Tallulah Tempest

by Robert Scott Leyse

  What occurs once Tallulah’s allotted hour has ended? (Incidentally, it would be impossible for anyone to eliminate the carpet-stains in an hour with the items she has at her disposal; it’s doubtful a professional carpet cleaner, armed with a state-of-the-art carpet washer, would be able to accomplish it either.) I audibly exhale with impatience, seize one of her arms, lift it towards me, and regard it in a highly critical manner, saying, “I’m extremely disappointed, Tallulah, I expected better. I thought you’d be able to handle a simple task but it appears your weak and lazy arms, and wishy-washy childish attitude, aren’t up to it—your work leaves so much to be desired I’m amazed you have the nerve to breathe. Your hour’s up and you’re not close to being finished, I told you I don’t have time to babysit. I stupidly relied on you and you’ve let me down, my mistake. Drop the sponge, unworthy girl. (Here I jerk at her arm.) Good, at least you can do that—congratulations on knowing how to let go of a sponge. And now stand up straight, assuming you’re able. Do I need to help you?”

  “No, sir, I…”

  “No talking,” I cut in, releasing her arm as she rises to her feet. “Neglectful lazy girls aren’t entitled to speak—they must listen and obey. What I require is ten minutes exercise—strenuous exercise. Now move, and don’t you dare stop for an instant. If you take one itsy-bitsy breather my belt will be breathing down your neck lickety-split.” Bringing prayer hands to her breast and bowing her head again, Tallulah advances to the center of the living room and begins. I’m treated to a dance routine replete with eye-high kicks, standing splits, and cartwheels and I must declare I couldn’t be prouder of her, or more in awe—such flawless dexterity and flexibility, each movement seamlessly becoming the next, not a single noticeable pause to catch her breath: I admire such athleticism unconditionally, the more so when it’s united with beauty and grace. She’s going all out, as when I first saw her at WH last year and she was playing to a large audience—sparing no effort to ramp up the degree of difficulty and make it seem effortless, relishing an opportunity to showcase her art. I’m truly one of the most fortunate men alive, to be dating such a gifted dancer. All the same, though, I must continue to play the part of disciplinarian and refrain from approbation and so, after about five minutes, say in a stern tone, “No more pretty stuff! You’re showing off, attempting to impress and befuddle me, dupe me into forgetting your shortcomings and being lenient and letting you off the hook. Think I can’t see through your tricks? I know that game and it’s an insult, I can’t be bought off by showy dancing or anything else—the carpet’s still a mess, I’m not about to forget about it. On your back on the double—start doing crunches and keep on doing them without a break, and don’t toss in flourishes calculated to impress me. Raw crunches and nothing but, you’ll do them until I decide your belly’s on fire.” Immediately slipping to the floor, Tallulah begins executing the requested crunches—also with optimum athleticism, unbroken focus, and obvious enjoyment. “All right,” I say a couple minutes later, “funtime’s over! You don’t get to limber up and glow on my time. Yeah, that’s right—I’m onto you. You think you’re getting to do what you like and that I don’t know you like it, and I’m sure you’re amused by that—under the deluded impression you’re putting one over on me. Will you be amused if my belt makes an appearance? I’ll answer for you: you’ll be so far from amused you’ll forget the meaning of the word. Now back to work, but put your hair in order first. Ponytail it on the double, only presentable girls work for me. And you’d better be sure your ponytail’s securely tied because, I swear by Almighty God, if one curl shakes loose while you’re doing your duty you’ll get a belt-stroke for each strand of hair that’s in that curl. And you’d better believe I’ll count every strand, have no doubts on that score. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” she responds, rising to hands and knees and saluting, an unmistakable glint of joy in her eyes. “Your words are graven upon my heart and I embrace them as my due—my one and only world.” Crawling to the dining table, extracting a pale green ribbon from the handbag at its base, and sitting on her heels, she gathers her hair into a ponytail and ties it with a few flutters of her fingers—at which point I perceive she’s tempted to call attention to her attributes by arching her back and thrusting out her chest. (It’s almost an ingrained girl-reflex, after all, and her body momentarily tenses in the direction of executing the movements.) But then she catches herself and, flushing with embarrassment and rapidly lowering her eyes, seizes a brush and resumes scrubbing the carpet.

