The Burden of Matter

     He apparently found her amusing, and she doubt­ed that he was often so animated. Of course, she let him do most of the talking. His dark eyes were hypnotic, seldom leaving hers. She was thrilled (though it seemed natural enough) when he reached out and touched her hand. She didn’t withdraw hers until the waiter returned with the check.

     She listened intently as he spoke of a novel he was writing. It concerned a young poet who romanticized evil, inspired by Baudelaire. “But poetry fails him,” he said, “when he confronts the evil in his own life—his father’s murder. He turns to prose for revenge.” He said the title, After Hours, came from a piano solo that suggested sex.

     “Do you think sex is evil?” she ventured.

     “Not as evil as no sex.”

     He smiled, which, she had noticed, he rarely did at his own quips. To change the subject, she mentioned her classes in dramatics. She intended to enroll again after finding a job, she said. They agreed that art demanded, and deserved, great sacrifice. Both expressed their aversion to living at home, their contempt for Washington, and their hatred of the times. He took a cynical view of women. “Baudelaire says each woman costs the writer a book.” She countered that some women could give the writer a book. When he said she was different, she knew she had made an impression.

     From then on, she felt they were marking time, as though a certain number of hours or words had to pass . . . How long would it take? Would he ever stop talking and kiss her?

     Alan, meanwhile, had concluded that doting males had hopelessly spoiled her. How many places had they visited before she was satisfied? He asked himself (half seriously) whether her whims were worth putting up with. He appreciated, though, her request to return to Joan’s in consideration of time and distance. On the way to the car, her hand found his inside his overcoat pocket. Was she only flirting? How far would she go? He hesitated to risk her displeasure by testing, but realized that such scruples might vanish with further encouragement.

     Snow falling lightly filled the footprints of the Hugheses’ departed guests. He watched it cling to Donna’s lustrous hair and turn into drops. They entered the house and quietly closed the door. The only light was a streetlamp, the only sound an occasional footstep overhead. At his touch she slowly drew near. He opened her coat. Finding the small of her back, he clasped bare flesh and held her close. She melted against him as he found her lips.

     At first her lips were only slightly parted, but restless fingers stroked his neck. Her elusive scent mingled with the alcohol in his brain. Soon their kisses became a wild exchange of sallies. Her desire was now obvious, his urgent, and he drew her toward the sofa in the living room. The warm hand clinging to his left little doubt that he would have her.

     She paused, however, at the sound of creaking stairs. “Alan—” she whispered in hesitation. And when he clasped her again, “Don’t you think we should wait?” A moment passed, and another, before he could bring himself to agree.

     “Until tomorrow,” he promised. A long kiss later, he stepped out into the cold, white world.