“This one’s rather interesting,” I commented. It didn’t hurt that the man was beautiful, slender and muscular. I glanced at John, suddenly a little embarrassed. The way he wore his clothes told me that could easily be him in the painting.
“You really like it?” he asked seriously.
“Yes, I do.” I drained my glass.
He immediately took it from me and I watched him walk over to a wastebasket. He moved like a man who was comfortable with the fact that he was attractive but he did not seem obsessed by his looks. He was self-confident in a relaxed, unpretentious way.
Returning to my side, he rested his right hand lightly on the small of my back and we walked over to another painting that looked like a photograph of a river and trees seen from some unlikely bird’s-eye perspective.
He bent over and whispered in my ear, “Do you like this one, Ariana?”
“No,” I replied at once, but I definitely liked the feel of his breath against my skin. I had tucked my hair behind my ear to keep it out of my eye and suddenly imagining his warm tongue tracing its seashell-like curves made me feel weak in the knees.
“Why don’t you like it?” he insisted.
“Because it’s not saying anything.”
“To you.”
“To anyone.” I became passionate. “It’s not expressing a vision of the world—it’s just copying it. I mean obviously the artist is an excellent craftsman but…” I shrugged. “Where’s the mystery? It doesn’t intrigue me. It doesn’t draw me in… I don’t know. I just don’t like it.”
“I don’t like it either. Let’s get out of here.”
My left hand brushed his right one as we turned toward the door and the contact set off a devastating series of explosions in my nerve endings. Before I knew it my slender fingers had slipped between his strong ones and I had absolutely no desire to untangle them even as my mind warned me it was much too soon to be feeling this way. Then he gave my hand a gentle squeeze and I suffered the impression he was reassuring me, telling me it was all right, that he didn’t think less of me for so quickly succumbing to the inevitable. In fact I was sure he respected me for not playing games and pretending I didn’t want him to touch me.
We stepped outside into a current of gallery-going pedestrians. I quickly scanned the crowd for any potential competition and was pleased not to spot any. There were quite a few young women on the street dressed to the hilt and more mature, elegant ladies in tight black pants and dresses but with my hand in John’s I was the night’s undisputed queen.
“Are those sandals comfortable to walk in, Ariana?”
“Yes, that’s why I bought them.”
“Not because your legs look great in them?”
We smiled at each other again.
My God, I thought, this can’t be happening! I tried to figure out exactly what was happening but I couldn’t think past the happiness consuming me. My veins felt like fuses this man had lit all at once without warning.
We went to three more galleries on the same block and agreed there really wasn’t much of interest in any of them. Wonderfully enough, we seemed to share a similar taste in art. The only piece we both lingered over was a life-sized sculpture.
Two prone figures struggled to emerge from a single piece of black stone, where they were caught in the act of making love. The man’s arms were straight and ribbed with muscles, forming two columns on either side of the woman, whose face was raised to his in a passionate kiss, and yet the place where their bodies merged was a smooth, peaceful darkness.
“Wow,” I whispered reverently. “This is beautiful!”
“You think it’s beautiful?”
I glanced at him. Three faint lines were traced into his forehead as he stared at the piece.
“Of all the things we’ve seen tonight this is the only one that’s really grabbed me,” I declared fervently.
His eyes met mine briefly, almost shyly. “Really?” He looked back at the stone couple as though he couldn’t quite figure out how he felt about them.
“Yes, really but then again I’m slightly biased toward sculptures,” I confessed.
He gave me his full attention. “And why is that?”
“Because I like to work with clay in my spare time.”
“You like to work with clay in your spare time,” he repeated slowly, as though I had spoken another language he was translating to himself. Then he frowned. “You sculpt?”
“Um, not really, I just like playing with clay. I love art but I’m primarily a word person.”
“So you’re a writer?” His tone was almost interrogative.
“Yes.” Not in the mood to talk about my job and anxious to drop a subject that for some reason seemed to disturb him, I walked away toward a painting.
He fell into stride beside me. “You’re an artist?” His quiet voice sounded incredulous.
“What’s so hard to believe about that?” I snapped, my Cuban temper surging up for an instant. “I mean, just because I’m—”
“There’s nothing hard to believe about it at all, Ariana.” The way he smiled down into my eyes made me completely forget what I had been about to say. “I should have known you weren’t just beautiful on the outside,” he added in an undertone, as though talking to himself.
“Why?” I was compelled to inquire just as quietly.
He reached up and lightly traced one of my cheekbones with two slightly rough fingertips. It was intoxicating the way his eyes looked straight down into mine as he smiled. His dark gray irises were infinitely soft and yet the personality behind them was strong and I responded to it with an irresistible warmth spreading up through my body from between my thighs.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
His eyes narrowed. “So am I.” He got a firm grip on my hand and began leading me toward the back of the gallery.
I wondered if he knew of another piece I might find interesting or if he was just looking for food. If so he was doomed to disappointment because they didn’t appear to be serving anything at all here.
It wasn’t until I found myself alone with him in a dimly lit corridor leading away from the ocean-like roar of the art-loving crowd that I dared to understand. I was the appetizer my date intended to enjoy before dinner.
