by Leylah Attar
“It was good seeing you, Marjaneh,” I say. “Tell Susan to give you some information about the accreditation process before you leave.”
“I can do that,” says Bob. “Come with me. I have a ton of stuff to get you started. Troy, you’ll let Shayda know if you need anything?”
“I will,” he replies. “Ohhh, I will,” he repeats, an octave lower when they’re out of earshot.
“You didn’t tell me you were coming,” I say.
“You always want to know when I’m coming.”
Oh please no, I think. But it’s too late. My face turns a bright shade of red.
“Aaaand my work here is done.” He smiles. “Except for this thing I told Bob I’d look after.”
He starts opening the cardboard boxes. His movements are deliberate and efficient, the muscled planes of his back flexing as he lifts the packages out.
“Where do you want it?”
“Huh?” On the desk, against the wall, sprawled out on the floor.
“Where...” he moves closer and breathes into my neck, “...do you want it? Your new computer.”
“Um...right here is fine.” I point to the space I’ve cleared on my desk. “Since when does Heathgate Group make house calls?”
“Since I get to see you.”
There’s no way I’m going to get any work done now.
“I’m uh...I need to go over some of this stuff with Bob.” I grab the paperwork.
“Not so fast.” His fingers circle my wrist.
“Troy...the door’s open.”
“So?” He captures the other one.
I wonder if he can feel my pulse quicken.
“Much as I’d like to throw you over this desk and have my way with you, I do have some measure of restraint,” he says. “Promise me something before you go.”
“What?” As if I’d be able to deny him anything.
“Your birthday. Next month. Lunch.”
Lunch. Another word for our trysts, tangled sheets, fevered kisses. Slipping away from work and into his arms, learning just how delicious not eating can be.
“Fine,” I reply. It’s his birthday too.
“I’ll hold you to it.” He drops a kiss on each of my palms before letting me go.
I walk into Bob’s office, still tingling. “You have a minute?”
“Sure.”
“Marjaneh’s gone?” I ask as I sort through the files.
Bob nods. “She seems nice.”
“Yes,” I reply. “She’s my brother’s ex-wife.”
“Ah. They have any kids?”
“No.”
None that survived.
We’re half way through the paperwork when Troys show up, leaning with a lazy confidence against the door.
“All done.” He unrolls his sleeves and does up the buttons. “Now, about that promise you made me?”
I jump. What the hell?
“Hell, yeah!” replies Bob. “Liz has been looking forward to it all week. She won’t feed me if I don’t show up with you.”
Oh. I relax.
“Why don’t you join us?” Bob says to me. “I have no clue what’s for dinner, but Liz will be thrilled to see you.”
“Thanks, but I have to get home. We can finish another time.” I pick up the folders.
“All right then,” says Bob. “Troy, you think you could show me how this works before we leave?” Bob turns his screen around. “Shayda, you want to see?”
“You can show me tomorrow,” I reply.
“Bye, Shayda.” Troy grins, very much aware of the wide berth I give him as I leave.
Shaydahhh.
I return to my office and shut the door. I want to keep the smell of him from escaping. It’s barely noticeable, the kind of thing only a lover would recognize, sparking associations that set the pulses racing.
I drop the papers on my desk. He’s left the new computer running. The background is set to a close-up of a butterfly against a golden valley.
I sit back and sigh.
How long, I wonder, before this thing between us blows up in our faces.
25. Scary Cherry
June 17th, 1996
I’ve started taking the bus on the days I see Troy. It’s safer than driving, especially on the way back, when my mind projects a play by play action of our time together, and I can’t focus on much else.
But today, I regret not driving in. It must be disconcerting for my fellow passengers, when the woman next to them suddenly hides her face in her hands. Then she composes herself and sits back up. And what is that sound she keeps making? Halfway between a laugh and a gasp, a sharp intake, before her cheeks turn pink. Then she hides her face again. She squirms, crosses her legs, uncrosses them. She runs her fingers down her neck and under the collar. Then she laugh-gasps again and covers her mouth.
One by one, the people around me start changing seats. In my slightly delirious state, I find this hilarious. Then I flashback to Troy peeling off my dress and my stomach clenches. I grab a book from my handbag and try to concentrate on the words.
“More.” I hear myself moaning. “All of you.”
The words on the page float and fade before me.
We had lunch—decadent dishes served with steel-domed covers. Steak, chicken, lobster, fish, pasta. Troy ordered one of everything. We’re still learning. The little things. He knows every nook and cranny on me, but not my favorite dish. It doesn’t matter because it’s all changing. My favorite color used to be yellow. And now it’s blue—all the different shades of it in his eyes.
“Happy Birthday.” He leans across and kisses me when we’re both very, very full.
“Happy Birthday,” I reply, tugging on his collar to pull him closer.
His rosary trails on the starched, white tablecloth.
“Is there a story behind this?” I finger the beads.
“It belonged to my grandmother,” he says. “She gave it to me when I was little. I used to wake up convinced there were monsters under my bed. She said, ‘Hold on to this. It’ll bring you light in the dark’. I’ve slept like a baby since.”
