Perfect Pitch

by Amy Lapwing

  She leaned forward and kissed him briefly, and felt shy. She went to the little Christmas tree atop the bookcase and brought him a large oblong box wrapped in a red and green plaid piece of paper. “Merry Christmas,” she said.

  He opened the box and unfurled a great afghan blanket crocheted of honey-gold yarn with accents of red and black. “It’s very nice,” he said. “Did you make it yourself?”

  “Mm-hm.” She held it up to his neck and looked at its extent. “Lie down,” she said.

  Surprised, he held still.

  “Lie down, here, on the couch.” She reached down and picked up his ankles. He stretched out. She laid the afghan over him, from his chin to his feet. It hung over the end of the couch by a foot. “You’re not as tall as I thought.”

  “I’m not?” he said, reaching for her hand.

  “I thought you might be six two,” she said, taking his hand and perching on the edge of the couch. “Then I thought what if you were taller? So I kept making more squares, just to make sure.”

  “I’m five eleven,” he said, looking at her contentedly. He could feel the softness of her hip against his side. “Are you disappointed? You like giant men?”

  “I like you,” she said. “You seem like a giant, to me.”

  He scooted into the back of the couch and scooped her hips in closer. “There,” he said, putting his hands behind his head, “are you comfortable?”

  “Yup,” she said, thinking she should get up and go into the kitchen or something. “Are you?”

  “Very comfortable,” he answered.

  “You like your present?” she said.

  “I love it.” What if I kiss you, will you be angry? “Do you like yours?”

  She looked down at the black orb. “Very much.”

  They smiled and looked at each other. “I’m getting rather hot,” he said.

  She jumped up and let him take the afghan off.

  “It is very warm,” he said, folding it.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “No, it’s good! I’ll cover myself with it every night.” He put it over the couch back with their coats.

  He was watching her closely as though awaiting a signal from her. It was time to end the embarrassing gift-bestowing. “How about that sandwich I promised you?” she said. She went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator to take inventory. “Okay, you got your roast beef—” She smelled it. “Oh, no you don’t. But there’s some cheese, Swiss, and ... Swiss. How’s a Swiss cheese sandwich sound?”

  “Great. Really, I’m starved.”

  “You want two, then? Didn’t you eat supper?”

  “I can’t eat before a concert.”

  “Oh! Poor baby!” She made a couple of Swiss cheese sandwiches with mustard, knowing his preference from months of lunchroom research. “And tomato, no lettuce, right?”

  “Yes, please.” He took off his tuxedo suit jacket and put it over their coats, and sat at the tomato red Formica table. She brought him the sandwiches and a glass of skim milk and sat with him. “Aren’t you having something?” he said.

  “Not hungry.” She watched him as he ate with gusto. “You like it?”

  His mouth was too full to speak. He swallowed. “What’s your secret?”

  “Hm, I don't know. The secret ingredient is ... a really hungry man.” She raised her eyebrows.

  He looked out the corners of his eyes at her. “That was bad.”

  “No, that was lame.”

  “Lame. I’m surprised at you, Novel Girl.”

  “Couldn’t help myself. Besides it’s late.”

  He checked his watch. “It’s not late. The shows are just letting out in New York. And the fun is just beginning.”

  “Now, you see, I don’t know anything about New York fun. I only know Kennemac fun. Or Merrifield fun, actually.” She looked at his bowtie. “And in Merrifield, no one has fun in a tuxedo.”

  He stopped chewing. She was smiling in that bold way she used to before she had decided he was dangerous. “Would you like me to take it off?”

  “Can if you want.”

  “You’re very inviting!”

  She did her Inspector Clouseau imitation. “‘Kahnd-ly ray-moove your took-sedo, Monsieur!’ How’s that?”

  “Not any better.”

  “I guess I’m just not very good at this.”

  Michael looked from her to the second, uneaten sandwich. “I’m going to eat this sandwich, and then I’m going to deal with you.”

  “Yikes!”

  He bit into the sandwich. “This one is good too.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Say something else of provocative.”

  “Hm.” She thought. “‘I’m not wearing any underwear.’”

  He chewed quickly and swallowed. “Really?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Try again.”

  She thought. “‘I’m a virgin.’”

  He almost choked. “You are?”

  “Not telling.”

  He pulled his head back and squinted at her with one eye closed.

  “Okay,” she confessed, “so I’m not.”

  “Say something that’s true. It works better.”

  “Okay.” She took a deep breath. “I don’t have any condoms.”

  His eyes went very wide. He swallowed, and chugged the rest of the milk. “That was really provocative.” He wiped his mouth.

  They looked at each other a moment, long enough to let the bantering mood subside and a tenser feeling take its place. The stabbing was back, but she did not look away. He took her hand. “Come on,” he said and he led her into one of the bedrooms.

  “This is Kim’s room.”

  “I know.” He opened the nightstand drawers, and shut them again. She went to the other side of the bed and looked in the bookcase. She felt along the tops of the books, got lucky on the bottom shelf. “Voilà,” she sang and whipped out a box of condoms.

  Michael looked from the box to Justina. He reached across the bed for her hand and softly said, “Come on.”