“Where are we going?” I asked innocently, not sure how I felt about yet another man I barely knew steering me into the back room of a public building.
He opened a door marked Private and plunged me fully in the thrilling throes of déjà vu. The office he pulled me into was different from the one in which another man had fucked me only a few hours ago and yet it was exactly the same in its impersonal anonymity. I suffered a sobering stab of Catholic school girl guilt but the psychological pang was easily washed away by the sudden warm flood of desire between my legs.
Yet I already felt this man was special and I was afraid of giving him the wrong impression about me. I wanted him to respect me and to want to see me again. “John…” I began uncertainly.
“Don’t speak,” he whispered, closing the door behind us.
The small room was lit by a brass lamp that cast a romantic light over a mess of papers strewn across a wooden desk. That was all I had time to notice before our lips met and everything else ceased to matter. The contact was literally electric as static electricity built up in the expensive carpet traveled up the sleek black lines of his suit and made me cry out and draw back from the shocking pleasure of our first kiss.
We stared deep into each other’s eyes for a second and then both his arms slipped possessively around my waist, forcing my hands up onto his broad shoulders as he pushed me back against a wall.
I clung to him as he kissed me so passionately my ability to think spun out of control. I had never been kissed with such devouring intensity before and I wasn’t sure I liked it even as I couldn’t help loving it. I also loved how fiercely he pressed me against him.
He lifted my shor
t skirt and tugged my panties halfway down my thighs. The powerful air-conditioning licked my wet sex and made the sensation of his warm hand cupping and stroking it even more deliciously mind-blowing.
“You’re going to come for me,” he said matter-of-factly, as if it was the most reasonable thing for me to do with only a thin unlocked door separating us from an art gallery full of people.
I meant to protest. I meant to tell him that I couldn’t possibly come on command like that but his fingers took over my thoughts and any ability I possessed to express them.
Two of his fingers met with shamefully little resistance as he slipped them up inside me urgently, as if to remind me that at any moment someone could walk in on us so I had better hurry up and obey him. I sensed how much the danger of discovery aroused him as he plugged his excitement into me with hard stabbing strokes. Fear and pleasure rose indistinguishably inside me as I clung to his shoulders, rising up on tiptoe even beyond the reach of my high heels.
“Oh God, John!” I breathed. “Stop, please!”
“Not until you come,” he said firmly.
“No!” I moaned.
“Yes!” he whispered in my ear. “Come for me, Ariana. I’m commanding you to.” His thumb teasingly caressed my clit, brushing it over and over again as lightly as a feather…
A feather plucked from my beautiful guardian angel’s wings as they suddenly seemed to burst open between my legs as I climaxed. I can’t control myself when I come—I can’t possibly keep quiet, and the orgasm I suffered then was so intense I think I might have screamed if he hadn’t clamped his left hand over my mouth to silence me.
“That’s my girl. Now we can have dinner.” He slipped my panties back up and smoothed my skirt down. He opened the door and deliberately let me feel the sticky juices coating his fingers as he led me back out into the public eye before I was even remotely ready.
“I hope you’re planning to wash up before dinner,” I remarked weakly.
His quiet laughter blended wonderfully with how sensually languid I felt casually brushing shoulders with people who, amazingly enough, didn’t seem to notice that my soul was no longer my own. It had poured straight out of my body into this beautiful man’s hand so that I never wanted to let go of it again.
* * * * *
When I got home later Mami was waiting for me on the couch as though I was still fifteen years old and had been out on my first date. She was wearing a new multi-colored silk robe that in my euphoric state made me think of a stained-glass window melted around her by the warmth of her spirit. I thought of saints rescued from a cold church resting against her soft skin as I sat down beside her.
“Well?” she demanded, frowning slightly as she observed my flushed cheeks and beatific smile.
“Well what?” I sing-songed.
“You flew down for a funeral and you’re already in love?” she accused.
“Love and death walk hand in hand,” I declared inanely.
She crossed her arms as if to defend herself from trite sayings and settled determinedly back against the cushion. “Is he another American?”
I sighed and tossed the hair out of my eye. The question had the effect of a needle bursting my euphoric bubble and yet, to my surprise, I found that my heart still felt wonderfully full. Search as I might I couldn’t seem to find a single doubt about John in my mind.
It was Rosa’s turn to sigh with exaggerated patience as she waited for me to snap out of my reverie and face the usual firing squad of questions. In her mind this man, and my possible relationship with him, was condemned to death until time proved otherwise, as it never yet had unfortunately.
“Mami,” I said firmly, “I don’t want to talk about him yet.”
“Why not?”
“I just can’t.”
“Why, is there something about him you don’t want me to know? He’s…” She uncrossed her arms as she sat up. “He’s not married is he?!”
I winced. Panic had raised her voice several decibels right next to my ear. “Of course not, you know I would never get involved with a married man. That’s like buying a one-way ticket to the moon.”
She laughed, more with relief than at my silly image.
“He’s different, Mami,” I said fervently, looking straight into her eyes, willing her to believe what I saw in this man—the very real possibility that everything I had ever dreamed of could come true with him. Then I added the clincher, “His father’s side of the family is from Northern Italy.”
