by Edward Lee
It was a frustrating query. What did she want? She knew she wanted something; there was no doubt. I’m bored silly, she reminded herself, sitting on the plushly upholstered scroll couch in the living room. It was a sad thing to acknowledge. There’s a whole world out there and I’m not part of it.
But she’d realized this all along; she knew it. She’d always known it, as surely as she knew the sun would rise the next morning. And it had never bothered her, had it? Since the accident, and even before, she’d remained quite content with her reclusiveness.
Now, though…
She felt different. She felt changed.
It was an antsiness that seemed to infest her today, something in her heart beseeching her to get up, get out, talk to people, interact—do something. She supposed that Holly would be delighted to know this, proof that her therapies were beginning to strike rents into the social and personal shell that Alice had been encased in for so long. But she’d been feeling a little funny about Holly lately—funny in what way she couldn’t quite define. Perhaps it was that the psychiatrist’s attentions made Alice feel weak, an emotional cripple who needed to be led by the hand through life. Or maybe it was something else; she had no real way of knowing. One thing she did know, though, was that she’d been dormant too long, sheltered by her own fears and apprehensions. How long had it been since she’d actually felt alive?
Too long…
Holly, in all likelihood, would dismiss these feelings as a mere backlash of the George incident. But Alice didn’t think so; in fact, she felt certain it was something else altogether. And discussing it with Holly would only serve up more doubts about herself. If it ain’t broken, Alice quipped to herself, then don’t fix it. Right now she didn’t feel broken at all. She felt, instead, aching to do something, to go somewhere, to, to—
To meet someone, she realized.
Alice got up from the soft couch. The muffled silence of the living room followed her idly through the house. She’d tried to do more gardening earlier, but it had been even hotter today. Instead, she had puttered around inside, napped, and puttered some more. A vicious cycle. Yes, she wanted to meet someone, she knew that now, to allay her boredom, to quench this new-found desire to break out of her once-commonplace solitude.
As she pondered these things, she found herself down in the anteroom of the basement. She looked at the piece of old plankwood she’d slipped out of the mortared wall. scrimm, it read in carven letters. She felt the splintery wood, ran her fingers over it, looked at it. Then she set it down and realized what she was doing again.
I’m making excuses, she thought.
She’d always done that. She’d always taken the smallest distraction and used it as an excuse to keep her down, to keep her the way she’d always been: afraid and alone. The engraved plank was just a useless shaft of wood. Who cared what it was? Who cared what the word meant? She was letting it divert her from her own true feelings.
She wanted to get out. She wanted to go someplace and do something.
She wanted to meet someone.
And, by God, she would.
Without further pretense then, she nearly raced back upstairs, showered, changed—she was ready in no time. She was bristling, enthused—she was happy with herself for following her own impulses, shirking her former inhibitions, and making a solid effort of her own to leave the pretty prison of her house and venture outside.
The night’s warm air made her feel free. The car’s tinted sunroof opened noiselessly at the touch of a console button and the night seemed to flirt with her as she pulled out onto Church Circle and headed down Main Street. She passed the Undercroft without so much as a glance— why go there? Why walk into the same place she’d met Steve—and had listened to all his conniving bullshit? Alice felt like a new person tonight. Why go to places and do things that would only remind her of the old person? The person who had never been happy at all? Maybe she’d thought she’d been happy with Steve, but that was all a lie—
Alice didn’t want lies anymore.
She wanted truth. She wanted something real and honest.
Is that so much to ask? she wondered as the Undercroft’s brick face disappeared in the rearview mirror. She decided then to go someplace she’d never been—it didn’t matter where.
Just go someplace new, she determined.
Yes. Go someplace new. And meet someone.
««—»»
What a wonderful guy, Alice thought. She couldn’t help it; she kept looking across the table at him, smiling, her eyes full of wonder.
