A Song in the Daylight by Paullina Simons
It was not even an unformed question. This was no epiphany, a standing on the ledge, looking downward, teetering, tottering, hoping something would save her. It was nothing but the gritted counting down of the merciless minutes until she could see him again. She wanted nothing to save her. This was not the stepback moment; it was too late for that. She couldn’t be kissed like that, touched like that, and then apply cold reason to her burning heart. She was enflamed outside and in, and no bucket of icy logic was going to quench the arson inside her, was going to succeed against her in order not to save her, but to destroy her. She wanted only one thing, and every synapse of her body was crying out for only one thing. Not wrong, not right, just desire, the means and the end, the beginning and the end, its own punishment, its own reward, its own reason and justification. Its own everything.
At 6:13 she jumped up and sprinted into the shower.
“It’s too early,” groaned Jared.
“No, it’s time. We’re always running late. I want to get on top of things.” She brushed her teeth in a flurry, on speed-dial threw on her clothes, brushed her hair, made coffee, got the cereal bowls ready, took Riot out, got the backpacks by the door, got Jared’s briefcase by the door, not a single thing to delay her, and at 7:00 woke the kids.
Jared was out the door by 7:30, thanking her for the coffee. “Oh, you’re welcome, darling, any time,” she said, as if behind a counter, flashing him her Starbucks smile, giving him small change. “Have a great day.”
He stared at her, puzzled, with his travel mug in his hands. “Yes, you too. Enjoy the play.”
“Come, come, we are friends,” she said to him across the island, quoting Benedick. “Let’s have a dance…to lighten our own hearts.”
“A simple so long will do,” said Jared as he left the kitchen. “But interesting that you omitted the words that end that line, about what else the husband should lighten by the marriage dance.”
“Fare thee well!” She called after him. “Let’s have a dance to lighten our hearts and our wives’ heels.”
“That’s better!” Jared called out as the back door slammed.
Asher was catching the bus, but Emily had to be driven to school for orchestra practice. Larissa packed up Michelangelo extra early, dropped off Emily, dropped off Michelangelo, ten minutes before the bell (“Mom, I’ve never seen the school this early! Well done”), and was back at the house by 8:10.
She debated with a pounding heart what to wear, what to do with her body, what perfume to put on, settling on the same white musk with a spritz of Escada’s Moon Sparkle she had worn yesterday. She almost left the house with no underwear. Not forgetting. Deliberate. Almost. But it was too shameful. What if she got into a car accident? How would she explain to the doctors in ER, and to Jared who rushed to her side, why she had on no underwear to go to the supermarket?
He had told her to come in the morning. What was morning for him? 11:00? 11:30? 10:15?
She remembered, nearly belatedly, even though she sat at night and fake-studied Shakespeare, that she had auditions today. She cursed for ten minutes, squawking around her house, trying to find a way out. If she called and said she couldn’t make it, Ezra would tell Maggie, who would bring it up over the weekend, in casual conversation, mention to Jared that dear old Larissa was too busy at ten in the morning to come in and stage a casting call for a hundred kids. She could say she’d gone shopping; the children needed clothing. Which was true: they needed shorts, sandals. But to say it would beg the question of why they continued to have no shorts, no sandals.
Out of options, Larissa drove to Pingry. She was on stage by 9:20 a.m., consoling herself that Kai was probably asleep and it was no good to wake a sleeping man. Was he a nocturnal? Or was he an early riser? Were stonemasons early risers? The delay was good; what was the point of him knowing that she wanted to rush to him like a wound-up schoolgirl at her first canteen dance.
Of course there was no one at 9:20 in the theater room. The casting call wouldn’t begin properly until ten, when the kids would start their free periods.
She got the books out, the glasses of water, the little table and chair on the stage, checked the time: 9:26 (!!!) and then, to busy her frantic hands, she decided to begin painting the backdrop to Claudio and Hero’s lovesick struggles.