“Are the two of you close?”
“She’s gone now. But I have some great memories.” He pushes his chair back and takes my hand. “Come with me.”
We step out to the private balcony overlooking the lake. I lean back against him as the curtains flutter in the spring breeze.
“What do you want for your birthday?” I ask, convinced he’ll have a list of naughty requests.
“I already have it.”
His kiss is sweet. It unsettles me. Hot, demanding, insistent Troy I know, but this soft, vulnerable Troy is devastating.
“Come on.” I drag him inside. “I have to be back in an hour.”
But he lies beside me, stroking my arm, playing with my hair, perfectly content to let the afternoon slip away.
“You’re pretty hot for a thirty-four year old,” he teases.
“You have some pretty interesting thirty-four year old parts yourself.” My hand slides down to cup him.
And that’s how it starts. The first time he takes me, except he doesn’t, not until he has me begging. And still he teases, parting me with the tip of his shaft, the shallowest thrust, the slightest nudge, and then he withdraws. He rubs himself on me again. Tease, tease, tease. Until I’m achy. And hollow. And throbbing with need.
His lips and tongue and fingers and palms take me over the edge. Again. Again. But it’s not enough. I want to melt with him. I want to hold him in my core, in my being.
When I wrap my legs around him, digging my heels into his flesh, urging him, goading him, he finally gives in with low growl.
“Hold on,” he says, retrieving his pants.
I hear the rip of foil. When he turns around, I put my hand over my mouth.
“What is it?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“Are you...Shayda, are you laughing?”
I burst out, unable to hold it in any longer. “It’s...it
’s red.” I point to the condom.
“It’s cherry.”
“It looks so...angry. Scary cherry.”
“Shayda. Never, ever point to a man’s penis and laugh.”
“I’m sorry.” I giggle. “It’s just...I’ve never seen a condom on before. It looks so...”
“Angry. Scary Cherry. I get it,” he replies. “Of all the scenarios I imagined for this moment, and trust me, I’ve thought about it a lot, I never figured this would be your reaction.”
“You thought...” I wipe the tears from my eyes. “You thought what...?”
“Awe. Amazement. A swoon. You know, the usual.”
“Well, it doesn’t look like my reaction was taken too personally.”
“Maybe not here.” He points to the source of my amusement. “But up here? Up here, I’m screwed. Scarred for life. I’m going to need a lot of very intensive therapy.”
“Poor baby. Anything I can do to help?”
“You better get started on that therapy right away.”
He groans as I stroke him. It feels weird, the plasticky sheath encasing him. My hands are tentative as I explore its filmy texture.
“Wait a sec.” He stops me. “You said you’ve never seen a condom before?”
“I said I’ve never seen it on before.”
“So you’re on the pill?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“Well...I don’t...Hafez is out of town so often...”
“Right.” He cuts me off.
The mention of my husband’s name is like a splash of cold water. We lie on the bed, together, but separate.
A little sob escapes me.
“Don’t.” He gathers me in his arms. “You’re ruining a perfectly fine moment.”
“What moment?” I scoff.
He frames my face in his hands and looks at me. “This one.”
And just like that, he pushes everything else aside.
There isn’t an inch of me that he doesn’t taste. From the space between my brows, to the hollow of my navel, to the sweep of my spine, to the arches of my feet. When he finally settles his weight between the cradle of my thighs, I close my eyes, alive only to the searing sensation of him sliding into me.
“You’re so tight.” He hisses, as the first long, slow plunge meets my flesh.
“Ahhh,” I gasp, half pleasure, half pain.
“You all right?” His voice is gruff with the hard edge of passion.
I nod, thrusting my hips up, wanting more, but he pulls out instead.
“I just want to stretch you out,” he says, when I start to protest.
He slips two fingers inside me and starts moving them in a maddening rhythm, in and out, side to side, round and round. His thumb plays with my clit, as he watches me take shallow, frenzied breaths.
“Do it,” he says, in that familiar, intimate way.
I roll to my side and start a rhythmic clenching of my thighs, with his fingers still inside me. It’s not long before he feels me contracting around him. With a muffled grunt, he flips me over and enters me again, swallowing my cry of pleasure with his mouth.
This time there is less resistance. He plunges deeper, letting my walls accommodate to his fullness, even as he feels the last ripples of my orgasm pulsing through me.
“Unhh.” He slides his hands beneath my hips, lifting me, burying his hot flesh between my legs.
My lips form a soundless ‘O’ as I take in the full, thrilling hardness of him.
“Wider,” he commands, nudging my thighs apart.
I wrap my legs around him as he sinks deeper into me.
“You have no idea how good you feel.” His eyes are wild and feverish as he looks at me. Then he rocks against me, holding himself up by his forearms, anchoring his fingers in my hair.
Yes. Yesssss. I bite into his shoulder, inhaling the scent of his body. I’ve never been more conscious of anything in my life, never realized I’ve been walking around with this deep, vacant hollow that he fits into so perfectly, so completely.
