He kisses me, his lips and tongue demanding and I give in to him, letting my legs fall open where he’s pressed against me. While our mouths play, he handles my breasts roughly, squeezing and kneading, tweaking and pinching my nipples. It’s not long before I’m writhing underneath him and making small, pleading noises between desperate kisses.
“Please. Please, master. I need you. Please.”
He torments me for a few more minutes. I’ve picked up on this little trick of his. Waiting long enough after my requests to make it clear he’ll do as he pleases. It’s his choice, but part of the calculus is what I want. The effort he puts into the equation melts me.
He strips his clothes, not folding them neatly like he usually does but leaving them in a heap on the bed, and the small detail makes me feel powerful in my own fragile way. Then he’s pressing inside of me, no fingers to check if I’m ready because he knows I am. With each forceful thrust, the wax on my back rubs against the tarp, some of it shedding. It creates this unique friction, like nothing I’ve ever felt before. So many new things he’s shown me and there’s so much more to see. I take advantage of my hands being free to hold onto him while we’re joined, my fingertips digging into the musculature of his back. Not to hurt him—not that I could—but to clasp him to me, to feel as much that he belongs to me as I belong to him.
I feel blessed when we do this, as though we’re fulfilling our purpose. It’s as if we are one soul.
It doesn’t take long before my climax is building. I rock my hips up to get the contact that’s going to send me over the edge and he threads fingers through strands of my hair, anchoring my head to the ground, the tension in my scalp sending an extra quiver of lust through me.
“Fly for me, little bird.”
His demand sends a gust of wind under me and I spread my wings and glide on it, calling out his name and clutching at him as I come apart. The contractions of my muscles around him encourage his own release and he lets himself go, plunging hard into me as he comes.
When our breath has evened out, he kisses my cheek and nuzzles at me, the unexpectedly fond gesture making me ache. Not that he’s unkind otherwise, but I wouldn’t mind some affection outside of when we’ve been intimate. I’ll take what I can get though, bask in the warmth of the aftercare and pretend it’s more than circumstance, kink, and sex that’ve drawn us together.
Withdrawing, he offers me a cloth and turns me onto my stomach. I’d forgotten all about the wax, scattered as I am, but the removal certainly reminds me. It doesn’t hurt precisely, but there’s a tugging, pulling, stripping away that makes me feel like I’m losing a layer of skin. It makes me feel vulnerable in a way I haven’t before and tears pool in my eyes before rolling down my face, dripping into my hair and onto my arm where my head is cradled.
It doesn’t take Elan long to notice and when he does, he talks to me in low nonsense words, interspersing the removal of the wax with featherlight caresses that feel electric on my sensitized skin. By the end, I’m sobbing and shaking, my entire body on fire like an exposed nerve. But he covers me, comforts me, takes me into his arms and carries me to our small bathroom. Holds me while the bath fills part way and then wedges his huge body into the undersized tub to hold me in the tepid water.
Curled up in his lap, my head resting against his chest, I start to calm. By the time he’s helping me dress then spooning me on my side of the bed, he’s eased me enough to fall asleep. When I startle awake in the middle of the night, coming to consciousness with the feeling of freefalling with no wings, he’s there. He doesn’t usually hold me through the night, probably because it’s uncomfortable lying on the gap between the beds, but tonight he is. The selfless gesture of concern is touching.
“Go to sleep, little bird. I’m not going anywhere.”
*
I haven’t returned to my habit of retreating to my office in the evenings. I don’t crave Elan’s company in quite the same way when I’m not niddah, but I figure it’s a good precedent to establish. The softer emotional and verbal connections don’t seem so important when we’re able to come together physically, but my period is getting closer, I can feel it. I’m especially conscious of wanting to build the familiarity now so I have something to hang onto during those twelve days. Not like last time when I was left drowning in loneliness, my wings sodden, no flight possible.