She changed into the old painter’s grays she found in the production room, opened and stirred the paint, got out the brushes. She was hoping as always to get lost in the colors, the right hemisphere of the brain coming to the rescue, useful like hypnosis. Not today. Today there was no relief in the 12x16 hunk of plywood that gradually became golden brown and red.
At 10:13, she changed back into her floral skirt, flimsy blouse, touched up her lipstick, easier said than done on her tremulous lips, and bounced back into the theater, where Leroy and Sheila were waiting, along with ten students ready to read.
With a stone face Larissa sat in the chair next to Leroy and every time he would ask, well, how is this one or that one? she would say, she’s not bad, he’s not bad, and she would pretend to make notes, which were nothing more than an endless repetition of the child’s name, Angela, Angela, Angela, Alison, Alison, Alison, What time was it? Oh God, it was 11:02. Wendy, Ginger, Kate, Josh and Michael. Josh Josh Michael Michael. What about now? 11:15. She had to go. Right now. She sprung up.
“Where are you going?” said Leroy. “We’re not done.”
“I know. I’ve got some stuff that can’t wait. Can you finish up, please? You and Sheila.”
“Be glad to,” said Leroy. “But if you don’t hear them, how are you going to cast them?”
“Callbacks. Make notes, ask them to come back Monday.” She remembered Kai’s day off was Monday. “Maybe Tuesday, okay? Tuesday at ten for callbacks. That’ll give us time to run through everyone who wants to audition. We’ve got twenty parts to fill,” she said to Leroy, grabbing her purse, “so be watchful. Oh, and Sheila, the last line in Act 5, Scene 1 reads, ‘How her acquaintance grew with this lewd fellow.’ In this context, lewd means worthless, not what the kids will suggest to you it means. Don’t let them snicker and change the meaning, okay? You must be firm. Because they’ll run roughshod over you.”
“I know.”
“No, I know you say you know,” said Larissa, “but not five minutes ago, Michael put the wrong emphasis on it, and you didn’t correct him or ask him to read it properly. That’s what I mean. You gotta watch for that stuff.”
Sheila turned red, became flustered. “I didn’t realize…”
“I know. Please do. This is Shakespeare, not MTV. You, too, Leroy. Help Sheila. Where is David? He can run lines to help us.”
“He’s sick today.”
“Ah. Well, perhaps tomorrow. See ya, guys.”
She was outside in the sunlight and eleven minutes later already across the railroad tracks, Jag on the gravel, stairs traversed, her clenching fist knocking on his white door. Before her knuckles rapped the wood a second time, the door was opened, and he stood in front of her smiling. He was extra casual, loose jeans without a belt, a blue faded tank top. He was unbelievably thin, in that way young bodies are when all they do is move. Only his lanky arms were flash. His hair was still wet, pulled back. He was so rad, so irresistible, so new.
“Where’ve you been?” he said, pulling her in by the wrist and shutting the door behind her.
“You said morning.” She dropped her purse. “You didn’t say a time. I didn’t want to wake you.” Wasn’t she so composed!
“Not much chance of that,” he said, grinning. “I’ve been waiting for you since 8:30.”
“Since that early?”
“I called Lincoln Elementary and found out school started at 8:05. I made us coffee.” He pointed to the stove. “Probably all burned by now.”
She said nothing, standing awkwardly.
“Should I make a new pot?”
One of the windows by the bed was open a crack and the breeze was disturbing the curtains. How long coul
Reaching out, he took her hands into his. “You know what I want? You,” he whispered, pulling her to him.
Not composed anymore, her legs weakened when he kissed her.
“You smell great,” he whispered. “What is that? It’s fucking amazing…”
She wanted to tell him, but she forgot. The name of the perfume had flown out of her head.
He was already panting, not composed himself, not still, not calm, breathing hard, fumbling with the buttons on her shirt, with the zipper on her skirt. She wanted to tell him not to bother with the zipper, just hitch the skirt up. She kicked off her shoes as they kissed standing up, their arms wrapped around each other; she was trying to absorb him through his jeans, through his blue tank, which he threw off, breathlessly acknowledging her opened blouse, her sheer white bra underneath, her hardening nipples.