He is by turns gentle and savage—slow, sensual grinding one moment, followed by quick, hard stabs. Each shift makes me cling to him, blood roaring in my ears, until I feel him straining against the last shreds of self-control. And still he waits.
I take his face in my hands so he can see what I’m saying. Then I rotate my hips and push against him.
“Shaydahhh.” He lets go with a primal growl.
I feel the first rush of ecstasy jerk through him. His fingers grip my hips, holding me still as he empties himself inside me. He shudders violently, dazed by the intensity of his release before burying his face in my shoulder.
We stay like that for a while, catching our breath. It’s too soon to face each other, like the first moments after a head-on collision, shaken by the raw, unexpected force of it.
“God. I love everything about you,” he says when he can speak again. “These long, dark lashes, your glowy, golden skin, the way you smell. Roses, always roses. Pink roses. Like your lips.”
He traces the line of my nose with his finger. “I love this dent over your mouth, the way your smile fills the corners.” He stops at the silver scar on my bottom lip.
If he asks me now, I’ll tell him everything. Anything.
But he kisses the spot in silent communication of all the things he can’t voice.
“What?” he asks when he catches the spasm in my throat.
“Nothing.” I play with the rosary around his neck. It helps me bite back the tears. “I have something for you.”
“You got me a birthday present?”
I nod.
“Fuck. Now I feel like shit.”
He’s given me the best gift of all and he doesn’t even know it. He’s pulled Pasha Moradi out by the roots and cast him out of my soul.
“I made you some brownies,” I say.
“Where are they, woman?”
“I don’t feel like getting up.” My arms flop to the side.
We lie in silence, listening to the drone of a boat on the lake.
“So what are you doing tonight?” he asks.
What he’s really saying is: I want to know what it’s like. For you to go home and celebrate your special day with your family. The real people in your real world.
I’m not sure if I should tell him.
Who am I trying to protect? Him? Myself? My family?
“Nothing,” I reply. “It’s a school night. We might go out for dinner on Saturday.”
I don’t ask him what his plans are.
When I try to imagine his night, or the night after that, or the weekend ahead, I see phantoms with faceless bodies. They’re all glossy and dazzling—young, free, fun and firm.
“So how about those brownies?” I ask, glad I cut them into neat little squares so I don’t have to touch this double-edged sword that swings between us, slicing through me when I least expect it.
26. Call Him Yourself
June 18th, 1996
“I can’t believe it’s been a year already,” says Jayne.
I can’t believe it either. A year ago, Troy had been like a passage in a book, the kind you remember and recall. And then he was real and more powerful than any words on any page in any story could convey.
“Happy anniversary.” I give Jayne a hug.
“And happy birthday to you! A day late, but you were too busy to meet me for lunch yesterday,” she chides.
“Sorry.” I was celebrating a mutual birthday in ways that still make me catch my breath.
“So?” she asks after the waiter takes our order. “Spill.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Oh, come now,” she says. “Something’s going on. Your hair, your skin, even your eyes are different. You look positively radiant. Did you get something done?”
“What? No.” I laugh. “Nothing like that.”
“Then what?”
“I’m just...I don’t know, happy.” I twirl my glass, hoping
the tinkling ice-cubes will stop the full flush I feel coming on.
I’m happy. And sore. My skin is chafed from Troy’s stubble, and I ache when I move—the joints where his hips fit, my inner thighs, my waist where he held on.
“Well, whatever it is, it sure agrees with you,” says Jayne.
“So how’s the new place coming along?” I take a sip of my water and change the subject.
“It’s amazing!” She lights up. “We should be ready for a house-warming soon, but you have to join us at the cottage first. We’re hosting a small barbecue to celebrate our first anniversary. August long weekend.”
“I’ll check with Hafez,” I reply.
“No checking. You’re coming.”
We spend the rest of our lunch catching up. It’s nice and yet weird, like I’m wearing another skin beneath my own, another pulse that’s flowing, separate from the Shayda who’s sitting here. A Shayda I have to keep from the world.
“Heading back to the office?” asks Jayne as we pay the bill.
“No, I’m taking Maamaan to the clinic.”
“Everything okay?”
“Just a routine screening,” I reply.
Maamaan is waiting on the porch when I arrive.
“I hate these appointments.” She plops her handbag on her lap and shuts the car door.
I smile. She wears a hat to anything she considers important. Weddings, funerals, parties. And mammograms. Today, it’s a wide-brimmed ivory hat with a pink ribbon. Her winter hat is a deep burgundy cloche with felt flowers that she embellishes with an assortment of brooches if she suspects she’s been seen in it before.
The mammogram doesn’t take long.
“That wasn’t too bad, was it?” I ask on the way back. She hmphs and stares out the window.
We stop at a bakery to pick up her favorite pastries, a reward for having her breasts squished and flattened and compressed and x-rayed. ‘Mishandled’ is the way she likes to put it.
In her kitchen, we settle down to what has become an annual tradition after one of these trips. I set the table while she makes tea—not the regular, everyday tea, but the kind on the stove, with real tea leaves and the careful simmering of milk and water. When the mixture is just the right shade, she adds a few strands of saffron and sugar.