Not to mention that our after-dinner study sessions have become, secretly, one of my favorite times of the day. Me with my notebooks and papers to grade, Elan on the other side of the table with his Torah or gemora or one of his seforim, his brow wrinkled thoughtfully as he faithfully performs his learning.
I’m in awe of his devotion to his studies. Unlike me, he’s not held responsible by a class full of expectant students, and I doubt even Moyshe would comment if he took a night or two off every week.
But no. Nearly every night, unless there’s something he needs to attend to for the shop or he’s just so bone-tired from a long day that he heads straight to bed after dinner, always he’s at our table with his books before we go to sleep. Am I allowed to call his dedication sexy? Because it totally is.
He barely looks up as I put my things down across the table from him but I think there’s a vague curl of the corner of his mouth as I sit. The quiet togetherness feels familiar, a casual marker of pleasant domesticity. I’m not sure if he feels that way or if he wishes his strange wife would take her scribbling and annoying habit of reading things I need to clarify out loud to a different room of the apartment. But he’s never asked so here I’ll sit.
I crack the binder that has my lesson plan in it and look at what’s scheduled for my section of the department’s intro class the next day. Food, another one of my favorite lectures. I’ve made it a habit to stop by a kosher bakery on the way to this class because if there’s one thing I’m sure of in this life, it’s that college students love free food. In the spring I try to schedule this particular lecture near Purim so I can bring hamantaschen. Mostly because aside from brisket, it’s my very favorite Jewish food. My fall semester students usually get fallback cookies—rugelach or macaroons.
It’s not just about sweets though. One of the reasons I like this lecture is because everyone eats. Everyone understands the notion of dietary restrictions. Though some of my students will no doubt wrinkle their noses because the idea of not being able to eat something “because G-d says so” is far more bizarre to them than because of allergies, or it’s not paleo or whatever the latest fad diet is, they’re usually quite animated.
While I’m reviewing the strictures of Jain vegetarianism, I have an idea.
“Elan?”
I’ve clearly called him out of some sort of deep concentration because it takes him a few blinks to focus on me and he looks a little startled.
“I’m sorry, go back to your—”
“It’s fine. What do you need?”
Need is a strong word but now that I’ve interrupted him I can at least ask, not make the disturbance for naught.
“Would you maybe be willing to…” I moisten my lips between my teeth because this is a far bigger ask than I’d thought at first. He’ll have to take the time off, he’s not overly fond of public speaking, he—
“Tzipporah, what is it? What do you need?”
“Would you come to my afternoon class tomorrow? We’re talking about food.”
His brows draw together and lines form on his forehead. “You want me to talk to your students?”
“Yes.” Now that I’ve had a minute to think about it, I’m getting even more excited. “They’ll love you.”
Suspicion turns his head and he eyes me warily. “Why? Because they’ve never seen an Orthodox Jewish man before? They want a matched set?”
Why is that the first place his mind goes? Something unflattering? Granted, my first-year survey students aren’t always the most sensitive and I’ve had to cultivate patience in dealing with some of their less couth questions, but they’re generally on their best behavior with vis
itors.
“No. They get bored listening to me yammer on and on day in and day out. They like guest speakers. And you know you’re far more proficient with Jewish dietary restrictions than I am.”
The last is a bit of a joke. I can poke fun at myself now because I feel as though he’s not so disappointed when I absent-mindedly mess up keeping kosher anymore. He’s accepted it as a price of being married to me, one I hope he doesn’t find too high. Dare I hope he’s even come to find it close-to-if-not-quite endearing? It hadn’t been so insulting when he shook his head when I’d confessed my latest kitchen transgression.
“All right, my little bird,” he’d said after I’d accidentally grabbed a milk ladle and stirred the boiling-over chicken soup with it. “I was in the mood for shawarma anyhow. But next time, pay more attention, yes?”
I’d nodded, and as we’d put on light coats to protect against the crisp late fall air, he’d kissed me on the forehead and I’d flushed with delight. But now he doesn’t seem to find it funny.