  “I spied that flirt-nonsense you were about to try and commend you on deciding against it,” I say in a matter-of-fact tone. “You were right not to try it, my belt would’ve demonstrated flirt-games only annoy me. You’re getting smarter, finally starting to realize nothing on earth will spare you the responsibility of making amends for your misdeeds. Now bear down, if you please, and let’s see whether you can complete your atonement by dawn.” And so I resume supervising as Tallulah cleans the carpet with such celerity it’s as if her life’s hanging in the balance. As the minutes advance, though, my voice loses its element of harshness and becomes tender; instead of critiquing her I praise her; instead of intrusively nudging her I dispense caresses. And a change overcomes Tallulah as well: no longer is there any of the prickly, vaguely irritated, tone that occasionally seemed to hover in the background of her compliance—gone are the hints of budding petulance that appeared to ephemerally glimmer in her glance. Now her face overtly relaxes instead of tightens at the sound of my voice, and when I caress her shivers of contentment, absent of any evidence of resistance, ripple through her like the softest of waves upon a gently sloping shore.

  And then a completely unexpected, and utterly magical, moment arrives: I’m lightly rubbing Tallulah’s neck with the back of my hand as she applies additional shampoo to the carpet and, like a well-disposed cat, she tilts her head in the direction of my hand and rubs against it in turn, quietly intones, “Ummmm,” while continuing to work; and I suddenly realize, on account of the happy and serene cast of her face and body—benign energy hovering about her every gesture, radiating from the very manner in which she’s transferring her weight from knee to knee—that it’s no longer necessary to play the part of disciplinarian; that the distinction between disciplinarian and subordinate’s disappeared; that unity in tender feelings has rendered us equals and the divisiveness of the ritual no longer exists; that, in fact, it’s now acceptable to assist her with finishing the cleaning of the carpet—something I was far from conceiving as being possible at the start of the ritual, and that therefore astounds and moves me all the more. “Sweetheart, will you please pass me that brush,” I say, literally tingling with joy as I descend to hands and knees, gesture in the brush’s direction. “I think it’s about time I pitch in and help, this is definitely a two-person job.”

  “Thank you so much, honey,” she responds, not only not protesting the alteration in my role but instantly brightening, darting me a glance of deep affection; then, after handing me the brush, “It’s very kind of you, Justin, I can use the help and greatly appreciate it—you’re a darling through and through.” She softly pats my hand before resuming her work.

  “It’s my honor and pleasure to help,” I say, pressing the brush to the carpet and commencing to scrub. “Thank you for allowing me to help, Tallulah, I’d like this to over and done with as soon as possible so we…” I break off, allowing my eyes to speak the words of my desire.

  “Me too, Justin! Yes, in every way!” she exclaims; then, falling silent, she likewise utilizes her eyes to express her desire, such that my pulse quickens and spine sparkles and euphoria-inducing images crowd my mind’s eye.

  It’s anticipation, first and foremost, that characterizes the interval when we’re cleaning the carpet side by side. The discipline ritual has been abandoned, true; and yet not entirely true: it’s only been abandoned in the sense that Tallulah and I are on the same side of the fence now, no longer cast in opposite roles.
It still persists, for each of us in equal measure, in that we’re only permitted to go so far in our demonstrations of affection: the cleaning of the carpet’s barring our way. It’s understood we won’t be giving unbridled rein to our feelings until the cleaning of the carpet’s completed—that we’re allowed to caress and rub against each other but not permitted to embrace, not permitted to kiss, not permitted to pull each other to the floor. And the beautiful, and comforting, thing is that this agreement doesn’t need to be spoken: our wordless communication, that of glances and gestures and facial expressions and body language and the nuances of our energy—very tone of the placement of ourselves in space—is growing by leaps and bounds. There’s something to be said for this restraint, in that it’s compelling us to feel one another’s thoughts and see one another’s feelings—to become increasingly fluent in the subsurface language of the nerves, where the true progression of intimacy takes place and lasting bonds of trust are forged.

