She made him want to get in shape. After watching her he would go home to do crunches and pushups. If he didn’t, it was always his intent upon arriving home. He didn’t masturbate to the thought of her. A small part of him wanted to, only because it felt wrong and erotic, but another part prohibited the action. Her body was perfect. It was tone yet soft. He imagined lying next to her, his knees against the back of her knees, his hand on the velvet of her side, the space just below her ribs. Her skin was radiant, especially her face, although that was all the skin, aside from her arms and neck, he had seen. He could not stop looking at her. Almost as if his eyes were constantly trying to make sense of her miracle, the impossibility of her beauty, her perfection. He never looked at a girl this way before.

The first date was coffee and hello and do you like your job and I kinda like you a lot. Clive, after two or three failed attempts, which amounted to a lot of waiting and staring and coffee and cream, had approached Edith. He felt weightless, not floating, moved by impulse. “Would you like to get a coffee with me?” Her reply, which he will never forget, was, “What size?” He repeated himself, this time louder than a whisper: “Would you like to get coffee sometime – with me?” She said oh. “Where were you thinking?” she asked. “Here, I guess,” he smiled. “Ok,” she laughed. “I get off in fifteen minutes.” Clive knew she got off in fifteen minutes.

The second date was dinner and any brothers or sisters and sorry I’m always staring at you and I don’t mind. Neither of them had much money so nothing fancy. Clive asked if cheap Italian was ok, his treat. She agreed but was noticeably uneasy about him paying. He said she could pay the tip and Edith laughed. Clive was always making people laugh. He understood this.

At Edith’s request the third date had been a movie. Edith met Clive at the theater on Murray Avenue. She walked. Clive brushed his pinky up against Edith’s pinky, the movie was pictures and sounds. On the screen Edith and Clive lay holding each other tightly, Clive kissing Edith just above her lips, Edith kissing his earlobe, his eye lid, squarely on the lips, her eyes open and luminous. Clive opened his eyes, words were scrolling down the screen, the song familiar. Say goodbye good. Hey hey, hey. He was holding Edith’s hand, she turned and smiled. “Did you like the movie sleepyhead?” she asked. His smile turned into a yawn, his head bending forward, his stomach tightening. He didn’t let go of her hand until the screen was its natural white, the lights forcing them to their feet. Holding her hand felt familiar.

They started talking in the aisle of the theater. Neither of them understood the movie, so the conversation started there. They didn’t stop talking. The conversation moved to Clive’s car, and onto her apartment, two cold blocks away. It moved outside to the front door of Edith’s minimally lit apartment building, through the door, up one flight of stairs, into her apartment, where shoes were pushed aside and jackets tossed onto a recliner in the corner, hers first. It moved into the kitchen and, in a way, into the cabinets as cups were made ready for coffee, and it moved to the couch, the three cushion, and eventually, after their third cups was emptied, made its way to the floor where the backs of their bodies, an arm’s length apart, lay pressed against the beige carpet.

“Clive. Not too many people have that name,” said Edith. The room was brighter now. A ray of light extended from Clive’s feet, filled with tiny floating dots. “My Dad was a big C.S. Lewis fan.” “And your Mom?” she asked, her head now resting on his chest, eyes watching the floating dots. “I don’t know,” he said. Clive’s mother had died when he was eight. “Imagine if they named you Staples,” she said, with a smirk in her voice. He told her that was his middle name, which it wasn’t, she said oh, well, it’s not a bad name. He laughed.

“You jerk.” She tickled him as he laughed, her hands at his sides. He grabbed her hands and looked at her. He had been afraid to touch her all night. The laughing stopped and Edith looked up at Clive, her lips speaking. “It’s ok,” her lips said. “We want this.” But Clive couldn’t act. He stared at her lips, inert. His fondness of Edith frightened him, but it gave his life a fullness.

Edith inched her lips to Clive’s, her eyes moving from his lips to his eyes, lips to eyes. When their lips touched, Clive bit down. It was some kind of reflex. “Ow. What,” said Edith, jerking back, two fingers holding her bottom lip , “What was?” “I’m sorry, it was a reflex, I don’t, are you ok?” She said she was ok, she sucked in her lip, checked for blood. She looked confused and held her lip. Clive got up. “I guess I should go.” She said no, no and told him he didn’t have to go, that it just hurt and had taken her by surprise. “I’m really sorry. I’ve never done that before,” said Clive. And he hadn’t. All of this was new. Edith stood up and asked Clive if he was hungry. “Yeah I am actually. Starving.” She went into the kitchen. Clive walked towards the window and thought about leaving.