  She let him lead her into her bedroom. She sat on the bed and put the box of condoms on her nightstand. He stood before her a moment, then sat next to her. He saw she was shivering; he knew she was not cold.

  “I’ll tell you what we can do,” he said, lying back on the pillows, his hands behind his head, kicking off his shoes. “Let’s play a game.”

  “I don’t have any games. Kim has some. He has Stratego, or Risk, I get them mixed up.” She was sitting up straight as a soldier, nervously awaiting a command, barely glancing at him lying there behind her.

  “Not one of those games. Except if you want to?”

  “I don’t like those games.”

  “You’ll like this one. It’s really easy. You’ll beat me.”

  She dashed a look back at him. His expression was innocent. “What is it?”

  “It’s called, ‘What I Was Wearing?’ You name a time when we were together, and I have to say what you were wearing.”

  “That’s it?”

  “We take turns.”

  “What do we get if we’re right?”

  “You’ll see.”

  She permitted her face to smirk. “Who goes first?”

  “You. You name an occasion.”

  “Okay.” She thought. “You’ll never remember this, it was ages ago.” She named the night they met, at Updoc’s party.

  “That’s an easy one. You were wearing a tan dress that matched your hair, and tan shoes, and a red belt. You looked like a drop of honey.”

  “It wasn’t red.”

  “Yes, it was, I’m sure it was.”

  “It was cordovan.”

  “Same thing. Now for my prize.”

  She tried to keep from trembling. He stretched out his hand. “Your hand, please,” he said, like the guy who stamps you at the amusement park. She gave him her hand, he kissed it, and he laid back down. “My turn.”

  She let out the breath she had
been holding. “You’re going to pick an easy one.”

  “You want to win, don’t you? Winning’s more fun.”

  “Okay. What is it?”

  “What I was wearing on our first date?”

  Justina remembered well his navy blue blazer and tan slacks and the tie with the little diamonds on it.

  “And shoes?”

  She turned to more comfortably face him and thought a moment. “Cordovan loafers.”

  “Not the black ones?”

  “Cordovan, definitely.”

  “Okay. You may claim your prize.”

  She took his hand and started to kiss it, but he drew it away. “We’ve already done the hand. Pick something else.” She looked him over. “The shoulder is excellent tonight, Mademoiselle.”

  He got up on his elbows, she leaned down and kissed his shoulder.

  “No-no,” he chided. “No kissing through the cloth.”

  “Smart ass.” She undid his tie and pulled it off his neck, then unbuttoned the top two buttons and spread his shirt open.

  “Careful, it’ll rip! Better unbutton some more.”

  She obliged with two more buttons.

  “More,” he commanded.

  She unbuttoned another.

  “More.”

  She pulled his shirttail out of his pants and unbuttoned his shirt all the way. “Okay,” he purred.

  She opened his shirt and looked at his chest, the gray and black curls. “You just wanted me to see your chest.”

  “Kiss, please!”

  She kissed his shoulder and lightly caressed his chest hair, before sitting back up. “My turn,” she announced.

  “You like this game?”

  “Not bad.” She was no calmer, but she was less afraid. She decided to believe he had never played it before. “Okay, the time we went dancing.”

  “That was the night when you wore the black dress that no daughter ever wears to go out with her father. And black shoes.”

  “I thought you said you weren’t going to be any good at this.”

  “You give me such easy ones.” He sat up and pointed to her shoulder.

  “We already did the shoulder.”

  “I want the other shoulder.” He sat with one elbow propped on a raised knee.

  She was wearing a red pullover sweater. “I suppose I have to take this off.”

  He smiled, looking from her eyes to her chest.

  She took off her sweater and shook her head to unmuss her hair. He was looking at her breasts. She thanked God she had not worn her old sport bra with the frayed trim.

  He let out the breath he had been holding. “I change my mind,” he said.

  “Right,” she laughed.

  “You did! You were going to kiss my hand and you changed to my shoulder. I had to take off my shirt and everything.”

  “All right, what do you want?”

  He reached a hand around to her back and tried to undo her bra, sticking his tongue out and squinting with concentration. He gave up when he saw the problem.

  “Let me,” she said and she unhooked her bra in the front.

  Dead-still, he stared at her bare breasts. He looked in her eyes. “You are so beautiful.” He kissed her, caressing and then kissing her breasts. They dispensed with the game and finished undressing each other, he peeled off her pantyhose, she pulled off his shorts, stretching the waist band out to keep from hurting him. Clumsy, she applied the unwanted condom, and he had her get on top of him. He helped her rock on his hips and she came quickly, praising him over and over, exciting his release, and he spoke her name, who had broken the itchy half-slumber of his watchful soul. They lay together, kissing each other’s face, declaring each other the winner. She caressed him to readiness again and he went into her again and they brought each other to the long-desired place again.

  A talkative lover, she told him he was wonderful, told him how to please her. She whispered to him to back off on the nipple action, and he apologized again and again until she had to bop him on the head to get him to forget about it. He sank down toward the foot of bed, kissing a trail south on her abdomen, assuring her he did want to, even though she was sure it must carry a heavy scent of eau de latex, so he didn’t have to. But he really wanted to, he was dying to, please. She gave in, tingling at his tongue's touch, and yelled when the waves hit.