“I don’t think so. Not this time.” He’s tried to soften the blow by hinting he might be game in the future, but I feel his refusal acutely.
“Of course. You’d probably need to give Reuven more notice than that.” Yes, I’ll make his excuses for him, to myself. Then maybe this won’t feel so bad.
*
In the morning, I stop by the bakery on my way to the subway and get one package of rugelach. Then think better of it and pick out a box of macaroons as well. And then think still better and grab two of each. College students are like human garbage disposals.
Arriving at my classroom with my sack of goodies, I’ve managed to shrug off the touchy mood I’ve found myself in since last night. It really is fine that Elan didn’t want to come today. As Bina was perceptive enough to point out, he doesn’t have a great fondness for words. And while it’s one thing to stand up in front of a community you’ve been a part of for your entire life and talk on a subject you’ve studied for almost as long, it’s another entirely to be thrust in front of a roomful of strangers, some of whom, as much as I’d like to deny it, will likely do some amount of pointing and staring.
Strangely, though I feel like he could vanquish any foe, I think my towering husband might be shy, like an elephant afraid of a mouse. Maybe in the spring if I give him more warning and he has some time to get used to the idea and prepare, he’ll agree.
My students devour the cookies as I knew they would, although they seem to prefer the rugelach to the macaroons, a partiality I make note of for next year. Halfway through the lecture, Scott, who continues to sit in the back, raises his hand.
“Where did you get these?” His question is barely intelligible due to his mouth being stuffed full but I can just make out the words.
“I’ll tell you in just a minute. Let’s finish talking about fish Fridays, shall we?”
When we’ve covered the Catholic tradition of not eating meat on Fridays, I turn to my own dietary observances. Keeping kosher is complicated but I try to simplify as well as I can without glossing over important elements. I tell them about the bakery and about Elan’s shop. How busy they are on Thursday afternoons and Friday mornings, how it’s been in the family for generations. I tell them about my own difficulties observing kashrut, which they laugh about, knowing by this point in the semester that yes, I can be a bit scatterbrained.
And though he’s not there, I can picture Elan in the back row of my class, rolling his eyes indulgently when I relate the brisket incident. Perhaps when I tell him about it over dinner, he’ll have regained his sense of humor enough to be entertained.
Chapter Seven
‡
After my late seminar on Thursday, I make my way home. It’s nearing darkness and the streets in my neighborhood are mostly empty because people are inside their homes, having dinner with their families. Which is where I’m supposed to be.
I can’t help but enjoy the nights that Elan cooks. Not that he’s got a fantastic track record—the curry’s been the definitive winner—but there’s a weight taken off of me because it’s one night I don’t have to worry that I’ll screw something up in the kitchen and we’ll have to kasher something or worse yet throw something out…again. He also tends to feel quite proud of himself. Not only has he brought home the metaphorical bacon, but he’s also fried it up in the pan. I think he enjoys the idea of providing for me even though we keep our finances mostly separate.
And that good, I-Am-Man mood usually translates to the bedroom. Which I certainly appreciate, oh yes I do. He treats me like a ragdoll and I can’t get enough. The thought is enough to put more of a spring in my step.
I bounce up the stairs, eager not so much to eat the food he’s cooked, but to see his expression when he shows it to me.
“Elan?”
There’s no banging of pots and pans or muttered Yiddish curses coming from the kitchen so perhaps he’s done already? But when I come into the dining room, he’s seated at the table, slump-shouldered and with no dinner on the table.
For a moment, I feel a small and guilty rush. Did he screw up keeping kosher? Not that I’d be happy about that precisely—and it would be one mistake he’s made to my several—but it would make me feel less silly. Except I don’t think he’d look quite so crestfallen and weary if that were the case.
“What’s wrong?”
His brows gather and he takes a deep breath. Has someone died? Because he may be moody, but never sad. Not so defeated.
