Love Literary Style

by Karin Gillespie

  “Sorry to interrupt, but there’s been an occurrence.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s…It’s…” He couldn’t seem to say the words.

  She tugged him inside, and they sat at her kitchen table. Her attention was so rapt it made him feel foolish. No doubt she was expecting a disaster—a relative felled by a stroke or a copperhead in his bathtub—not a book contract. He abruptly stood.

  “Sorry. I shouldn’t have disturbed you.”

  “No, I’m glad you’re here. You didn’t interrupt one tiny thing.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Positive. Talk to me. By the way, what’s your name?”

  Aaron introduced himself and she said her name was Laurie.

  (As if he didn’t already know. He liked that she was encouraging him to use the more informal Laurie instead of Laura.)

  “You were saying?” Laurie said.

  “I got a call…From my agent…”

  “Insurance? Oh dear. That’s never good news. What happened?”

  Her response momentarily befuddled him. “Not insurance.”

  “Real estate then?”

  “No. My literary agent.”

  “You have a literary agent? Wow. That’s so impressive.”

  Was she mocking him?

  “I do, and she called to tell me…Wilner wants to buy my novel.”

  “Wilbur?” She raised an eyebrow. “Well, that’s very nice for you. I hope he enjoys it.”

  Was she being ironic? Or making a joke? Aaron had no idea. Who could keep up with a genius’s mind?

  “Not Wilbur. Wilner. The publishing imprint?”

  “Of course. Silly me. I don’t know what I was thinking…Wilner! This calls for champagne. I’ve got a bottle in the fridge.”

  Aaron was about to object. It was several hours before five, and he only imbibed on special occasions. Then he remembered this was a special occasion, the most special one of his life.

  Moments later his neighbor handed him champagne in a juice cup. The vessel was moist to the touch, and the carbonation rose up and tickled his nose. His hostess planted her elbows on the table and held her head in her hands, looking at him with wide-eyed attention.

  “Tell me exactly how this came about. Don’t skip over a single detail.”

  He told her the story, and she oohed and ahhed in all the right places, and said encouraging things like “So thrilling!” or “Oh my gosh. Do you think you’ll get to see your book in libraries?”

  Her behavior was puzzling. It wasn’t as if she’d never met anyone who’d published a book before. Being a distinguished writer, she surely had dozens of novelist friends. In her circle, his accomplishment was not out of the ordinary.

  But her enthusiasm was so genuine it was hard to imagine her faking it. She honestly seemed excited for him, and, in turn, he allowed himself to get slightly giddy, a distinctly unfamiliar emotion. His default mood was usually one of low-grade misery.

  When he’d exhausted all angles of his publication story and felt as if he no longer had an excuse to linger, she asked him what his book was about.

  “It’s not easy to describe. At least not in a few sentences.”

  “That’s okay.” She poured more champagne, and the silvery bubbles danced and popped in his cup. “I have all the time in the world.”

  He gave a lengthy description of his novel, Chiaroscuro, and his neighbor listened with her whole body, gradually leaning in closer.

  “It sounds like a romance,” she said. “Funny, I wouldn’t have pegged you as a romance writer.”

  “That’s what you got from my description?”

  “I did.”

  Obviously she was not referring to supermarket romances. She must be referencing Northrop Frye’s Anatomy of Critics. Frye was an influence on Aaron’s father, and the premise of his book was that all literature could be divided into four genres: novel, romance, anatomy, and confession.

  Aaron remembered Frye characterizing McCarthy’s The Road as a romance, and he recalled something about romances being nihilistic. Hmmm. Perhaps Chiaroscuro was a romance after all. He’d definitely look into it.

  “There’s just one thing missing from your novel.”

  “Yes?”

  “You don’t have an HEA.”

  “An HEA. Ah yes, of course.”

  He had no idea what an HEA was, but didn’t want to reveal his ignorance.

  “It’s the most important characteristic of a romance.”

  “Very astute. Thank you for the observation.” As soon as he returned home he was going to reread Anatomy of Criticism and find out what an HEA is.

  “And how would you characterize your work?”

  She smiled, and it was like sunlight seeping through a seam in the clouds. “I write romance too.”

  “Is that so?” No wonder she was such an expert.

  “Right now I’m struggling with my hero. I can’t get a handle on him.”

  Yes. Aaron remembered reading something about romance characters being stylized archetypes, i.e., heroes in the vein of Don Quixote.

  “Maybe you could help me?”

  His neighbor was so close to him he could almost rub noses with her. But lovely as her nose was, her lips were more so. They were lush and pink, the most inviting of confections.

  But he couldn’t help her because he didn’t know enough about the topic. Dammit. If only he’d read Frye’s work more carefully.

  “Well?” she said.

  Aaron had never been one to take the lead in male-female interactions (that was always Emma’s role), but since he didn’t want to admit his lack of knowledge, he decided the only thing to do was kiss her.

  He leaned in, and when his lips met hers, he completely forgot about her question or Anatomy of Criticism. The kiss went on and on like a comet streaking across the sky.

