He pushed her away and looked down at her in the dim light of his bedroom. Beads of sweat stood out on her upper lip. Strands of hair stuck to her forehead and temple. He didn’t think he’d ever really aroused a woman before. Her nipples were hard—he turned her and looked—all three of them. He touched the one, the strange one, gave it a gentle squeeze, and a drop of liquid appeared.
His erection grew to what felt twice its normal size.
He rubbed his penis on her leg and took the little nipple in his mouth. He sucked and drew in a tangy little taste. It tasted like… tasted like something fresh, something from his childhood. An experimental taste… He couldn’t quite recall…
He sat up, savoring the flavor, trying to remember, trying to remember.
She touched his arm. He looked at her, at her young face, at her shimmering eyes. He looked at the geometric pattern in the sheets, and it looked different. He didn’t recognize it. Everything was different. Everything seemed to be more sharply defined, as if he had suddenly discovered a new depth of perception.
Colors! He was seeing colors! He closed his eyes and rubbed them, thinking as he did so, that it was the logical cartoon thing for him to do, but when he opened his eyes again, the colors were still there.
Colors everywhere!
His erection gone, his lust forgotten, he leaped out of bed and turned on the light. He grabbed his bathrobe. It was absolutely beautiful. “What color is this?” he asked.
“Kind of a teal,” she said.
“Teal,” he repeated. He picked up a book. “And this?”
“Red,” she began to smile.
“And this?”
“Brown.”
“This?”
“Green.”
“This green too?”
She nodded.
“And this?”
“That has more yellow in it.”
“Yellow?”
She looked around, saw a shirt hanging on the hook in his open closet. “Yellow,” she said and pointed.
“Yellow,” he said with reverence, and he went over and took the shirt out of the closet. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He put it on and then went into the bathroom. He turned on the light. “Ha!” he shouted. “My eyes are green. My bathroom is blue. My towels are…” He brought them into the room.
Orange, she said.
“Orange! Ha!” He went around the room, touching things he’d seen thousands of time before, but always in black-and-white. He’d never known color before, never. He was overwhelmed with the profusion of colors, with the subtleties. He looked at the oiled wood in an oak barstool for a full five minutes. He opened all the cabinets and was shocked with the colors on the packages. The pictures, the paintings on his walls…
Eventually, he remembered the girl in the other room. He went back to her. She was sitting up, smoking a cigarette. Her bra and the discarded garter belt were both red. She smiled at him. “I can’t believe this,” he said. “I’ve never seen color before. Never. It’s uncanny. Suddenly, I can see! I can see!”
She smiled, a slow, amazed smile. “So,” she said, taking a long pull on her smoke. “You’re the one.”
“The one?”
“The one my mama told me about.” She shook her head, stubbed out the cigarette. “Amazing. Fucking amazing.”
Simon looked at her, but he had no patience for her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
“Doesn’t matter.” She put on her garter belt, pulled her flagging stockings back up and fastened them. “I’ll leave you to your colors.” She slipped into her dress, then held out her hand. “Twenty.”
He fumbled for his pants, then fumbled some more in his pockets. He pulled out two bills and looked at them. “They’re beautiful,” he said.
“Yeah,” she said, then took them from him. She opened her purse, stuffed the money inside, then took her lipstick out. “Do ya like red?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Good.” She wrote her phone number on his mirror.
Simon couldn’t believe the diversity of nature. He almost wrecked his car (white with tan interior) driving to work. The world was so green. He marveled at his receptionist (redhead with dark green eyeshadow and pink lipstick), at his waiting room (green walls, green floor, green plants, green draperies, brown chairs), at the colors of the drugs and their labels that he’d seen every day for years upon years. But most of all, he was stunned by the colors of the animals that came through his door.
The first patient was a yellow and black and white cat with the deepest yellowish-green eyes he’d ever seen. He couldn’t stop gushing about how beautiful the cat was. At first the owner was pleased, but as Simon kept petting the cat, staring into its eyes, the owner began to shield her pet from him. Finally she picked up the cat and held her protectively. Simon looked up and the woman regarded him with suspicion.
Simon realized he’d better be careful.
The next was a weimaraner. He couldn’t figure out what color it was. When the owner left with her dog, he called the receptionist in and asked her what color that dog had been. “Sort of liver-colored, I guess,” she said, and suddenly Simon couldn’t wait to do surgery to see what colors lay inside the critters.
Oddly enough, the rich red color of the blood at the first pressure of the scalpel made his stomach turn. He had never been squeamish before, but then he had never seen the color of blood before.
He was astonished at the colors inside the dog he was spaying. He loved it. He wanted to poke about in there all day, he wanted to open her up wide and look at the lungs, at the heart, at the brain.
Self-restraint came hard. But he made his way through the day.
What a marvelous day.
It wasn’t until almost a week later that he took the time to wonder why he could suddenly see colors. It took him almost a week to begin to take the new sight for granted, to have the time to wonder about such things.
It took a week. About as long as his new sight lasted.