“Oh God,” he said, drawing her close, his hands pulling off her blouse, finding the clasps of the bra. “Larissa, what I want…” He stopped to collect himself. “What I want is to feel your bare nipples against my chest, but I can’t. That’s what I want, but I can’t have it.” He left her in her bra, her skirt unzipped but not pulled down. “I’m sorry,” he said, pulling her to his bed. “I can’t even open my eyes. I can’t look at you naked, I can’t even imagine you naked, all right?”
“All right,” she moaned, watching him unbutton his Levi’s. She sat down on the bed in front of him and was about to pull down his jeans and his boxer briefs when he took her hands away from him. “No, no,” he said. “I’m not kidding. You can’t touch me.” With his body he pushed her down on the bed and climbed on top of her.
“I can’t touch you, you can’t touch me, you can’t undress me.” Her arms went on his bare back. “So what can we do?” His excitement was so conspicuous, so apparent, so blatant that Larissa moaned even as she uttered those normal words. To have him rub agonizingly against her in lust and shamelessness, to want to be pressed into the bed under him in lust and shamelessness, the panting evaporating memories and miseries and marriage, being drunk on untamed youth, not sinking but drowning, gulping for air.
He couldn’t speak.
“Okay,” she whispered, gently touching his arms, his back, opening her mouth under his searching frantic mouth. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay,” he said. He barely opened his jeans, finally did jack up her skirt without even being asked; he didn’t take off her underwear, just pulled it over to one side and breathing shallow into her mouth, his eyes closed, he found her in an instant, thrust inside her, and before she could grasp his back and gasp…it was over.
“I told you,” he murmured, after a few moments of panting silence. He gazed at her up close with a contrite but delighted smile. “I’m so happy you’re here,” he said, kissing her. “I was afraid you’d have horrible second thoughts, and then I’d be walking around with blue balls the rest of my life.”
“That doesn’t sound very likely,” she said quietly.
“You not showing up? Or my blue balls?”
She laughed. It was bright in his apartment, even with the shades drawn. There was nowhere to hide. The light kept coming through the cracks.
He was tanned the way people who have lived their lives in the sun are tanned—their skin changed color, was no longer white. He had little hair on his chest, almost like he was still growing it. She ran her elongated fingers with their polished nails from his chest down to his smooth table-top stomach.
Was there even a five-minute break? Ten? He had enough time to get her a drink of lukewarm water, throw some ice cubes in it. He undressed her, left her naked on his bed. “God, I knew you were going to be beautiful,” he whispered. “I knew it from the moment I saw you.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.” He smiled, his fingertips running down her thighs. “Underneath that big parka, those loose sweats, hidden under that no-nonsense exterior you carry, like you can’t be bothered with the world, I knew there was sweetness, there was hotness.”
Straddling her, he sucked her nipples, kissed her, told her he was sorry he only had the one mouth and couldn’t use it on her all at once, and she said she was also sorry for that because that sounded like something she might like.
And he laughed.
She tried to hide her star-struck wonder. Arching her back into the bed, she opened her legs. “Come here, Kai,” she said, opening her arms, too. “Come to me.”
He climbed on top of her, supporting himself with his wiry arms. “I don’t know what to do first to please you, to make you happy,” he murmured. “I’m ridiculous.”
“No,” she said. “You’re not. You’re fine. But there is just one thing I need, okay?” She took him into her hands, tried not to moan and failed, tried not to pant and failed, tried not to let him see her excitement at feeling him in her hands, and failed at that too, his face so close, his eyes roaming her face for meaning.
What? What? he kept saying. You like touching me? Why? Tell me why.
Now she was the one who couldn’t speak. She wasn’t ready for the blitz, for the groping hands and the seeking mouth seeking her mouth, licking her breasts, wait, wait, she kept saying, trying to hold on to him, to caress him, to keep him inside her surprised and stroking palms for just a moment longer, wait, wait, and he kept saying, wait for what? Pushing inside, inside, inside.