  Cleaning the carpet couldn’t be more of a mundane activity, but I’m assuredly in an enchanted place. Tallulah and I exchange caresses with increasing frequency and the winding circular paths of her fingers upon my skin, soft as the flutter of butterfly wings and piercing as static electricity sparks, seem to stimulate parts of me no one’s stimulated before. I swear a girl’s touch has never been as vivid; swear the magnetism between us is such that’s it’s humming and vibrating in, bending and blurring, the air; swear the most delicious anticipation I’ve ever experienced is welling inside me and continuing to build. I’m unabashedly relishing the sight of Tallulah—deliciously trembling, gasping with awe: the crisp fluid energy coursing through her slenderness, swift and unaffected elegance of her movements, sweetness of her smile that’s spreading throughout her body, lending additional lightness and grace to every curve, enveloping her in a sparking aura of delight. The first version of the disciplinary ritual, which forbade kind words and affectionate bodily contact, was constraint tantamount to imprisonment in a cage and such has vanished, opened into emotional space seemingly as vast as the distance between waves crashing ashore and where the sea meets the sky. It’s dizzyingly wonderful that I no longer need to conceal my regard for Tallulah: I can’t stop gazing at her as if she’s an angel descended to earth, the incarnation of my fondest dreams. And we can’t stop playing footsie, so to speak, with the length of our bodies, lingeringly rubbing from shoulders to toes; can’t stop pausing to exchange glances of rapt appreciation, showering each other with tender words; can’t stop breaking into smiles and laughter at the thought of the bliss that awaits us, once we finish cleaning the carpet and are free to uninhibitedly indulge our desire.

  By the time we complete the cleaning of the carpet I’m sure we’re as close as we’ll ever be to having no distance, emotional or psychological or physiological or otherwise, between us and being a truly united couple: so transparent do I feel before Tallulah’s gaze it’s as if my blood’s flowing under her skin and her nerves are humming in place of mine. Happily shouting, “Viola!” she tosses her sponge into one of the buckets and flings herself into my outspread arms, after which we’re intertwined on the floor and kissing madly and twisting about and laughing and kissing some more. I could say a girl’s never been as vivid to my touch before but I’ve already said that. And so I’ll say Tallulah’s become so vivid to my touch it’s as if I’m losing the boundaries of my body, becoming light and airy and floating above the floor, at the same time that I can’t get enough of caressing and grasping and squeezing her every curve and kissing her and seeking to fall into the depths of her starlight-infused eyes. I’m feeling myself in my body as forcefully as I ever have while also feeling as if I’m a ghost expanding to occupy the open space of the room; I’m as if in a dream while also feeling very earthy; the situation’s hallucinated and blurry at the same time that it’s crisp and sharp: contradictory as such sounds, such is the case. Ha, Angie, Ella, Steve: here I must pause to wonder if I’m approaching the limit of the amount of metaphors at my disposal, reusing a few because this is the longest email I’ve written by far. Am I doing so? I’m not going to trouble to check, I don’t care if I am. As I’m not going to be writing any more suchlike emails, it doesn’t matter to me anymore. All that matters is that I rise to my knees and tap Tallulah on the shoulder to indicate she should do the same and that she immediately complies, after which I frame her face with my hands, gaze deep into her eyes, and say, “I love you!” for the first time, without a trace of trepidation—without wondering if it’s too soon, or questioning if it’s true, allowing thinking to interfere in any way. I simply know it’s true and that I must say it, as surely as I know I’m alive and breathing.

  “I love you too!” Tallulah echoes without hesitation, a fresh surge of fervor brightening her eyes, infusing their expression with ineffable sweetness and regard; then she’s flinging herself onto me, grinding me against the floor, saying, “Justin sweetheart, I could eat you alive! You’re succulent golden honey, my lifeblood, my vitality, my world! You don’t know how long I’ve waited for a man who understands me and isn’t afraid of me—a man I respect and love. We’re so much alike, I can hardly believe how alike we are and how safe I feel with you. I’d nearly given up hope, I… I’ve been so lonely, Justin! Yes, me, the girl who all the boys want to date and get scared of later! So lonely!” With a cry of joy she presses her lips to mine, kisses me long and avidly while writhing and undulating against me as if seeking to sink under my skin.

