Tallulah Tempest

by Robert Scott Leyse

  “So let me understand what you’re saying,” she begins slowly and ominously, with sarcasm in her tone, “I want us both to be on the same page. You’re saying dinner’s over and I should go and we’ll hook up another time? Is that your so well-informed suggestion? Please clarify—I want to be sure.”; then, without allowing me to respond, she shrieks, “How could you push me away last year? Think it’s fun to dress special for you, in a pleated dress like you like and with my hair just done, and come here in good faith and find out the doormen have been told to keep me out?—to be treated like poison when I wanted to please you? How could you do that to me? Are you planning to do it again? Well, guess what? You won’t push me away this time! I’m not a toy to be dawdled with, then cast aside! I’m not someone on loan, to be sent away when you’re tired of me! I’m a person and I have real feelings and am sensitive, get that through your head! I’m used to being appreciated, understand? You try casting me aside again and I’ll make scenes you won’t believe! I won’t go quietly this time! I’ll make sure the whole building knows you’re a creep! I’ll have my dad come here and give you a serious lesson in how to treat a lady! You won’t be so smug when my dad’s through with you, I can guarantee it! Maybe you’ll find out there’s more in this world than your pathetic ego, and wake up for the first time in your life!”

  Angie, Ella, Steve: it’s here that I realize Tallulah’s anger has a very rational cause for which I’m thoroughly responsible. Of course her anger’s not on account of non-cracked lobster claws, regarding which I’m sure she couldn’t care less: it’s on account of my having given her the gate last year. It’s inevitable the subject would surface, right? From the moment of encountering her at the Met I’ve been expecting it to do so. It’s been fitfully hovering in the background of every moment of our reunion—preventing me from attaining to whole peace of mind, feeling I undeniably deserve to be with her again. There’s no escaping past wrongs done a girl: they never forget and, in this case, I’ve had no wish for her to forget. If the subject hadn’t come up now it would have at some point, there isn’t a chance it was going away without being addressed. If you recall, she stopped me from continuing when I ventured to mention it at the Met. Obviously she didn’t wish to visit negative territory at that time, so soon after running into each other, and put a damper on our happiness, but it’s certainly been on her mind ever since. In short, I’m relieved the subject’s finally out in the open and that I’m being called upon to address it—I’m eager to address it, do my utmost to put it to rest. Without hesitation I seize her hands and say, “Tallulah, I don’t blame you one bit for being angry about the way I shut you out—I’ve been berating myself for the same thing all night. Seeing you again has made me realize what an idiot I’ve been—behaving like that was as stupid as it was shortsighted and immature. I didn’t give you—didn’t give us—a chance. The way I see it now is that it was emotional suicide—no other way to put it—and I can assure you I’m not going to do it again. As I said, running into you again is a Godsend: I couldn’t be more thankful I have an opportunity to show you how I feel about you and make things right. I’m sorry I did what I did—it’s probably the stupidest and most cowardly thing I’ve ever done. I apologize and am asking you to accept my apology and not because I’m worried about scenes being made—make all the scenes you want, I deserve them and won’t ask for lenience. The only thing I’m worried about is not seeing you again and being alone again. By everything I measure a woman by you’re a treasure I don’t want to let go of and I… Tallulah, I like you so much! What I mean is… Listen, I really feel I’m in this with you for the long haul and want you to know I want you to be a part of all decisions and that I won’t do serious things without asking you first and having your blessing. But I hope I’m not jumping the gun and presuming too much—I don’t want to insult you by assuming you want to keep seeing me. After what I did last year, I might not deserve it.” My lips are trembling and voice is quavering by the time I finish speaking.