Oh God, no honest, wait.
Wait for what, Larissa?
She wasn’t ready for the klieg light of his unstoppable youth, ashamed of how uncontrollably she was moaning. Once she started to come, she panted for him to stop, but he wouldn’t listen, and she kept coming and coming. I can’t take it anymore, she kept saying.
Sure you can, he kept saying back.
I can’t take it anymore, she kept whispering underneath him on his bed. Honest, I can’t, on her back, on her stomach, on her hands and knees, spread out, stretched out, drawn, quartered, blankets thrown off, just the sheet on a mattress near the wall, her arms outstretched above her head, searching. Not even a headboard for her desperate hands to grasp. She tried, she really did, to be circumspect in her vocal yearnings, the windows were ajar, but she wanted to scream, to cry out, I can’t believe what’s happening, I can’t believe the fantastic of it, the joy of it.
No more, no more, she kept gently pleading. Kai, stop, please, no more…
More, more, she kept gently pleading. Kai, don’t stop, please, more…
She was soaked, wet, and he was soaked, dripping sweat on her in the spectacle of his flagrant exertions.
Help me, please, oh God, help me. When will you come?
You want me to come?
If you don’t soon, I won’t be able to walk out of here.
Larissa, he whispered, and Larissa was coming even before he finished the question, do you want to walk out of here?
He was so beautiful to look at, but never more so than when he was naked. To see a twenty-year-old man nude, erect, that was a pleasure and a privilege Larissa didn’t expect to get again. There wasn’t a soft line to him, except for the pulpy excess of his mouth. He was reed lean, the arms that lifted stone like stone but on a sinewy body, not a gym rat’s body. A body that worked for its living outdoors in the heat of dust, in the bowl of mortar. Not a scrap of extra on him anywhere, except in the extra there was too much and too young of. He really was the most beautiful man.
His youth became her. How else could it be for her when faced with the voluminous fire of a rapacious boy, who had it instant-on, like gas logs, press a button and voila! at maximum volume in seconds? There was no start-up, it was just up. It had been a long time for Larissa, living inside such adolescent flame. Eighteen years married, and before that young and incautious, just parading her new-found sexual freedom around the campus—that wasn’t the same thing as being in love, was it?
It wasn’t this.
She had been in love with Jared, though in the geographical landscape of her heart, that love now seemed as remote as New Hebrides was from Summit. New Hebrides? Exactly. An island in Micronesia.
“Nothing can be this fucking good.”
Larissa couldn’t believe it wasn’t she who had uttered those words.
She was crying.
No, don’t cry. Come. But don’t cry.
Why can’t I do both, Kai?
He tasted of mint gum, of black coffee, she thought faintly of cigarettes. What did she taste of? Was he the kind who would tell her? She couldn’t ask any questions now; she was immersed at the moment in answers.
She feared that when it was over—and eventually, it was over—she would be deflated by her remembrance of things past, but that was not to be. She kept tracing the outline of his damp stomach with her fingers. He had a long scar on his left lower abdomen. What’s that from?
Oh that? Well…I was on a demon ride, he said. Fell off my bike.
Demon ride?
Yeah. Riding the motorcycle in the dark with the lights off. Crashed into the side of a volcanic cliff.
Hurt?
Yeah. Pretty bad. He got quiet. I had a girl with me. She got hurt, too. He got quieter.
Is she okay?
Pause. Depending on what your definition of OK is.
Is she OK by any definition?
I guess the answer to that would be no. But she did make it out alive from the accident. So that’s something, I suppose.
Larissa could tell he didn’t want to talk about it. Leaning over, she put her lips on his stomach, on his scar.
After more than two hours of pageantry—two hours! How insignificant! How trivial! Time entering into eternals, how ludicrous, how degraded—she had to leave. Left his hands on her thighs, his soft lips on her bare stomach, left her own hands on his back, kneeling on the bed. No, don’t go, Kai whispered, I haven’t…
You mean there is something you still haven’t done? Larissa almost didn’t leave.