Even his name—Micah—was nice. And he’d been perfectly honest about it. “Micah,” she’d said. “That’s a biblical name, right?”
“Actually, no,” he’d chuckled. “I used to tell people that, but if you want to know the truth, it’s from ‘Gunsmoke.’”
“From… what?”
“That old TV show, Gunsmoke. One of the characters was named Micah, so that’s who my parents named me after. They claimed to have been watching the show the night I was conceived!”
What a cute story! And just more to back up her original conception of this man.
Then—
“What’s the big smile for?” he asked.
How embarrassing! “I don’t know,” she said, only because she could think of nothing else. Don’t gawk at him, Alice! she ordered herself. Maybe it was the wrong way to think of another person, but this young man sitting across from her seemed to fill her with a brimming delight, as though she were an antique collector who’d just happened upon a display of rare gimcracks.
She’d pulled into Griffin’s West Street Grill, something of a yuppified public house. Fairly crowded, but not jammed. At first her fears had swooped down on her the instant she’d stepped through the revolving-door entrance. All these people, most significantly younger than she. Most with friends or lovers. And here I am, she thought, walking into a bar by myself.
Her first impulse was to appear normal—she didn’t want to look like a lonely woman here on a lark—but before she could even get to the bar and order a drink, this effervescent young man named Micah had walked right up to her and started talking. It seemed so casual, so easy—she couldn’t be suspicious. And, besides, what could she be suspicious of? What? she thought. That he’s like Steve, a bullshit artist? Some guy just saying the right things because he wants to get laid? Alice couldn’t imagine that; not here, not with this guy. And why?
Because the evidence was plain. If this guy Micah was just looking to smooth-talk some woman into bed, why had he walked right up to Alice? The tavern was abundant with younger and more attractive women. Alice couldn’t help but be at once taken by him, by his carefree sincerity, by the pleasant verity in his eyes. This was no bar predator; Micah was a real person, a genuine person, not just another social fakir. Alice found this all easy to see.
And the rest was even easier. Just interacting with him, just talking. No games. They were two people attracted to one another, sitting in a bar and getting to know each other. What could be more honest than that? What was there to be suspicious of? His subtle southern accent left her absolutely engrossed, as well as the animation with which he spoke, the liveliness of it, the way his face seemed to light up and his hands move as he glided through the conversation. He was a waiter, he’d told her right off the bat, but he was also a professional cartoonist, working on a children’s picture book. He even had an agent, the Tal Agency, he’d said. Here was a man whose zest for life, and for living, couldn’t help but rub off. It was contagious. It was captivating.
And what encouraged Alice even more was his interest in her. Too many men these days rambled on about themselves, as though they were the axis of the universe. They wanted to sound important—which they rarely actually were. They want you to think you’re getting a prize package, she reflected, sipping her beer. Their phoniness was all too evident—like Steve, to make a good example. But honesty rang true, didn’t it? Some things you could just see.
&n
bsp; And Alice was seeing a lot tonight.
Micah didn’t focus solely on himself. After his own introduction he had expressed an obvious and immediate curiosity about her. Where was she from? What did she do? What things did she like, dislike, etc. It was so refreshing to meet someone like this.
And there was one other thing, too.
Micah wasn’t just handsome. He was incredibly handsome.
Not that Alice’s motives were sexual. I didn’t come here with motives, she thought, and she really hadn’t. She just came here to meet someone, to talk to someone. And here he was.
But she couldn’t deny her attraction. He was young and vibrant. He was slim and trim, in good shape. He smoked, which Alice didn’t take to, but she sensed that he realized this, so he went out of his way to smoke very little, and when he did light up he kept the cigarette under the table, so the smoke wouldn’t go in her eyes.
“Another one?” Micah asked, pointing to her tall, empty glass.
“Well, I shouldn’t,” she responded. “I’m not much of a drinker.”
“Well, how about a Coke or something?” he inquired.