At first he noticed that the blood had turned gray.
And then he noticed that all the cats were gray.
And then he noticed that his yellow shirt was gray.
He began to hyperventilate, and had to go for a walk. By the time he got back, the whole world was gray again.
He bought a bottle of wine on the way home to keep him company. Black-and-white company. All that he deserved.
He poured a glass of the gray liquid and sat in his gray chair in his gray living room and drank. He could see the bedroom mirror through the door. He could see her phone number, written in black, on his mirror.
He drank until he couldn’t stomach any more, then lay down on his bed and fell into a restless sleep.
He dreamed in color. Fabulous Technicolor images swept through his psyche for hours. He saw himself in his dream, gaping at the kaleidoscopic images.
When he awoke, he tasted it. Her elixir. He needed more.
Agitated, he called his receptionist and had her cancel his appointments for the day. He needed to think. He needed to plan.
He paced the room, the hooker’s phone number burned into his deformed retinas. He needed to call her. He needed her.
He hated needing her. He felt like a junkie.
She could use him. She had something he wanted, something he needed, and she could blackmail him, she could use that against him. There was no telling what price an unscrupulous prostitute would put on such a personal, rare drug.
He would pay it, whatever it was.
Or would he? Was there a limit? After all, he had lived for almost forty years without seeing colors, and now, after one week, he was ready to sell his soul to have color sight?
It didn’t make sense.
Of course it made sense. He wanted it simply because it was glorious to have, and because for the first time he felt equal with everybody else. He felt normal. He knew that nobody could tell by looking at him that he was different, but he felt differ
ent. He knew. He could tell. And when he had proper sight, he didn’t feel inferior anymore. He’d always lived feeling lower, slimier, less worthy. It took nothing for Simon to tell himself over and over what a worm he was, and believe it.
But that was stupid. He might feel inferior, but he wasn’t inferior.
He had to have his color sight back. It was the one thing, the one thing that made him normal. Absolutely normal. Above ground and on a par with everybody else.
He picked up the phone. And then put it back. He had to have a plan first. He had to know exactly how much he would pay.
He paced into the night, growing ever more agitated.
He called the office and left a message on the service for the receptionist to cancel his appointments for the next day, too.
Then he sat down and let reality flow over him. The idea that he’d had in the back of his mind, that one idea, that bad idea he hadn’t let come forth. It now cloaked his mind like a mildewed blanket.
He wouldn’t pay anything for her. He would have her, hold her, keep her. He would be in control of this situation. He was tired of being on the ends of everybody else’s strings. First his parents, and then the idiots at the medical school. Then his veterinary professors. Then his clients. It was as if he had no balls.
But now he would be in control. For once.
His penis pushed against his pants as it began to swell. He went to the clinic to gather up a few things he needed.
Then he called her.
No sooner had she walked in the door, then he had her on the floor, ripping at her clothes. As he was doing it, he wondered at his behavior, this was so unlike him, but he was so eager, so anxious, so desperate…
And she liked it. She liked it a lot.
Ahhh. The fluid coated his tongue like oil, and when he finished reveling in its odd flavor, he opened his eyes to spectacular color.
He grabbed her hand and pulled her along to the bedroom.
When he was finished, they lay together, she smoking a cigarette, he trying to memorize the nuance of every color, shade, hue, and tone within eyeshot.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Alexandria.”
“Will you marry me?”
She snorted and got up off the bed, gathering her clothes.
He lay calmly, watching her dress. She frowned at him, and showed him the torn seam in her blouse. He’d ripped the button off her skirt, too, and broken its zipper.
She walked over to his side of the bed and stood looking down at him, her long, smooth legs within reach. He reached. She backed away. “Twenty,” she said, “plus another twenty for the clothes.”
“Marry me, Alexandria.”
“No way.”
“Please?”
“Why?”
“I have to have you.”
“You know my number.”
“That’s not good enough,” he said.
“Tough. Give me my money.”
“I’m begging you.”
“Simon,” she said, her eyes earnest. “Your color sight doesn’t come from me.”
He opened the headboard and withdrew a syringe. Before she could react, he grabbed her and shoved the needle deep into her butt. He pushed the plunger and a full dose of animal tranquilizer entered her bloodstream. She stumbled from him, and made it through the living room to the door.
He caught her before she fell, and carried her back to the bedroom.
He spent an hour removing her clothes. He looked at all the colors in her faded denim miniskirt, inside and out. He investigated all the details of her panties, her blouse, her underwire bra. He inspected her from pink-polished toenails, up through bronzed legs, to reddish blond pubic hair, across tan lines to her lovely breasts, the freckles across her chest that matched the ones on her nose, the remnants of red lipstick, and her hair, reddish blond, like down below. She was long and lean, and he liked her lines.
He touched a nipple and it shrank like the sea anemones he’d seen at the aquarium. He touched the other one. It did the same. Then he touched the little strange one, and it too, acted like the others.
He squeezed it, but no fluid came out. He suckled it, but got nothing. He covered her with a blanket and waited for her to waken.
