Inside, I wince. What am I going to tell Paul? How can I tell him? How can I talk to him about anything now? I look at Paul as if I’m seeing him for the first time. I meet a serious gaze from his big blue eyes.
“Hi. You were totally out of it. Look, the steaks are almost ready. Hungry?”
“Very! Have you been here long?”
“I got here maybe an hour ago. Managed to get out of the city early. I really wanted to see you. I missed you.” Paul looks at me, and his cheeks flush scarlet.
I realize that I missed him terribly, too, and I’m very happy to see him. Although... along with that happiness, I feel incredibly awkward. How are things going to be between us now? I’m afraid to walk up close to him, for some reason, or to give him a hug and a kiss. Have I really spoiled everything? Everything had been so easy and natural between us, ever since we first met... was that no longer possible? I look at Paul. There is such sadness in his eyes that it frightens me. Maybe he saw John leaving, or spoke with him. Should I tell Paul about what happened here today? Do I want to tell him? I don’t want to hurt him, but that would hurt. Or would it? Who am I now? A fallen woman? A woman who has taken a lover? Have I taken a lover? I understand nothing.
“Let’s eat, or the steaks are going to burn,” says Paul, his voice hoarse.
We sit down at the table. Paul starts talking about how he got lost while driving here. He had thought of a way to redo his screenplay. Actually, he says, John had given him a great idea. He had been thinking about it the whole trip and had missed the exit. He got off at the next one and spent a long time feeling his way back.
“And what is this great idea?” I really want to know. How is Paul going to add passion to his story?
“It’s really simple. There needs to be a woman. One for both of them.”
“How so?”
“Well, our athlete meets a girl. In a bar, maybe. Or at work. Or at work in a bar. I’m not sure yet. Sparks fly, they’re in love, and then he introduces her to his coach. Then everything gets complicated. Because the coach falls in love with her, too.”
“But you said the coach isn’t a young guy.”
“He’s not an old man, either. Forty is a little too old to compete, but falling in love... no problem with that.”
“What about her?” I ask.
“What about her?” he counters.
“Who does she love? The athlete or the trainer? What does she do, sleep with both of them?”
“Yes, she sleeps with both of them. John said that the more sex there is the better. Sex sells. Right now I don’t know myself which one of them she loves. What do you think?” Paul raises his eyes from his plate and looks at me closely.
I can’t believe it. John is such a bastard. She sleeps with both of them! And now what is she supposed to do? How does she get out of this? And what am I supposed to tell Paul? And why does he look so distraught, like somebody has died or something?
“How should I know who she loves,” I try joking. “I hardly know them.”
“I’ll have you read what I’ve come up with so far. But promise me that you’ll tell me what you honestly think.”
I open my mouth to say that I always tell him the truth, and then I close it again. Today, that would be a lie. Something really has changed between us. Some kind of invisible wall has been erected, and we’re talking to each other through that wall.
“You look terrible! Are you sick?” I try to change the subject.
“I didn’t sleep much. Working a lot, same as usual.” Paul obviously doesn’t feel like opening up.
It’s still pretty light outside, and I tell him I want to work for a while. Paul is also anxious to get back to the computer. I set up my paints and stare stupidly at the canvass. My head is a total muddle. My memory keeps serving up completely unnecessary pictures: Me on the couch. John between my legs. John on the couch. His cock in my mouth. I need to calm down, get myself together.
It’s gradually getting darker. Paul suggests a walk to the lake. I put on a jacket and we go out. We stroll together slowly along the road. At some point, Paul takes my hand. He has big hands, and long fingers. I know them as well as I know my own. I love to look at them and stroke them. He runs a finger over my hand. Inside me, that taut string comes back to life, the one I sensed that morning during my photo shoot with John. Paul runs his finger alongside one of my fingers. His skin is rougher than mine, and all of its uneven contours and small imperfections resonate deep inside of me. I look up at him.
