quote from Something Brief by E Doyle-Gillespie
"I had taken her with my hands and mouth two hours ago on her threadbare floral print sofa. She lay there, a leg up on the arm rest, a hand dangling and The Blue Nile playing on the stereo."
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Something Brief (Sylvia)
I wandered past Voigt Glass on Saturday afternoon, after leaving SylviaÕs. It was one of those cold, bright Saturdays when IÕve got all the time in the world, but end up burning it - staring at a dead, bare spindle of a tree or tracing out shadows on the cobble stones and brick. I would spend the afternoon writing, I determined. I rubbed my wet fingers on the lapel of of my overcoat, brushing them lightly past my nose. My hands were still moist from the meal that sheÕd made for us. Humus, coos-coos and lamb for her and a pile of falafel for me. My fingers still smelled of garlic and Sylvia. I had taken her with my hands and mouth two hours ago on her threadbare floral print sofa. She lay there, a leg up on the arm rest, a hand dangling and The Blue Nile playing on the stereo. WeÕd started off in the kitchen, while she cooked and yammered on about teaching in the inner-city and how many ÒGod-awfulÓ papers she still had to mark and grade. I wandered about, half-listening to her, filling my head with Mediterranean steam and Merlot, browsing through her black and white photos and a stack of second-hand books. Some of the titles I recognized from the day-long expedition we took through the open-air vendors by the canal. Or, maybe, they were from the afternoon that we spent buying out EatonÕs Used Books. It gets muddled. Whichever, they were old book musty and tan, some still with ancient inscriptions in the front covers. To A.,
Mom, Violation books, I called those. I thumbed through one, put it back, flipped through another, listened to her . In her loose drawstring beach poncho, her biker shorts, and her grubby Avia running shoes, she prattled on and followed her own flow of spices and wine. So smooth and loose .... just warm enough for me to glide up behind her, still chewing bread and cheese - a bit heady from the Merlot - and take her breasts in my hands. Her Earth Mother breasts. Large. Round. I closed my eyes and spread my fingers to enjoy their pendulous mass. My palms slid around on her flesh below the poncho, picking up moisture, trapped heat. Her talking trailed off to a throaty moan. She continued to cook. I leaned against her Botticelli physique - not with the pressing, grinding and huffing like she enjoyed from Sammy. Just my bodyÕs weight. She had leaned against me the same way on the night that we first met. I was making the drinks in RandyÕs kitchen during one of his night-long readings. I had seen her, didnÕt know her, but she pressed her contours into me, full hips and full breasts, and moved in rhythm with RandyÕs blue tempo. ÒCan you feel my tits on your back?Ó Now I leaned against her. When she finally turned down the burners and the meal was piping, she twisted her body around, kissed me, and the two of us ate on the living room floor. We barely spoke about the groping. Fine with me. It was easier to be with her when she wasnÕt endlessly soothing and complementing, telling me how head and stroking are just as good as penetrating. And thank God sheÕd stopped suggesting surgery. I think that she saw how the idea of men cutting and probing unnerved me. Sylvia was good enough to just leave all of my issues alone and drift off in stories of Sammy, the other lover, for awhile. She told me about his new tattoo - a chess knight , the beginnings of another beard, and a new martial arts move that left her nursing her wrist. Of course, there were more sob stories about his father. More stories about the worst horse trip that heÕd ever taken - on the coast with his brother, on the beach, Fourth of July, 1976. I drew my knees up and continued to eat. Sammy went to work at Voight with Don and his brother. It had been three years years since Viet Nam for him, when he showed up on their door one Tuesday afternoon. He said that he wanted to blow glass. He said that it was all that he could do to keep himself sane on the rainy days and Viet-sticky nights of the city. Must have been true. I would wake up at 2:00, 3:00, 5:00, and see the light on in his basement and the flame standing vigil for him as he blew glass and turned glass and blew glass. Sylvia would watch him in his hovel, or at the shop when she had time. Barefoot and pony-tailed, eating pita that always mysteriously appeared in her hands, she sat like a wide-eyed Catholic girl and watched as he turned the hollow blossom with his one good hand.
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