  “Justin,” Tallulah responds, affectionately squeezing my hands as wondrous light, soul-soothing and kind, leaps into her eyes, “it means so much to me that you said that and I want to thank you. I understand how you must have been feeling last year, I can be a handful sometimes—I don’t know why I get crazy, I just do. But I mean no harm—I like you so much too! I also want to be in this for the long haul and am thankful for having another chance to make it a reality—thankful you’re a gentleman who can see the good things and want this as much as I do and… Honey, I don’t know what to say about my temper, maybe my name’s to blame (She shrugs her shoulders slightly, tremblingly smiles.), but I’m going to do my best to keep away from it and be good. I only want to keep seeing you—I want it more than anything else. I don’t want to run out of time to get to know you better and want to share everything with you. I want so much to show you I can be the woman you deserve to be with, a supportive woman, a good woman…” She trails off, her voice also quavering and with moisture in her eyes, and gently embraces me.

  “Tallulah, we’re going to work together this time to get to know each other and make things right and make them last,” I say, feeling as if I’ve passed from standing on the edge of an abyss to being snug in a warm downy bed. “I was so blind before and it’s taken me a year to realize it, or rather… Tallulah, what I mean is that seeing you again at the Met made me realize right away how incomplete I am without you—it was a revelation I couldn’t be more grateful for. I’m thankful beyond measure you want to keep seeing me and that we’ll be working together to make each other happy—that you’re giving me the chance to make you as happy as you deserve to be. I won’t be able to be happy without you, I’ll wilt without you—that’s a sure thing. As for what you say is your temper—forget that, don’t worry about it, I want all of you, as you are. You’re adorable as you are, I don’t want a different Tallulah. I want the whole Tallulah, for you to be yourself in every way, and to get to know all of you.” Her eyes are incomparably beautiful as she gazes up at me, the expression in them is an encapsulation of seemingly a thousand impossibly appealing things I can’t put my finger on; and the tone of the energy emanating from her seems very close and familiar at the same time that it’s refreshingly new and mysterious, as if it’s what I’ve been searching for my entire life without being aware of it—as if it’s a magical realm recovered from a past I can’t recall. One touches others with one’s hands—one rubs skin against skin—and one also touches others with one’s electrical field. My electrical field’s meshing with Tallulah’s in such a manner that it strikes me I’ve found a refuge I didn’t know existed and can no longer live without. Right then and there it hits me: Surely, I’m in love with Tallulah! Perhaps I’ve been subconsciously in love with her since last year! Perhaps it’s why I ran away! Maybe it scared me then because I was just plain weak, unwilling to accept who I am! But forget last year! All that counts is what’s happening now! The idea of being genuinely and lastingly in love with Tallulah is probably the most thrilling one I’ve had in my life! All the women previous to Tallulah were but passing fancies, and I don’t think that includes her—she’s different, and such is inspiriting beyond belief!

  “Justin,” Tallulah half-whispers in an incomparably stimulating and comforting tone, seizing my hands again, clutching tight, and backing away a bit to better look me in the eye, “you’ve made me so happy and I meant what I said. I’m going to work hard to keep the bad moods away and be good and worthy of you, as you deserve. I don’t want to be without you either, I also know I can’t be happy without you, I’m starting to feel that…that I…” Trailing off, she bathes me in the beautiful look of trust, wonder, sweetness, and fragility again—the by-the-fountain look; then, following a deep breath, “I don’t feel lonely when I’m with you, I feel you see into me, I feel so very safe when I’m with you, like I haven’t been before. I think that maybe I’m… Justin, I…” She breaks off a second time, continuing to gaze at me in the te
nderest way imaginable.

