To Touch A Palm free porn video

Synopsis: To touch a palm and to be touched awakens a traveler to wishes unfulfilled, maybe barely acknowledged. To be touched points a way to a possibility only dreaming usually delivers. (With a thousand thanks to Kelly Ann Rogers for keeping this story on track and for her wonderful lesson on makeup -- and for just being her). To Touch A Palm It was getting dark when I got there, and I'd managed to get off the wrong exit, too, guessing downtown was where it wasn't, as I always do. It meant an anxious tour through the dark and empty streets down by the river, looking for a place to stay, finding nothing until I finally passed an open space -- park or vacant lot, I couldn't tell and didn't care -- and saw the few lights that this downtown burned, about a half mile away. By the time I found the big hotel, I didn't care if it cost too much -- I was late and had had no time to arrange a place to stay because my boss could not decide that I was right and this town was where our business next needed to take me. The expense account could take the hit. And me, though I don't do it often, as for me, I figured I was owed a nice stiff shot in the bar. It was almost empty. It's a big town, a state capital in fact, but pols and lobbyists can be more boring than you'd think -- or maybe more discreet. A big town, but a big farm town, too. So, 9 pm and the action is a sleepy bartender staring at the basketball on the screen. A stuffy smell: cigarettes stubbed out hours before, maybe gym bags that had been parked beneath the bar rail. Getting me a drink was a nice change of pace, I guess. I nursed it. I had things to do the next day and wasn't sure that they'd pan out. Halfway trying to plan the next day, halfway trying to unwind so I could sleep and get an early start, I sat, eyes closed, trying to shut out the tinny TV cheers, the fake dark wooden walls, rows of bottles gleaming in the dim light like an army massing for a battle no one will ever chronicle. So it startled me when I sensed him standing next to me. "Good game," he said, nodding at the TV. I just grunted. Like me, he kept his jacket on, the cashmere stretched tight across broad shoulders as he leaned up on the bar. Taking possession. Maybe if you live out here, in all that wide and open flatness, you need to stand, to gesture large. Need to lay your arm down on a bar just like you own it. I'm from a different place. Don't like to take up too much space. Don't need to be paid attention to. I have my reasons. "How 'bout those Kings," he said, waving a glass to get the bartender's attention as he nodded, half asleep, down by the register. "I think they're gonna go all the way this year." He had that loud, large-voiced way of talking that doesn't need to look at who it's speaking to, that you could as well answer with an ape-like grunt, a yeah, a cheer for another basket -- 15th, 30th? -- sunk. "Look," I said. "I don't really follow..." And that got him to turn towards me, exactly what I didn't want. "Hey Fred," he called back over his shoulder. "Where's my drink." And to me: "What's yours?" I shook my head. "Nah. No thanks," I said, mildly as I could. "I'm fine. I'm kinda beat." "So," he said, a quieter voice. "So you don't follow the Kings, huh? Who's your team, then?" I shrugged. "Don't have a team," I tried to be clipped, as abrupt as I could, to cut him off. I was brought up right, I have to say, so being rude doesn't come easy. He didn't get the hint. "No team?" he said. "No team? What, you like hockey? Not hockey, not the way you talk," trying to imitate what some might call a drawl. "Golf?" He called out again, that fake-jovial tone, that hey-we're-all- just-guys together bellow that he had lost when he lowered his voice to talk tome. "Hey Fred, you got the Golf Channel on that?" I shook my head. "Don't like sports," he half-asked, half-diagnosed. "Don't like sports." Suddenly, his voice intense, still lower. "What do you like then?" What do I like? Things that matter too much to dredge up in an empty bar, a distant city, a stranger I don't want to talk with. I reached for my now-watery drink; the ice had mostly melted and the taste was gone, took a large swallow to hurry on my way. He kept talking all the while. Was I traveling through, first time? Got to see this, take some time, head out to there. It's a great town, not L.A., the Bay, but lots to do, good people, great schools. Good family town. A pointed look. Another swallow. The hell with it, I thought. I'll leave the rest. I stood. "Where're you going?" as if surprised. "Look," I said. "I gotta go. I'm beat." "Hey," he said. "Hey, come on. Have one on me. Welcome to town, you know." "Really. I gotta..." It was awkward, trying to get around him. His laid a heavy palm atop my hand. "You're different, I can see," he whispered. "Let's not play around -- or should I say, why don't we? Have a little fun." I shook his hand off. "I do guy and gal," I said, trying to sound brusque. "Yeah?" a lazy grin. "Yeah, really? Tell me..." leaning forward. "Tell me, who's the girl?" I heard him laughing as I stalked out. **** You always worry, can they see? Is there something, maybe the way you've let your hand relax or your wrist bend, despite all the times you've caught yourself and clenched your fingers, straightened