Edith walked into the pantry, the size of a small walk-in closet, and rested her back and head against the shelves. It felt good to have the shelves dig into her back. She stared ahead blankly. Tonight had not gone the way she’d hoped. She could not tell if Clive liked her or if he just thought she was interesting. None of the typical indicators were apparent. Aside from holding hands in the movie theater, which she initiated as he lay sleeping, and just a moment ago on the living room floor, Clive had not touched Edith all night. They had talked. But the conversation had felt hollow and desultory. She liked there to be points and a build and a resolve. And there was the kiss. Edith did not put a lot of emphasis on first kisses and was willing to try again, but the violent awkwardness of it disturbed her.

Clive came into the kitchen. Edith said hey and breathed in through her nose. “What are you hungry for?” she said.

“How’s your lip? Are you ok?” asked Clive, his arms folded and shoulders raised.

“Oh, I’m fine,” said Edith, touching Clive’s left forearm.

Clive smiled at Edith, looking at her eyes briefly. He stared at the floor and placed his right hand on Edith’s, his arms still folded. He rubbed her hand. Edith took a step closer, their eyes met. With her left hand she touched the loop of Clive’s belt without moving her eyes. Clive’s stomach jumped. With both of her hands she began undoing Clive’s belt. There was something Edith wanted, some end or goal for which she was striving.

“I want to do this,” said Edith, kneeling down. Clive’s eyelids were nearly shut with a slit of white visible. He bit his lower lip, his breathing grew louder, his head at a tilt. Edith knew Clive was already hard, and this excited her. But not in a sexual way. She liked that he was reacting to something she was doing, and it was something at which she believed herself to be apt. Things were finally going somewhere.

In his car on the way home, as he sat in traffic and silence, Clive cried for the first time in 17 years. He felt dirty and ashamed and vulnerable. His Edith had been betrayed by Edith. His Edith was sweet and pleasant. His Edith was passive. This Edith, this kneeling reality, was aggressive, with sure eyes. The night had gone well, he thought. The conversation was free of agenda, very easy-going, with its own rhythm. The kiss was bad, and he winced at the thought, straining his eyes as if the pain were physical. Something must have happened after the kiss, he thought. Clive thought he was missing something.

Just before arriving in the kitchen, Clive’s movie theater reverie flashed before his eyes, almost tangible, and he believed there was still a possibility. When Edith touched and looked at him that way, without any anticipation, the shock of her action was enough to excite him, but not enough to arouse him. She used her mouth, her hand, her tongue, her eyes; she moved up and down, at varying speeds and said does it feel good and you like this, don’t you? There was no foreseeable end, however and Clive knew this. She would stroke and suck and stare but there would be no result, no conclusion, no climax.

When Edith’s hand gave out and she could tell, by the perpetual limpness, that Clive was not going towards the end she so desired she sank to the cold floor, her knees pressed against the tile and her ass against the heels of her feet. She did not say anything. She stared into the palms of her open hands, which lay upon her thighs. The metal sound of Clive’s belt loop, as he pulled his pants up to his waist, was the only noise in the room. Just before closing the door to leave, Clive saw that Edith was trembling.

“Edith? Edith, it’s Clive, pick up.” It had not been long since he left. Clive could not resist the urge, or conviction as his Dad would say, to call Edith, the image of her on the kitchen floor etched in his memory. She was sitting on a chair in her kitchen next to the answering machine and listening. “I don’t know what happened tonight. I didn’t get any sleep, I mean, neither of us did. And, I don’t know, I just don’t want this to be the last time I see you. Ya’ know? I shouldn’t have left you there, I, just shouldn’t have left.” Edith heard the faint sound of cars speeding past. “Maybe we don’t work really, maybe, I don’t know, we shouldn’t see each other.” There was a pause. Edith’s hand was on the phone, “But see, I don’t think that’s right. Like tonight didn’t feel entirely right at times, but it felt good. It’s just. I like you. You know that. And when I say that, I don’t just mean in a sexual way. I think we could have an amazing time together. I really do. Like, I mean, I just don’t want to let this go. To let you go. Out of my life.”

¶ 3:11 PM