  I have an idea what Tallulah’s twice sought to say and suddenly I very much want to be the one to say it first; at the same time, though, thought—cursed caution, self-protection, uncertainty, outright fear—interferes and it occurs to me it might be too soon for such a declaration. Don’t women become suspicious if one tells them one’s in love with them too fast? whips through my head. Doesn’t it trivialize the seriousness of love, make it appear that one’s treating love like a so-so thing, or as if one doesn’t know what love is? The total amount of time Tallulah and I have spent together, counting now and last year, is barely over a day, right? I may have already experienced more with her emotionally than I have with any other woman—meeting her again may have awakened me to the truth of how deeply she moves me, as no other woman has—but there’s still no getting around the fact it’s a very short amount of time and I might not have a clear idea of what I’m feeling, or be able to convince her of what I’m feeling. And so I likewise refrain from giving voice to what I’m increasingly certain is happening. And, aside from that, how do I know beyond a doubt what’s on Tallulah’s mind—what, if anything, it is that she almost said? It’s one of those situations where I feel I’ve perceived correctly but that if I act accordingly it could turn out I’ve perceived incorrectly—the same feeling one gets when one thinks one recognizes someone on the opposite side of the street but is afraid to call out the person’s name because it could turn out one’s addressing a stranger. “I don’t feel lonely when I’m with you either,” I say, pulling Tallulah close, freeing one of my hands and running my fingers through her hair, caressing the top of her head. “I feel I can get to know you better than I’ve known anyone else and tell you anything. And I want to tell you everything—want to be worthy of your trust.”

  “And I want to be worthy of yours—my secrets belong to you,” she says, wrapping her arms around me and rubbing a cheek against my chest.

  As we embrace in silent appreciation of one another, without the distraction of words, I can feel Tallulah’s energy surging and ebbing, gathering tight and unwinding, as her hands alternately tense and relax at my back—as her entire body alternately swells and subsides with emotion—her muscles now firm and insistent, now pliant and trembling—her breath now strong and deep, now barely audible. It’s as if I’m in touch with an ocean that exists inside her—the rhythm of its currents, variations of its temperature, mysteries of its depths. Again I wonder if now might be the right moment to declare I’m in love with her and again I hesitate and retreat, even while very cognizant of never feeling this electric in an embrace with anyone else.

  Slowly unwinding from our embrace after I’d guess at least two minutes and glancing at me in a way that strikes me as being very knowing, as if she’s accurately reading my thoughts concerning declarations of love (but I could easily be imagining she’s reading my thoughts), Tallulah murmurs, “Why don’t we finish our dinner?” and seats herself at the table, a pensive and abstracted cast to her expression. Picking up the offending lobster claw as if but half aware of what she’s doing, she begins working at it with her pick in an indifferent manner, without appearing to look directly at it. Without a word I take the claw from her hand, crack it open, and place it on her plate. “Thank you,” she all but whispers, the abstracted look still on her face.

  For a few minutes there’s a heavy and still quality to the atmosphere while we eat, so much so it’s as if the room’s filled with dense sound-deadening fog, even if it can’t be seen. Aside from the fact we neither speak nor glance at one another, our movements are restrained. Suddenly I’m wary of making abrupt gestures, as in reaching for more salad too quickly, or even forking food into my mouth at a rate greater than what I can only describe as being slow-motion, and I can’t help but note the same appears to be true of Tallulah: she seems to be intentionally endeavoring to finish her meal in silence, as I don’t so much as hear her fork scrape her plate. It’s as if a net, invisible to the eye but vivid to the nerves, has enveloped us and is enforcing restraint. Or maybe I’m only imagining such? After all, what’s wrong with eating in silence? But, all the same, the fact remains I’m leery of moving too suddenly or making any noise and have no idea why and want to know why. Is it because I feel too much has been said too quickly, lasting commitment having already been mentioned? I catch myself thinking. Or is it because I feel not enough has been said and I’ve missed a golden opportunity to tell Tallulah how deeply I feel about her? Or is it because I’m unsure if I love her, wondering whether it’s possible to know this soon if one loves someone—whether I’m mistaking the thrill of reencounter for love? All these situations would tend to make me uncomfortable and self-conscious at points, right? Is that why I’m apparently afraid to draw attention to myself, as if hesitant to so much as breathe? And what’s going on in Tallulah’s head? Is she asking similar questions, likewise debating the pros and cons of what’s been said and not said, unsure how to feel about what’s happening? Perhaps she’s embarrassed and discomfited, or even—God forbid—annoyed. Or maybe she’s simply allowing the things we’ve said to settle into the greater picture of her life as a whole, loath to make a sound because she’s busy reflecting upon possible courses of future action? We are deliberately maintaining the silence, aren’t we? It’s as if we’re in a monastery where speech, and noise in general, is forbidden.