the curve. Something -- the way you hold a hand to your mouth? Or tilt your head? Why do you hook your knees together when you sit: ankle on kneecap, remember? Yes they are thin arms; still why must you yank twice, more sometimes, at a heavy door? Try to catch yourself, but still you slip. Am I hinting, somehow, that in the bottom of my bag, I have a half-slip she doesn't know is missing. The bra she meant to go out with the trash. The nightgown that I said I bought for her, but that she never wears. I'll lock the door of the hotel room, yank the curtains closed. Sit on the edge of that giant bed, sybarite's bed, stare at the mirror. My heart will thud. I'll tell myself, not this time, no. You don't need to do this. You don't want this. Do they see that I really do? Feeling almost disembodied, almost as if I'm watching from across the room, I'll stand and take one step towards my bag. A second step, foot right before the other, the only way I know to sway the way I need to now. Third step; I know I'm like a caricature of a model on a runway -- some model, with that face -- trying to sashay. So I'll put on the bra. Sometimes, I'll do it right, sometimes I'll have to cheat and turn it back to front so clumsy fingers can get the hook to catch the eye. I'll stuff some tissues in. I'll tuck myself in. Think: That's what I would look like. Step into the half slip, look once more in the mirror, hoping for the curve. I'm thin enough to fool myself I see it, sometimes. When I lie down, let eyes follow foreshortened curves, let dim light mask the edges of the world, I think I catch a glimpse. You're supposed to know to say something about the Kings, the Lakers. Supposed to hold enough territory of your own in an empty bar. You're not supposed to want to lie here, dressed like this. Did he see that I do? It doesn't happen very often. But sometimes: yes, I do see that flash of something in a stranger's eye, a momentary wrinkle of a lip. A double take; hope? A flare of anger? I never know. Never will. I've never let another see me. At home, when I'm alone, I'll snatch a half an hour for me. Here, I can slip the nightgown on and spend all night. Does he see this? **** I'm always kind of itchy when I travel; up at dawn, if not before. Can't sit still. What I'll tell you is this: A new world to explore, new things to see, I never can resist. But really, it is this: by the morning, the questions -- must you? Did you really need to? Do you want this? -- Are just too much. I need to take my things off. Need to bathe. Need daylight. And so, to empty streets washed yellow in the morning sun, warm now, promising hot. I ambled -- it was just the right mix of light and quiet and warmth to amble -- by the tall, fat palms beside the Capitol, exotic to me. I had to stop to feel that rough, prehistoric bark beneath my hand, rubbing my palm on that strangeness. Still feeling strange, estranged. I watched fronds sway in a breeze I couldn't feel, felt the sun on my face. Across the street, down just a bit, a kid pushed umbrellas open over round white sidewalk tables. Another hosed the sidewalk clean. A snatch of conversation, a laugh. Coffee sounded fine. It was the usual kind of place: a chalkboard with 30 different drinks, - inos and -attos, hissing machines, too-sweet smell of vanilla and of cinnamon. Too much. I just ordered coffee, snuck in too much sugar -- time enough as the day wears on for the bitter kick of black. I like my first cup really sweet and always am embarrassed that anyone might see. Sun, fresh coffee, the Times. Look up and see the palms. Perfect. Then, there he was again. This time, he kept quiet. I read -- an election in Italy, an army on maneuvers, storms and wars and lawsuits filed -- trying, really, to carefully avoid looking anywhere in his direction. He was at the next table, it wasn't very easy. And since I somehow knew that he was watching me, I'm not sure I was managing the not-looking at him very well. But this was my time. Words that seem to matter, sweet-edged bite of coffee; this was, this is how I assemble myself for the day. I hate to plunge right into a sea of voices, the cheery babble of a weather girl, the studied coziness of the latest morning star. I'm jealous of the ritual some women have to prepare for the new day: standing before her open closet, contemplating: this, today? That? How does this color suit today, what will go with it? That curve of cloth, the way that hugs, this flutters? The same pieces that waited for her yesterday, the day before, today's silent ritual just as engaging as it ever was. An ad catches my eye: that'd look nice hanging in the closet, to be considered in the morning. And then I turn the page. He was smart enough to simply wait. The early morning gives you time to do that -- hours of time before the commuters' cars would jam the street, exhaust farting in the air where now I smelled the coffee burbling in a pot behind my back, a spicy hint of, is that sagebrush? The strange pines across the way? So I read and sipped, slipped myself into another day. He sipped and watched. A small success: final taste of sweetness, the last page closed. "You want?" I nodded at the paper, pretending to be casual. "Sure," he replied. He reached across, straightened my badly-folded pages, slowly creased