  “Without you, Tallulah, I’d still be living in a bewildering world, unsure what to do with myself, aimlessly stumbling in shades of grey, ignorant of who I am,” I’m saying to her shortly after we finish kissing, as we’re lying side by side on the floor, caressing each other’s faces, running our fingers through each other’s hair, relishing the new world that’s opened up before us. “It’s miraculous how running into you again and being with you tonight has awakened me to who I am and who I need, revitalized my life. I was afraid to tell you I love you earlier, it was on the tip of my tongue but I thought about it too much and backed down, even though I wanted to say it as much as I’ve ever wanted to say anything in my life. But then the fear was suddenly gone, as if it had never existed, only been a figment of my imagination. Thank you so much for making the fear disappear and giving me courage, Tallulah—thank you for making me feel whole. The time we’ve spent together isn’t long when measured by the clock but if measured in quality it’s worth years, a world of awakening and change. And did I mention I love you, Tallulah?” I conclude, running the back of my hand up and down the side of her neck again. “I love you and will never be happy without you.”

  “And happiness simply won’t exist for me without you, Justin,” she says, pressing her neck against my hand and rubbing again, momentarily half-lidding her eyes. “I also wanted to tell you I love you but didn’t because of... Well, you know (Here she playfully taps my forehead.), protocol. Men expect to be the first to say ‘I love you’ and women wait for men to say it, so thank you for speaking our minds and carrying us forward, I love you doubly for doing that. I agree about the time, how fast it’s been and how, technically, it seems like this shouldn’t be happening yet but when people know they’re in love, they just know. I know I love you, Justin, and that we’ll be building on tonight and I can’t tell you how happy I am. It’s a dream come true, we’re going to be the special couple other couples admire and want to be. We’re going to work together as… Ooooo! I love it when you do that!” she interrupts herself, referring to fact I’m still stroking her neck. “The way you touch and look at me cradles me in warmth.”

  “And I love the way you lean into my hand like a cat and rub, Tallulah,” I say, continuing to caress her neck, “and get flushed with softness and have the sweet happy look, like a purring cat. And guess what? It was when we did it earlier that my eyes opened and I understood I should help you finish cleaning. If you can believe it, those moments broke everything wide open, allowed me see clearly and
be confident—I’m sure that’s when my fear of telling you I love you began to get lost and stop torturing me, so I could finally do what I’d wanted to do for half the night. You gave me the clarity and courage I needed, Tallulah, by the way you responded to my touch. I dropped to my knees and I can’t tell you how heavenly it was to be beside you. I didn’t know yet that I’d be telling you I love you but I don’t think it’s too farfetched to say the subconscious intimation of doing so was a good part of why I felt as if I was soaring into the sky.”

  “Well, then, this is our touch,” she smiles, scooting a couple inches closer (we’re already very close) and visibly tingling; then, commencing to make slow circles with her head in rhythm with my caresses, such that her chin’s brushing against my wrist, “You get it, right? Instead of our song, it’s our touch. I treasure your touch at all times, Justin, but I’ll always treasure the neck-touch especially—it’s cute that it was the drop that overflowed the glass and pushed us forward. I could say it was a sign from heaven but I won’t say that because it was between us and I’m always happy to be grabbed and appreciated by you and know you already know that and can always read it in me. Speaking of signs, though… What does it mean when I flutter my eyes, like this?”

  “No mystery there,” I smile. “It means time to go to bed and celebrate our love and new beginning and future. In other words, fluttering eyes betoken waterfalls of joy. And speaking of waterfalls, I want to take you to Puerto Rico, so we can swim under the waterfall in the rainforest. You won’t believe how beautiful and lush and pristine it is, loud with birdsongs, shot through with tropical light. There’s a ledge on the rock-cliff right under the waterfall, with room for both of us to stand, and it’s the most incandescent shower you’ll take in your life. And just wait until you see the Caribbean, it’s almost as aquamarine as your eyes and the water’s warm like you won’t believe. I want to share the waves with you and teach you to surf. You’ll love surfing and it’ll be easy for you, because you’re so athletic and have perfect balance. The rhythm of the sea’s a healing primal force.”