“Shall we go back to the house?” Paul pronounces those words so quietly that I intuit what he’s saying rather than really hear it.
“Okay.” Everything inside me feels squeezed into a painful knot. I’m panicking. I’m going to have to go to bed with him and act as if nothing happened. I won’t be able to. Or will I?
We go upstairs to the bedroom.
“I need to take a shower first,” I tell him, and I shut myself in the bathroom. The expression on my face in the mirror is terrified, as if a stampede of wild animals is after me. “What’s going on? Why this panic?” I ask myself sternly. “You had sex with John, and it was great.” “Yes, but I wasn’t supposed to have sex with him,” I answer myself. “I have a husband. Paul. And I love him. It’s rotten to cheat on your husband. How can I look him in the eye after this?” “Yes, but you’ve never had the kind of pleasure you did with John. Are you afraid that won’t happen with Paul? So what? That was fine for you before.” “That was before,” I am still talking to myself. “But now I know how it can be. I want that again.”
It turned out there was no need to have panicked. When Paul and I were finally both in bed, he rolled over on one side, turned off the light, and said, “Let’s sleep.” And he fell asleep. Just like that. No sex, either good or bad. What was wrong with him? He had said himself that he missed me. I’m afraid. A chill creeps over my soul. I wrap my arms around Paul from behind, press myself close to him, warm up a little, and fall asleep.
Chapter 13. A Weekend with Paul. Sunday
Paul is still acting strangely in the morning. I’m probably acting strangely, too, because I can’t relax. I’m afraid of saying the wrong thing.
Neither of us speaks much. Every so often, I catch Paul looking at me. His gaze holds the sorrow of a doomed man.
“Emmy, we need to talk.” Paul’s voice is so serious that it scares me. Had he decided to leave me? Or is he sick?
“Are you sick?” The words burst out of me.
“No. I’m completely healthy. That’s not it,” says Paul. I exhale in relief. Apparently I hadn’t been breathing. If he’s healthy, then we can fix whatever it is.
“Is it about your screenplay?” I continue to question him.
“No, Emmy, it’s about us.”
I’m panicking again. I can’t keep still and start moving around the kitchen.
“Do we really need to talk right now? Maybe we can talk at home after I get back with my paintings? Otherwise I’m going to get all upset – looking at your face I’m sure I’ll get upset – I won’t be able to work, I’ll cry, I won’t make any money, and we’ll die in poverty.”
“Fine,” agrees Paul, reluctantly. “We’ll talk when you get back. Just so we can die rich. But don’t forget.”
“And you don’t pressure me too much.” I feel a little lighter, as if a weight has been lifted from my soul, and I carefully try to find the clean, clear tone that always used to define our relationship. “You know I don’t like it when people put pressure on me. I’m a creative person.”
“Okay, creative person, go and create.”
And I do. I paint for several hours. Quickly, diligently, in some sort of frenzy. Finding ways to capture the weightless, transparent sunlight over the lake, and its reflection in the water, takes my full concentration. I manage to turn off my thoughts and forget about the guilt I feel towards Paul and Rachel, and about John and the sex we had. I think only about that minute and that lake. And the sunlight.
> Something has changed, in the last few days, in my perception of the world. It no longer appears dull to me. Instead, colors have broken through, and I notice so many small details that it feels like I’m wearing special glasses that can zoom in on the things around me. I also catch more and more new smells. Something seems to have switched on inside of me, some sort of new mechanism for sensing the world around me.
By lunchtime, I need to take a break. Paul and I go into the little town nearby to eat and to buy me groceries for the coming week. I am loading the food into the refrigerator when I feel Paul’s hand on my waist. He is holding me tightly, pulling me toward him. I close the refrigerator door and stand up straight. I can feel Paul’s arousal at my back. I realize unexpectedly that I’m as aroused as he is. All day long, I had wanted to touch him, to feel my skin against his body. Sex with John hasn’t quenched my desire. Instead, it has stirred it up.