Still more proof of his verity. The average guy would be trying to ply her with drinks, to loosen her up, to get her drunk. But not this man, not Micah. It seemed to be part of him, his persona, his honesty. If he wanted to get me drunk, Alice realized, he’d be goading me to have another beer. Whatever it was they were drinking—some tap beer called Stoudt’s Fest—was very good.
“Oh, what the hell. I guess I’ll have another one of those,” she said.
Micah got up and went to the bar to order another round. Alice caught her eyes following him.
Yes, he was very attractive.
And his obvious interest in her only made her feel better. With all the younger, prettier women he could be talking to, he was talking to her. And another thing she’d noticed: not once had his eyes strayed elsewhere. Not once had there been a doubt or a second thought or a regret…
They’d talked easily and without uncertainty for several hours. Time slipped away for Alice, and next thing she knew, the bartenders were announcing last call. “We can get one more if you’d like,” Micah suggested.
Alice thought about it, and the only reason she didn’t agree was because she didn’t want him to think she was a lush. “I’d better not,” she said instead. “It’s later than I thought; I’ve got to be getting home.”
And here was the real test. What would his reaction be? Would he push her? Blow her off as a loss?
But none of that happened. Instead, he’d smiled, genuinely, honestly, and said, “It was great talking to you. I really had a good time.”
“Me, too,” Alice returned. She wasn’t drunk, or even buzzed. She simply felt nice. She felt good. And what made her feel even better was Micah’s unfeigned whole-heartedness. If he was just some typical barhound trying to get into my pants, he’d be all over me by now, she realized.
And that said a lot to her. An awful lot.
But the night was at an end. Did she really want it to be? Micah had proved his genuine worth…
“If you’d like to go out sometime,” he offered next, “give me your number. I’ll give you a call.”
Alice weighed this, but she already knew. He wasn’t pushing her to go home with him now. He’d had a good time with her and he wanted to see her again.
“Why don’t we have a nightcap?” Alice said.
“Oh, okay,” Micah replied. “I’ll order one more round.”
But Alice held up her hand, stopping him.
“That’s not what I meant,” she said. “I meant let’s have a nightcap at my place.”
««—»»
“What a great house,” he remarked. “This place is beautiful.”
“Thanks,” Alice said. “I really like it. It took a long time to get everything just right.”
She gave him a quick tour of the Taylor Watch House, explaining what it had been in post-Revolutionary times. “It was like a sentinel post,” she said, remembering what the real estate agent had told her. “Before they built the City Dock, the little estuary out back was where the ships would come in to pick up shipments destined to Britain. My street, in fact, was the major marketing hub for all the colonies up until the very late 1700s, when the trade embargoes ended.”
“That’s pretty cool,” Micah remarked. “You’re living right on a little spot of history.”
Alice smiled; this seemed an appreciative comment, and still more proof of Micah’s sincerity. He was no predator at all; if he were that, it would’ve been plain by now—actually, it would’ve been plain hours ago.
“But why do they call it a watch house?” he asked.
“Because there were watchmen who lived here. It was their job to be on the lookout for British freighters. Then they’d light a fire pot at the shore and guide the ships in.”
“Kind of like a lighthouse.”
“Yes, exactly. Evidently, the watchmen lived here in shifts, and they’d have transport records from previous dockings that would tell them roughly when to expect the next ships. There was a big trade surplus back then. Most of the ships from England came here empty and paid gold or cash for the goods they took back.”
Then Alice took him back through the den, the living room, the kitchen.
“And this room here,” she said, “was where the watchmen sat on their post. They called it the watch room.”
Micah was dumbstruck when they entered the darkened bedroom and gazed out the French doors, onto the bay. The open night sky seemed luminous, reflecting a haze of starlight over the water. The low moon hovered.
Alice stared.
“It such a beautiful night, isn’t it?” she whispered.
“Yes,” Micah whispered back and took her hand. “It’s beautiful, like you.”