“Well why didn’t you say so?” She slapped my thigh by way of an affectionate reprimand. I also knew it reminded her of the time when I was a baby and we could be innocently warm and close to each other physically. “When can I meet him?”
“Soon,” I replied truthfully. “I want to have him over for dinner. And now I’m going to bed,” I announced as the euphoric force field left over from my evening with John suddenly gave way beneath a flash of exhaustion. “It’s been a long day.”
“Ay, si, pobresita, hasta mañana.” She got up to hug me. “I’m so glad you’re here, Ari.” She didn’t ask me how long I could stay but somehow I felt the question expressed in the wordless sentences of her arms, along with the weak but stubborn hope that maybe John would make her dream come true by getting me to move back down to Miami.
Chapter Four
The next day Mami went to meet some friends for lunch on Miracle Mile. Naturally she had wanted me to go with her but I begged off. I prefer to have only a light snack for lunch and I was in no mood to be grilled about my love life. So here I was alone in my childhood home, which felt painfully like a snail’s shell I had outgrown as time suddenly began dragging more slowly than seemed possible. I had personally proved the relativity of time on countless occasions while waiting for a man to whom I was irresistibly drawn to call me.
I didn’t consciously intend to search the black depths of my purse for the white fragment of paper on which Eric had written his phone number but I did, and there it was. Having some calling power myself made me feel better for a few seconds but then thinking about another man only made me ache to see John again even more. Well, he had both Mami’s number and my cell phone number. I had given him everything I could for now.
I spent the rest of the day recovering from the previous day even while engaged in the mysteriously strenuous exercise of trying to relax and pretend not to care if John ever called me or not. It would have been easier to run a five-hour marathon. Pride be damned, I cared very much whether John called me again or not. By six o’clock I was so upset I hadn’t heard from him that I picked up the phone on my nightstand, snatched up the paper with Eric’s phone number on it as I sat up in bed and dialed it. Part of me felt strangely weightless, as though I was adrift in an empty universe.
“Yeah?”
My breath caught. I hadn’t really expected him to answer. “Eric?” I asked stupidly.
“Ariana?”
The almost vulnerable way he said my name made me feel better for an instant. Before I could regret calling him I said, “Still feel like that drink, Eric?”
“Of course. I’m on my way home but it won’t take me long to shower and change. How about if I pick you up at eight? If you give me your—”
“Let’s just meet somewhere. I feel like taking a walk. How about if we rendezvous at the bar of the hotel on the corner of Ponce and Andalucia at eight o’clock?”
“I’ll be there.”
“Great.” I hoped my voice didn’t sound too flat. I switched off the phone and collapsed back across my pillows. I fully expected John to call now because I had made other plans, plans I would not hesitate to break, but that wasn’t the point. The point was now that I was technically not just waiting around for him to get in touch with me, he would. I should have known better than to think I could trick the universe.
While I showered and changed, while I put on my makeup and brushed my hair, both telephones remained stubbornly silent. Making sure it was fully charged, I put m
y cell phone in my purse where for a few seconds it glowed with a violet light expressive of my deepest hope. Then, grateful Mami still hadn’t returned and I didn’t have to answer any questions, I walked out the door to go meet one man because I couldn’t handle how much I longed to see another.
* * * * *
It was still uncomfortably warm outside but the cruel sun had descended to play with a final mellow burst of energy in the jungle-like backyards of my mother’s street. Most of the homes were hidden behind private stone walls over which only the branches of old trees were visible. As I walked—enjoying the evening breeze caressing the hot, damp nape of my neck when I lifted my hair up with both hands—I was resigned to the fact that I would have to go back to my rent-control apartment in Boston.
I had forgotten that it’s a good idea to put your hair up when you decide to walk anywhere in Miami but it was too late now. Anyway, I didn’t give a damn if my hair was a mess when I got to the bar or not. With every step I took, my mood became more and more glum.
I had sincerely believed John enjoyed my company last night as much as I enjoyed his but his twenty-four hour silence felt like a killing frost to my instincts. I was forced to consider the possibility I had only imagined our intense attraction to each other. Maybe part of me was more upset by my recent break-up than I realized. Obviously I had been unconsciously searching for a net to break my fall and I had chosen an enigmatic stranger from a funeral home. I didn’t even want to think about my slutty behavior in the locksmith’s shop and in the back of a gallery full of people yet there was no denying to myself it was one of the reasons I was walking to the Colannade Hotel now. If I dated Eric for as long as I was in Miami I would feel a little less guilty about what I had let him do to me when he was still essentially a total stranger.
I emerged from the quiet backstreet onto the 42nd Avenue sidewalk wondering just how many little games I played with myself mentally and emotionally I wasn’t consciously aware of. The roaring, surging traffic made me stop at the intersection as I waited for the light to change and suddenly I realized I was going entirely against my inner signals. My intuition kept flashing red for Eric and glowing green for John. He could be the one to help me go where I had always dreamed of going in a relationship. Obviously I was color-blind!
Faith in the Flesh Page 4