Paul bends down and kisses my neck. Then he buries his face in my hair. I try to turn around to face him, but he is holding me tight and doesn’t let me go.
“I want you, Emmy. Right now. Can I have you?” whispers Paul into my hair. A shiver runs across my body.
Silently, in some sort of trance, I walk upstairs. I take off my shirt. I start removing my shorts, but Paul interrupts me. Quickly, impatiently, he strips them off of me himself, along with my underwear, and pushes me toward the bed. I’m lying on my back, but Paul turns me over onto my stomach.
“Get up on your knees, okay?” He’s not whispering anymore. His voice is stronger now, and in the silence it sounds startlingly loud and authoritative. I obediently do what he says. I am so impatient it hurts. He is behind me. He puts his hands on my breasts, and he kisses my neck, then lightly bites it. Suddenly all my sensitivity is concentrated in my nipples. Paul rubs them with his fingertips, and the feeling of arousal overwhelms me. Paul moves his hands to my stomach, and he strokes, kneads, rubs it, still kissing my neck. I start to moan and rub my ass against his chest. Finally his hand moves lower, to where I need him most. He strokes me there with one hand, while his other hand is back on my breast. I’m already so close to my peak.
“Oh, Emmy. What are you doing to me?” Paul breathes out.
He leaves me on the bed, alone. I feel abandoned, wretched. The sound of rustling clothing tells me he is undressing. Then he returns to me, and his hand again comes between my legs. What he’s doing with his other hand I can only guess, because when I try to turn to look at him, he turns my head back to where it was. He doesn’t want me to see him, and he’s not letting me look. This is all very strange, and not like him at all. We’ve never had sex this way, my back to him, not looking. I can’t see him, only feel him. Paul slowly enters me from behind. The sensations I experience surprise me. I remember John, and the expression on his face when he was making love to me on the couch, and immediately, I come. Paul climaxes at almost the same time as I do. I hear him groan out loud.
I collapse onto the bed, on my back now. My ears are ringing, and I have a hard time catching my breath. Paul is breathing hard, too. He lies next to me and again turns me over so my back is to him. He holds me tight and kisses me behind the ear. Neither of us speaks. After a little time, our breathing evens out, and I feel Paul moving his finger across my back, as if he’s drawing something.
I can’t help asking. “What are you drawing?”
“I’m not drawing, I’m writing.”
“What are you writing?”
“My name. I want to imprint you with my name. So you’ll be all mine and everyone will know it.” He says the words slowly, pensively.
Inside me, again, everything clenches tight. I’m already not all his. I have been with John, and I liked it. It’s wrong, but I can’t change it now.
That evening, Paul leaves. I can’t sleep. All night I toss and turn and think about Paul and John. Paul was so unlike himself. What had he wanted to talk to me about? Why had everything changed so much between us? Because I had let John fuck me, and I had offered not the slightest resistance. How am I going to get along with John now? What about Rachel? She had been so nice to me, and she found me a buyer, and planned to use my paintings in her exhibition, and even this house in the mountains had been her idea. And what had I done to repay her?
I’m so worked up I am shaking all over. Yes, my grandmother was right. This is what my good luck has brought me.
Chapter 14. A Creative Approach
Bright and early I am already at work, and I paint all day, almost forgetting to stop to eat. Usually I work slowly. I think things through carefully, erase a lot, and paint them over again. Now it’s as if a dam has burst inside me. I know what I want. I need to correct almost nothing. I’m incredibly happy that I can create right now, and forget, for a while, about everything that has happened. The joy I get from working, from the process itself, is the best medicine for the feeling of guilt that is gnawing away at me.
When dusk falls and I can no longer work, I head out for a walk to the lake. Like an ancient pagan, I feel thankful to the sun, the sky and the lake for just existing, for letting me paint them and, with their help, forget my problems, even if only for a short time. I walk down the slope to the edge of the lake and carefully make my way along the shore.