  Six

  About Last Night.

  It was one of Laurie’s favorite rom-coms and featured a very young Demi Moore falling in love with Rob Lowe. They hooked up with each other at a Chicago bar called Mother’s, and slept with each other that very night. The next morning Debbi (Demi Moore’s character) said to her roommate Joan, “I crawled away in shame...I can’t believe I slept with him on the first date.” Joan, played by a very prickly Elizabeth Perkins, said, “It wasn’t even a date, Deb.”

  That about summed up the situation between her and Aaron, although her time with him didn’t seem the least bit tawdry. Maybe the champagne cast a golden sheen on everything, and maybe if she were sober she’d have thought otherwise.

  After some frantic kissing—it had been far too long since she’d been with a man—Aaron started to slow things down, which initially made her crazy, because every inch of her wanted to head pell-mell into the main event.

  But Aaron persisted and then...oh my God. Her cheeks got warm every time she thought about it, and other parts of her body got warm too. Aaron had taken her places she’d only read about in romance novels. Places she’d never gone with...She loathed to admit it: Places she’d never gone with Jake.

  For some reason orgasms always alluded her when she made love to her late husband. However, she’d watched When Harry Met Sally a half dozen times, so she knew the right noises to make and thankfully he never knew.

  But with Aaron, all the moans and gasps of pleasure were genuine. After their first time together, she turned into a wild, wanton woman who couldn’t get enough. Laurie scarcely recognized herself. She lost count of how many times they did it.

  At some point Aaron glanced at his watch and said, “It’s late. I need to get back to my side of the duplex.”

  His abrupt announcement startled her. Was this a slam-bam-thank-you-ma’am? Suddenly she felt a little tra
shy. Maybe he read her mind because he said, “I’m sorry. I’ve never done this sort of thing before so I don’t know the protocol.”

  “You haven’t?”

  Oh dear, she thought. It was the blind leading the blind. About Last Night was her only reference point when it came to these things.

  “Have you?” Aaron said.

  “No!”

  “I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “It’s fine. I didn’t want you to think—”

  “I don’t.”

  Long silence. Laurie longed to fill it, but Aaron had to be the one to make the next move. Especially in this situation. But finally she couldn’t stand it anymore. “Maybe…” she said, and he said it at the very same time.

  She laughed. “Go ahead.”

  “No. You.”

  “No, you, Aaron.” Her tone was firm. He was the male and needed to take the lead.

  “Maybe we could do this again?” He blushed furiously. “I don’t mean exactly this—”

  “I know what you mean and yes, I’d like that. We could have dinner together.”

  “Excellent. Dinner would be great. Well, then...” He extended his hand.

  “I think we’re past handshakes.” She gave him a goodbye kiss on the cheek and then it moved over to his lips and before she knew it, their tongues were entangling and she was ready for another go, but one more time and she probably wouldn’t be able to walk the next day. Before it went too far, she pulled away.

  “We have the rest of the colony.”

  He smiled. “Yes, we do, don’t we?”

  She nodded. It was official then. They were having a writer colony fling.

  He left and she planned to go to sleep but it was impossible. She kept replaying the shivery highlights of their evening together. That’s when she decided to get up and write. The minute she sat down at her computer, the words rained out of her.

  “Writer’s block over,” she texted Delilah, who would know exactly what Laurie meant. Luckily she wouldn’t press for details. It was one thing to plot a fling, but another to kiss and tell.

  Through the thin walls on Aaron’s side of the duplex she could hear a few yips and even a growl. It sounded as if her new fling partner was having a restless night.

  Aaron couldn’t sleep. Not after that incredible evening. He felt as if he’d been locked in a dark stuffy room for years, and suddenly the door flung open and bright light, bracing sea air and a cloud of monarch butterflies swooped in.

  He had no idea that intercourse could be so playful and fun. (Emma was gravely serious about sex; it was as if the two of them were dismantling a bomb. One false move and it could blow up in their faces.) With Laurie, it was all tickles, titillation and teases.

  He also admired her sexual inventiveness. In a single evening they’d utilized almost every square foot of the duplex, some to better effect than others. (The kitchen table sadly did not live up to The Postman Always Rings Twice expectations.) Aaron’s favorite venue was the clawfoot tub.

  At first he was skeptical, because in his experience, sex in water presented a number of friction challenges. But Laurie turned it into a delightful experience, and, at one point, they were splashing each other like children.

  She brought out a silly side in Aaron that he didn’t know he had. Who would have expected a respected literary author to have such a lighthearted spirit? In fact, when he was with her, he almost forgot about her elevated status.

  When the evening ended, he was worried that she might not want to see him again. Luckily it all worked out, and they were having dinner together.

  The next evening Laurie was heating up supper, a tomato pie she picked up at the local market. Aaron sat at the kitchen table drinking wine. “I thought we might discuss the elephant in the room,” he said.

  Laurie looked around the duplex. “The elephant?”