  After the third or fourth time, she was not counting— but he was, marveling at her, and at himself— after a few times, anyway, Justina wanted to try this thing she had seen in a Chinese movie, with the woman up against a wall and the man standing. After a few minutes, they decided it was better to watch than to do and went back to bed. She got on top of him again, instead. After she had collapsed next to him, he kissed her and then lay quiet, idly caressing her back. She thought about his going the next day, or that day, actually, later on that day, and became very sad. She got up on her elbows and looked at him. He was asleep. She pulled the covers up over them.

  “Goodnight, Justina,” he mumbled, and rolled toward her into a deeper slumber. She looked at his closed eyes, the slack cheeks, the somehow still elegant mouth, the lines neither smiling nor laughing, saying only, Not young anymore. She lay trembling, thinking of him, and fell asleep an hour later.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Measures of Love

  The daylight was dimmed with thick snow clouds next morning, permitting the exhausted lovers to sleep late. Still in a dream, Justina slowly caressed Michael awake. They made love side by side, their dozy minds sitting lightly atop their engaged bodies, and then drowsed a while longer in the waves of deep, almost unconscious pleasure they gave each other.

  The clamor of flushing water woke Michael. Justina came back into the room and stood at the window and exclaimed over the thick snow; he came to look, too, kissing her ear. He said he hoped it kept snowing, and went off to the toilet. She ran the shower and they cleaned themselves. He borrowed a Kennemac tee shirt and too-short sweat pants from Kim, surprisingly fragrant with fabric softener, and went into the kitchen while she lingered in the shower.

  He wanted to cook, so he called in to her, asking if she ate eggs. He cooked Swiss cheese omelets and toasted English muffins, made coffee for himself and tea for her and laid the table with butter, strawberry preserves and sugar; she had no honey.

  She brushed her wet hair, put on basic make-up, just blush and a little mascara, slipped into soft jeans and a loose green knit top, looking ready for weekend fun, and went in to breakfast. They sat quietly smiling at each other as they ate, both feeling sad, wanting the hour to last forever. He fretted over the snow.

  “You think they’ll close the airport?” she asked, putting preserves on her muffin.

  “Don’t know,” he hedged, taking a forkful of omelet. He thought about flying away from her and felt like crying. Why didn’t she just fix this? She made him feel like an animal, that he couldn’t be trusted around her. He didn’t want to think about her maldita career, he was sick of seeing her side. He wanted to stay here with her.

  She stared out the whitened living room window as she sipped her tea. She knew he was looking at her.

  “Justina,” he began. She tried to smile, apprehensive at his determined look. “Would it really be so bad? If I stayed?”

  Their first night together had been surprising and exciting, different than she had imagined, less like a well-worn fantasy and more human, more vulgar, funny, even. It was unique to them, the experience of being together. She did not want to wait four months to know it again. But she could not imagine giving herself over to loving him and still being the center of the projects she had started with her students and colleagues. They were two different worlds, the world of loving and the world of working. She was a different person in each of them. How could she switch from one to the other every day?

  “That was our first night together. It was special,” he continued, taking her hand. “It won’t always be so—” He searched for a word to reassure her. “Time-consuming,” h
e completed.

  Should I just try? she thought. A trial period? A trial joining. Your Honor, we would like to try a trial joining, see if we can work out our problems, together. My problems.

  “What are you thinking?” he said, hoping her smile portended a longed-for change.

  “I’m sorry I’m such a dork, Michael.”

  “‘Dork?’”

  “‘Tworp.’ Okay, I’m going to give you a scenario—” she explained. “Suppose, after Christmas, you came back, and I came back and things, you know, ran their natural course.”

  “I simply want to love you.”

  “I know. But, suppose I run into some difficulties, of a professional nature—”

  He shook his head. “Justina, do you remember our conversation in the fall, in the language lab, when I first asked you out? And you weren’t sure, so that you asked me who I was dating before?”

  “Yes.”

  “And then you said it was my turn? To ask you?”

  “You didn’t want to know.”

  “I want to know now.”

  She frowned in confusion.

  “I think it will help us, to understand this,” he explained.

  “Okay.” She told him about Omar the Tunisian and how she had never loved him, but had wanted to, had wanted to be one of his group, to feel Tunisian.

  “Was he good, a good man?” Michael asked.

  “I think he was a very good man. He just didn’t love me.”

  “Did he ever mistreated you?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ever suffer because of him, in your work?”

  “No, but the university was on strike most of the time I knew him, so I didn’t have much work to do.”

  “All right. Who else?”

  She did not want to tell him about Rourke, but he was not an innocent romance, like Kim’s brother Robin when they were teenagers, a mere kiss or two, though she had thrilled and shivered whenever he touched her. She sighed and launched into as unemotional a telling of her affair with the cockroach that she could.

  “Did he ever hurt you?”

  She frowned as she remembered the outrageous, undeserved insults. “Sort of,” she answered.

  This was the asshole. He took her hand again, caressing the knuckles.