She slept for two days.
He monitored her vital signs with growing dread. After the first day he was certain he had killed her—induced an irreversible coma. You jerk, he said to himself. You lowlife. You worm.
Eventually, she moaned, and turned over, and her eyelids fluttered.
He was so grateful, he cried.
He dressed her in his bathrobe and made her some soup. After she had eaten, and her headache subsided somewhat, he got her up and walked her around the apartment until she felt better. He apologized over and over, but she seemed to have no memory of why she was still there.
He seized upon the opportunity and convinced her that she had merely fallen ill, and he had nursed her back to health.
“How long have I been here?” ‘
“Two days.”
“Two days! I have to call my mother.”
He handed her the phone. She dialed with pale fingers.
“Hi, Mom, it’s Alexandria. I’ll call back later.” She hung up. “Machine,” she said.
She’s reasonable, Simon thought. Surely I can reason with her. “Alexandria,” he said. “We need to talk.”
“About what?” She was looking better by the moment.
“I need you. I want to have you with me. All the time.”
“You mean like live together?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t even know you.”
He got off the bed, onto his knees, and took her hands in his. “Listen. It’s through you that I’ve found life. I’ve become whole. Without you, I’m nothing. I need you. I’ve got to have you.”
She pulled his bathrobe tighter around her. “You’re scaring me,” she said. “I think I better go home.”
“No. Please don’t. Please stay with me. I beg you.”
She got up to leave and he hit her with the needle again. This time, the dosage was right.
When she became unconscious enough, he rigged up an IV, dripping an ever-so-slight mixture, just enough to keep her subdued. He strapped her to the bed, and when she was secure, he showered, shaved, and went to work.
When he returned home, she was in much the same state. He stood looking at her half-lidded eyes, and the pulsing began again in his loins. His dreams of being a doctor flew through his mind. With her, he could be a doctor. He could go back to medical school. Then he would be more than equal. Then, maybe, he would even be a little bit superior for a change.
He walked over to her, and saw the dark circles under her eyes. He saw the gumminess at the corners of her mouth. The nipple stayed dry.
Over the next few days, he kept her in a catatonic state, but the reality was this: Alexandria’s elixir was a product of her arousal, and as long as she was sedated, she would secrete no milk of the gods for him.
Defeated, watching the colors slide into shaded halftones, he took the IV out of her arm, put a bandage over the bruise. He felt even lower now that his last-chance experiment had failed. How long would he have kept her there? Weeks? Months? Years? What had he been thinking? His actions were criminal, were monstrous. He was a slimeball. He should be shot. At the very least, he didn’t deserve her. Didn’t deserve her youth, her body, her devotion, her… her elixir.
He untied her and lay down next to her. She put an arm around him, a heavy, unwieldy arm, and he held her close, crying into her hair, ashamed to the very roots of his soul at what he’d done.
But his self-recriminations hadn’t diminished his excitement, and as soon as she began to respond, he was out of his pants and into her, his hand toying with that odd little nipple. With her half-conscious arousal, it oozed and oozed, and Simon lapped it up like a puppy.
; Once a week. That’s all she would agree to.
Every Monday night at eight o’clock. Every Monday night he waited for her, fear keeping his bowels in a clutch. What if she’d been killed during the previous week? Found somebody to love and moved to Memphis or something?
But every Monday night at eight o’clock, she showed up.
She squealed as he grabbed her in a bear hug and whirled her to the bedroom, where he would tease her until that sweet little gland began to overflow, and then he’d make love to her. He would beg her to marry him and she would laugh him off.
One Monday night he begged her to have his child, and that got a different kind of a laugh. She dressed and left, and Simon lay on his new, wildly colorful bedspread, and thought about that. She could be convinced to have his child, he realized. Then they would be bonded together forever. He went to work on it.
The following week, they lay together on his bed after having some of the best sex of Simon’s life. She was smoking, staring at the ceiling; he was toying with her delicate ear.
“Make you a deal,” she said.
“Hmmm?”
“I’ll have this baby for you on one condition.”
He waited.
“If it has the gift, you must give it up and let my mother and me raise it.”
“The gift?”
“You know,” she said, and he knew what she meant. She meant the nipple. The elixir. The breast from heaven.
This was something he hadn’t considered. What if the baby did have it? Wouldn’t that be a perfect, loyal, lifetime source?
You pervert, he thought. You snake. You would suck your own child’s breast? He was disgusted with himself, especially since he knew he could.
“You would live with me throughout your pregnancy?”
“I could.”
“And after?”
“We’d have to see.”
“And if the baby didn’t have the gift?”
“We’d have to see.”
“Okay,” he said simply, and the deal was struck.
She moved in the next day. Simon came home from work and found her waiting for him in his bedroom. She grabbed him by the tie and pulled him to the bed. Her hungry mouth moved over his while her hands deftly unbuckled his belt, unzipped his pants, and pulled his clothes to his knees.
Love in Vein Page 31