  My friends, I’m sure I’m dwelling overmuch on this interval of quiet restraint and exaggerating its relevance. All the same, though, I’ll allow it to stand. If nothing else, it’s an indication of what’s passing through my head in the wake of almost venturing to make a declaration of love and, also, how rapidly uncertainly can intrude upon intimacy that appears to be becoming far more serious far more quickly than anticipated; nor to forget how swiftly delight can sweep uncertainty aside, thank God—as will shortly be seen. As mentioned, this quiet interval doesn’t last above a few minutes, never mind that these minutes are crammed with enough suspense-charged emotion to seem to crawl along at the rate of one an hour. Time’s experienced according to one’s mood, right? I pose the question not only because these minutes seem to last forever but because they suddenly begin whisking by in a blur. A point arrives when it not only becomes obvious we’re seeking to be as silent as possible but that it’s a contest, an out-and-out game: suddenly I’m able to clearly perceive, in every aspect of Tallulah’s body language, that she’s tip-toeing through her movements, doing her best to be invisible to my ears—that she’s fully aware I’m listening and is amused. Sure enough, there’s a smile on her face: how is it I’ve been oblivious of such? In fact, her whole body’s smiling: there’s an aura of playful electricity hovering about her, as clear to my nerves now as daylight is to the eyes. I seek to sneak a glance at her but it’s as impossible as caressing her without her knowledge. Her head may be lowered, but—such is the amount of transparency between us now—she can feel my eyes being raised, however discreetly, and so lifts the light of her eyes into mine, whereupon I see she’s beaming with joy; and then how rapidly the air loses its heavy quality, becomes crisp and bright and lively and dances; and likewise do my muscles pass from slow-motion mode to bouncing-off-the-walls mode. My arm, as if with a will of its own, darts across the table and drops a piece of butter-sauce-soaked lobster on Tallulah’s plate, such that it makes a splat sound and splatters. The sound tickles me to the tips of my toes and I double over laughing—soon we’re both laughing louder and louder, bouncing about in our chairs. Then we’re raucously feeding each other lobster and salad, placing the morsels in each other’s mouths with much shouted commentary—mimicking and exaggerating assorted accents, particularly the French and Southern ones, our favorites by far. Tallulah starts touching and caressing herself, tossing her hair, circling her tongue about her lips, flexing and stretching and moaning and cooing—a sultry glaze creeps into her gaze, her voice becomes huskier. We wind our legs about each other’s legs under the table, squeeze them tight then release, str
oke one another’s calves and thighs with our feet. Soon we’re slowly and suggestively rolling pieces of lobster around in our mouths and licking our lips, intoning, “Mmmmm...” while gazing deep into one another’s eyes; then we’re making predator sounds—roaring, growling, howling, yelping—while baring our teeth; then we’re laughing uproariously again, enough to turn red-faced and grasp our sides; then we’re engaged in a napkin-war, wadding them up and tossing them at each other’s head, still unable to stop laughing. All of this most likely occurs in under five minutes after we break our silence—that’s how quickly I whirl from uncertain musings into unabashed play. I declare there’s nothing more absorbing than the fluctuations of one’s moods during budding love: one’s emotions, now suffocatingly cautious and now liberatingly bold, circle about the prize as if in obedience to rules one will never comprehend. One moment one’s unaccountably mournful, surrounded by dark light and shadows, and the next one’s so elated it’s as if one’s been propelled to a place where joy will never die and tedium and ordinariness don’t exist—where nothing will ever annoy, weary, or bore one again. And those moments when it strikes one that rationality’s a lie one’s glad to have escaped from; and those moments when one’s pitying the person one used to be at the same time that one’s fearful of losing the ability to take something as essential as steady employment seriously… But I digress again—allow me to return to the unfolding events.