it had to happen. There was no prolonging the inevitable, no matter how pleasurable the waiting. And, from the center of his vast, quiet, loneliness, he began very steadily and very slowly, the long, painfully-sweet journey toward total union with another human being.
And she drew him toward her, as the lighthouse would beckon a boat in the middle of a gathering storm. He travelled toward her, knowing she was ready to welcome his arrival, sensing that she was barely more than waiting for him now.
They gasped and murmured and labored together.
They both knew that there could be no stopping until it was a result of exhaustion and success. Stan felt the need to open his eyes and watch her face. It was beautiful. It seemed to mirror all the things he'd felt for so long, all the things he was feeling right now. A drop of water hung, balanced just below her hairline. Stan watched it shake, tremble, and fall....
Eileen's breathing was suddenly punctuated by short cries, as if she were in pain. Stan heard run-together words that he couldn't make out. And then, her fury took hold of him and set him into violent orbit.
And then, the descent, delirious with joy and grief, the beautiful beginning of an end, for which he had to be both grateful and sad.
When he could move, he kissed her. When he could speak, he asked her how she was. A boyish, silly, graceless question. But a question made necessary by the quality of his feelings toward her.
She asked for a cigarette and he lit one for her gladly. As gladly as he would have done anything else under the sun that she might have requested at that moment.
For now, Stan knew, he would be able to communicate to her all the things he'd wanted her to know. Their closeness had miraculously untied his tongue.
"I think I can talk to you now," he said, simply.
Eileen smiled tiredly. "What about work? You have to go back, you know."
"It'll wait." Stan was thrilled by the conviction in his tone. "First I have things to tell you. Things about myself ... and about my wife."
"You've already told me lots," Eileen said. "The other night at Nero's, when you were high-the way she's been acting, and all."
He closed his eyes and pressed his lips to her naked breasts. So she knew about Toni. She'd known all day. And that meant she had to have known what was going to happen once they got to her apartment. She'd wanted him. Openly and unashamedly. He suddenly realized how very much he'd been missing in life.