“A few of your students came to my shop today.”
“They did?”
“Yes.”
It’s surprising that any of the predominantly waspy kids in my classes would venture into this neighborhood, but that doesn’t explain why he’s so upset.
His face grows more distorted in thought and the movement of his beard telegraphs the clench of his jaw before he spreads his hands on the table.
“I know I haven’t been perfect, but I’ve tried to be a good husband to you. I’ve provided the things I’m supposed to, fulfilled my obligations. And I know things haven’t always been easy for you here, but I thought you were happy. I thought this was the life you wanted.”
“You have been a good husband.” Not precisely ideal, to be so close to everything I’ve ever wanted and yet so far…but good. Definitely good. Everyone should be so lucky as to have a spouse like Elan. I won’t lie and say that I’m happy, though, because his perfection in so many areas highlights the decided lack of love. “And this is the life I want. I’ve found the way I’m meant to honor Hashem. I don’t feel as if I’m searching anymore.”
“Then why did your students show up to my store, the girls wearing short skirts and camisoles it was far too cold for? Why were the boys pointing at the women you call your friends and saying unkind things about them? Like how they’re brainwashed and subservient? And why, Tzipporah, did they think it was so funny to come up to my counter and ask for pork and ham and bacon?”
The image of Elan standing at his place of business that has been in his family for so long, hands curling into fists on the steel surface as he tried so very hard not to lose his temper while these ignorant kids goaded him, it breaks my heart. And makes me furious. For him, but also for my community. And for myself.
I shared my life with my students hoping to make the subject matter more relatable, entertaining. Never did I dream they would take something I’d said and turn it into something so ugly. It makes me sick to my stomach. I’ll have to think about how to address this, but in the meantime I owe my husband an apology.
“I’m so sorry.”
“If you’re unhappy, I wish you would have asked me for a divorce. I’ll give you one and you can go back to your old life. Maybe you’ll be happier there.”
“Why would I want that? I didn’t send them there, if that’s what you think. I would never—”
He waves a hand and the movement seems to sap him of even more strength. “I don’t think that. You wouldn’t do s
omething that cruel. But maybe you’ve said things. Like how we’re strange and foreign and we have all these ridiculous rules. I’ve defended you to people here, the ones who said you’d leave, the ones who said you wouldn’t make a good wife. Even before that. I’ve said I thought your intentions were pure of heart even if you get it wrong sometimes, which is harder to find than any rote performance of mitzvot. But perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps we’re just another one of your studies.”
That’s so unfair and not true at all. Yes, I’ve thought idly about ending our marriage, but never, until I was absolutely sure we couldn’t work it out would I say it out loud. But to know he’s stood up for me, just not in my hearing, provides a warm note to the cold flooding my veins. “Elan—”
The screech of the chair as he pushes it behind him cuts me off and when he’s standing there so big and so obviously trying to contain his anger, it’s hard to find my words. I don’t know that he’d be able to hear me through the shroud of dejection hanging over him anyway.
“I’m going to Moyshe’s house.” Of course, his incredibly rigid brother who hasn’t warmed to me at all. “I’ll be back later tonight. There’s dinner in the fridge for you.”
*
Though I hear Elan come in sometime in the middle of the night, I don’t say anything. I don’t know what else to say because I’m beyond humiliated and hurt and I can imagine his feelings are exponential. I don’t think I’ll ever sleep, but apparently I manage at least a few hours because when I wake in the morning, Elan is gone. Without a word. Without a note. It’s not unusual for him to leave for morning services at the shul before I get up but it feels bad somehow.
I ghostwalk through making a kugel to bring to Bina’s later, my head occupied with what Elan said. Do I treat my home and my family like some community to be observed and deconstructed? A collection of pieces and parts to be poked at and analyzed? When doing my research, I do my best to be respectful of the norms of the community without sacrificing my own beliefs and I always urge my students to do the same.
Craving Flight Page 10