Suddenly I feel raindrops. Where is that coming from? The sun had been out all day, no clouds at all. I know, because I have been watching the sky nonstop. It starts to rain harder. I strip off my clothes. They’re all wet, anyway, and I’m all alone here. I wade into the lake. The water is warm and gentle. I lie down on my back, spread out my arms, and just float there. Above me the rain pours down. Below me is more water. It seems to me that maybe this is the route to the purification I need, to be born again as Emmy the good girl, who always does what she is supposed to. The lake and the rain accept me, bathe me, as I am: sinful and dirty, with all my filthy thoughts and twisted desires. And unexpectedly, a feeling of peace descends upon me. Maybe the worst is already behind me. Life goes on, as if nothing had happened. I can not change the past, and I can not forget what I had with John. Still, things with Paul had been pretty great last time. Even though he had acted strange, and hadn’t let me look at him, and had taken me from behind. It was a different Paul from the one I knew, more authoritative, more masculine, maybe, a Paul who knew better what he wanted. And this new Paul turns me on much more. Maybe all was not lost for us.
After I went back to the house, took a shower, and got changed, I texted Paul. He has a crazy schedule I can never remember, and he works on his screenplay every free minute, so I don’t usually call him.
Me: Where are you?
Paul: At home, writing. How are you?
Me: I’m thinking about what it was like last time.
I can’t stop thinking about how intense the sensations were, the ones I experienced with both John and Paul. Nothing like that has ever happened to me before. I am starting to understand why some people are so obsessed with sex.
Paul: So? Did you like it?
He knows what I’m talking about right away.
Me: Yeah, I thought it was great. But why wouldn’t you let me look at you? I love to look at you. It turns me on.
Paul: I didn’t know that. Why didn’t you ever tell me?
Me: You never asked.
I look at the phone. We really have never talked about this stuff before. Never. And even now we’re not talking, just texting, even though it would be so easy to hit the button to make a call and hear each other’s voices.
Me: Why don’t we ever talk about it? Why aren’t we talking now?
Paul doesn’t answer for a long time. I wait, staring at the screen. I so much want to have an honest conversation with him, to break down that wall that I sensed between us last time he was here.
Paul: I love you.
Now I freeze. We’ve never talked about our feelings before, either. My first response was to write, “Me too,” but I stop. We’ve lived together for years, he has been my one true friend and lo
ver, and still, I have never told him I love him. And now that I’ve cheated on him with another man, I’m going to declare my love? It seems low and vile. Can what I feel for him even be called love?
For a long time I stay lost in my thoughts. For some reason, it used to be crystal clear to me: I love Paul, he’s the closest person in the world to me, and I could never live without him. There’s still nobody closer to me than him. He knows everything about me. Almost everything, anyway, and I know everything about him, too. We are so good together. We’re the same. Is that love? Is this what Cinderella and Snow White felt when they married their princes? Or were their heads only full of the anticipation of physical intimacy? There had never really been sparks between Paul and me; I had felt so comfortable with him from the very start, and I had never either felt shy with him or craved him. He was an amazing friend, handsome, charming and smart. My grandmother would have approved of him. But here, at a basic, animal level, I had never wanted Paul like I wanted John. So do I love him, or what?
Me: When are you coming to see me?
Paul: Saturday.
Me: I’ll be waiting.
For the next few days, I work like a madwoman. I sleep here and there, and not much, but at least I can sleep now. I dream first of John, then of Paul. In my dreams they both want me, and I can’t refuse either one of them. Every time I wake up in a sweat, and my panties are soaking.
Paul and I never do talk. Instead, we text back and forth regularly.
Me: Long day. I’m beat. How are you?
Paul: Tired. I was thinking about your grandmother today.
Me: ????
Paul: I told my students the story about good luck and bad luck.
Me: What did they think?
Paul: Got a serious discussion out of it. Some of them even accused me of depriving them of all hope. We talked about fate, predetermination and free will.
Romance: The Art of my Love: a story of betrayal, desire, love, and marriage Page 6