  “You’ve not heard that expression?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “It’s derived from a fable entitled ‘The Inquisitive Man’ which tells of a gentleman who goes to a museum and notices all sorts of tiny things, but fails to notice an elephant.”

  “Okay.” Laurie said. She still didn’t get it. Honestly, she really should have paid more attention when she was in high school.

  “After that, it became proverbial. Meaning there’s something significant to talk about, but the people in the room are avoiding the subject.”

  “Now I understand.”

  She felt herself blushing. He wanted to talk about the fling. Laurie was under the impression that you weren’t supposed to talk about the fling, you were simply supposed to have it. Otherwise you were acknowledging the fling and that made everything seem a little bit more sordid than it needed to be. But then again, maybe it was wise to have ground rules, like in the movie Friends With Benefits. That way people wouldn’t get hurt.

  “Would you like to go first?” he said.

  “You brought it up. Maybe you should.”

  “Okay.” He put down his wine goblet and looked directly into her eyes. “I very much enjoyed last night.”

  His statement was enough to cause her tummy to feel fluttery again.

  “I did too.”

  “I’ve never quite experienced...That was...”

  Her breath sped up. “I know.”

  “When we were on the chaise...”

  “Oh my gosh. The chaise.”

  “And then the second time. With the wing chair.”

  “The wing chair,” she said breathlessly.

  “And I can’t look at that throw rug without thinking about...well....”

  “The rug.” A small moan involuntarily escaped her lips. “Are you hungry? Because I could reheat this pie.”

  He pulled his chair out from the table, and she crushed herself into his chest. They started kissing and she was fumbling with his belt when he said, “Wait.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “The elephant. Before we go any further, we should discuss our lives back home, outside this conference.”

  Why? Then it dawned on Laurie. He wanted to tell her there was somebody else back home. A wife or a girlfriend, and that she shouldn’t get too attached. But Laurie didn’t want to hear it, especially not this very second, when her motor was all revved up. If he had someone at home, she might, in good conscience, be reluctant to proceed with the fling. And at this moment she definitely wanted more of Aaron.

  “Don’t worry about any of that,” she said quickly. “It’s not important. In fact, let’s make a pact not to talk about our lives outside these walls. For the rest of our time here why don’t we pretend this duplex is our entire world? What do you say?”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “Yes. I think it’s for the best.”

  “Okay.”

  A few minutes later, they were entangled naked on the rug. As the largest orgasm of Laurie’s life rose up from her deepest recesses, her pronouncement about the duplex being their entire world came true. Everything slowly collapsed, the woods, the entire world outside. It was only his hands and mouth on her bare skin, and she never wanted the moment to end.

  Last night Aaron brought up “the elephant in the room” and by elephant, he meant his and Laurie’s vastly different statuses in the literary world. Aaron was acutely aware he was at the bottom of the pecking order while she was at the top, and he wondered if that was a concern for her.

  Laurie made it clear she didn’t want to talk about it. Maybe she was one of those rare modest writers who didn’t like being fussed over. Certainly she had yet to lord her genius status over him, and, in fact, seemed to almost dumb herself down a shade so as not to intimidate him. Compared to her, he was certainly as dull as an old butter knife.

  Or maybe the reaso
n she didn’t want to talk about their different statuses was because she had no intention of continuing contact with him after the colony was over. That was understandable. Long-distance relationships weren’t practical. He didn’t know where she lived, although her accent suggested the South.

  Still, writers came to colonies from all over the country. She could be from anywhere. As beguiling as she was, it was probably wise not to get too attached to Laurie or to have unrealistic expectations. Such a mindset was easy for Aaron. He’d gone through most of his life expecting very little pleasures or happiness, so when they came along they were always pleasant surprises.

  Aaron and Laurie were going at it like rabbits on her side of the duplex. After they finished, a wall-shaking thunder clap immediately followed.

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” Laurie said happily.

  Aaron was on top of her, but instead of savoring the moment as usual, he scrambled off. Slap. His feet hit the floor, and he shimmied into his boxers.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Lightning flashed, along with deafening thunder. The storm sounded as if it had a grudge against them. Heavy rain pummeled the roof.

  “Can you smell the air? Feel the stickiness? It’s coming.”

  “What’s coming?”

  “I have to save Dusty. I’ll be right back.”

  “Who’s Dusty?”

  Lightning slashed the sky like a knife to an easel; this time it seemed like it was just outside their window. Heavy rain hardened into hail and rattled the roof; it sounded like it might break through the ceiling. Laurie grabbed her nightie and pulled it over her head.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I can’t leave Dusty by himself in this storm.” Aaron limped toward the exit.

  “Who is—?” The sentence died on her tongue; Aaron was already gone.

  Laurie padded across the room and opened the door. Lightning illuminated the sky and the wind tossed the trees. Cool air, pricked with moisture, blasted her skin. Nothing like a lively storm, she thought. Besides turkey shoots, thunderstorms were one of the few sources of entertainment in Swainsboro.