It was the only natural thing that remained; by then, in fact, Alice wasn’t even wondering anymore. All she felt was the capricious reeling of her expectancy, the sudden heat in her heart, and a ravenousness that seemed to be consuming her like fire. She felt eminent in her desire, goddesslike.
She felt like what he’d just said she was:
Beautiful.
Gentle kisses turned ardent in moments, enticingly savage. Micah squeezed her body against his where they stood, one hand playing with her buttocks, the other sliding up and down her back. Alice’s hands did likewise. Her nipples stiffened at once against his chest, and as her thigh pressed into his groin something of his own grew, too, just as suddenly. A finger of the hand cupping her buttocks delved deeper and up, and when it touched the bottom apex of her sex through her jeans, a well of fluid desire discharged.
The night inspired her, and the moon, the stars, the hardness that she could feel against her thigh. All these things commingled to transform her into a new and very different woman. They encroached, became in league, to parole a shunted lifetime’s worth of passion, to emancipate them with the heat that felt as though it were burning off her. As their kisses delved, she unbuttoned his shirt while he unbuttoned her blouse, until their bare chests rubbed and pressed. His mouth sucked all the air out of her lungs; she went dizzy each time, her eyes rolling up beneath closed lids.
Alice was delirious now; she was smoldering, every square centimeter of her flesh inflamed and blushing, like a prickly rash of lust that could only be soothed by hand and tongue. Next she was pulling on him, still dizzied, panting into his ear as her hand boldly rubbed the front of his slacks.
“Out here, out here. Please…”
A momentary hesitancy caught in his throat. “What? You mean—”
“Yes! Out here! On the balcony!”
“But—but the neighbors might s—”
Her voice grated. “Fuck the neighbors—”
And out they went, through the French doors and out onto the elevated back deck. They fumbled with each other during the quick journey, hands prodding, tweaking, touching, fingers working belt buckles, buttons, and snaps. The
sudden night sounds caressed them, and the night itself bloomed. No, the neighbors wouldn’t see, and if they did, she didn’t care.
Their shoes were kicked off as they continued to haphazardly strip each other. Micah’s black shirt was tossed aside and caught like a hanging shadow on the potted morning glories. Alice’s white blouse was flung over the back deck’s railing, where it floated ghost-like to the weedy, lapping shore. She leaned against the rail, her head inclined and her eyes opened wide on the glittering sky, as her lover knelt to slowly peel her jeans down her legs. He barely noticed her prosthesis; in fact, he didn’t seem to notice it at all as suddenly her legs opened to his leveled gaze, her total nudity now divulged for him in the light-flecked darkness. A split-second cognizance alarmed her; she realized then that she’d worn no panties, something she’d never done in her life, but all for the better now.
Her sex felt like a separate living thing when, still on his knees, this handsome, charismatic young man from the south let a finger trace down over the tender folds.
“Please, please,” came her searing whisper. She gently grabbed his hair and coaxed his face to her spread loins.
Micah’s expertise was evident after only the first moment. She sat up precariously on the railing, her ankles locked around his shoulders. Her ecstasy was cresting so fast it seemed impossible, it seemed otherworldly, as though they were two enfleshed phantoms in some hot nether place where desire and sensation were perpetual. She sucked her stomach in, sighed in gasps, her hips tremoring outward from the sizzling bud of her sex, and in only a few more moments she was but a hair away from having her orgasm right there in his face. Indeed, this prelude to the crisis made her feel strangely manlike in a way, that the mounting sensations were building up to some great gust of fluids, that she would come like a man, ejaculating right into his mouth…
And this she nearly did in the following moment, her spasms of pleasure so rapid and overwhelming that her tightened throat released a series of repressed shrieks that scurried off into the night like the tiniest swifts or sparrows. One hand remained behind her, propping her up on the rail, while the other was clenched in his hair, her lust so greedy now that she was essentially fucking his face with her sex…