the paper into thirds, just like a paperboy would have learned to do, and set them by his cup. And then just looked at me. What did he see? I tried to slouch back, ignoring the way the chair back's curlicues of wrought iron nipped, hoped that arms lay, appropriately heavy, as clumsily as they were supposed to, on chair arms, or glass tabletop, or maybe just hanging down. Ankle on knee, remember? Remembered. What did I see? The quickest flash of almost smile, there or not? It lingered, if such a thing can linger, around eyes not quite so narrowed now against the sun. I saw thick fingers curled on a cup, relaxed curve of arm to shoulder. A stillness lying comfortably across broad shoulders. "You don't have to try so hard," a quiet voice. I froze. "You don't have to, you know," he said. "I'm not," a sort of croak. "Of course not." Another, slow sip. Eyes remain fixed. "Still," he resumed. "Still, don't worry quite so much. You'll find it." "How do you know..." I started. "We're all of us looking, sport," he cut me off. "It just depends on what we're looking for." He glanced down at his cup: "Want another?" Did I? "No obligations," he said. "Just a cup of coffee. Beautiful morning. A bit of time before the rush. How do you like it?" "Cream," I said. "Cream and sugar." A pause. "I like it kind of sweet." He had sense enough to know when to be quiet, when to nod. He brought the coffee back, walking in that stiff, uncomfortable way that says I don't want to spill a drop. Without quite asking, he set both down on my table. Without quite asking, he pulled out a chair. He sat not quite opposite, not quite next to me. And so we had another cup, we watched palms sway, smelt sage or pine, felt the sun. "Look," he said, when it was time to say it. "I know this town quite well. I got a place, next block. The corner. I own that store, they know how to track me down if I'm not there. Feel free, if you need to. Want to." Then he stood. I could have said something, I guess. I watched him start off down the street. Started off myself. **** By late afternoon, I was feeling pretty sure I'd called it right to come up here. I phoned the boss, reported not quite as optimistically as I felt and told myself that I was clocking out. The evening rush home had started, horns and rumbling of motors as downtown spilled its people out for another night. I went the way the red lights let me; to the corner where he'd said his store was. I hadn't really meant to, I told myself. But... It was a pretty block. Seventy years ago, maybe more, a builder or banker saw a picture of a Spanish plaza, a square in Venice, and liked the way you could make shade against a too-fierce midday sun by letting a second story jut out over a walkway, propped on a line columns. In such a gallery you wanted shops, small follies of elegance in a town where elegance was usually a thick steak, big cigar and brandy. Sometimes, a block like that will stay just like the builder or the banker planned and years later someone will run a palm over the carved stone frills framing the windows, trace tangles of leaf, spot a small figure, just as a stone-cutter had hoped. It was that kind of block where he had his store. At the corner, at his store, in the window: a headless mannequin, a strapless dress. A hanger, flying towards a ceiling: prim blouse, pleated pants trail behind. Two high-heeled sandals touch toes by discrete gold letters on a window: Boutique. Salon. Push the door, a tiny bell. From somewhere behind a splash of colors, maze of hanging fabric, each a promise even more full of hope than a woman's morning closet, a voice: "Can I help?" a lilt, cut off. A look. That look? She turns away, calls to the back: "He's here." Then quick-steps past me -- like she's angry? -- flips a sign by the front door to say the place is closed, and leaves. "Hey," I hear him, a few steps behind me. "Glad you came by. Come on, back this way." He held a hand out, as if to point, as if to lightly touch a shoulder to steer me the right way to go. The clothing racks, a table, a mannequin had made a sort of anteroom by the front door, that now he beckoned me to leave. Behind, hidden from the street, a slightly larger space, a table. Small neat stacks of rose and white and soft gray, like a long-haired cat. A rack of dresses down one wall, of shirts -- blouses -- and skirts down the other. A wall, dark wood, cut halfway across the back, another room behind. "So," he said. "So." What else to say? "Find what you needed?" "Some," I whispered. "Some." "Going to keep looking?" "Oh yes," I said. "I've got to." "Can I help?" I shook my head, kept looking all around. "Ah," he said, watching me close. "Maybe, then, I can help you find what you want." A minute, two. Then he turned, walked fingers along the hangers, stopped. His back to me, I couldn't see what he was holding until, after a moment, he spun quickly on a heel, and let the dress float along behind. I shouldn't care, you shouldn't. Just a dress, hanging flat and empty as he held it for me to see. And even if you put it on, it's just the surface: the last, most distant trace along the border. The walls, the guards, the minefields are farther in. But the first layer, delicate as onionskin, you must somehow peel if you want to find the core. Risk those tears. Just a dress, bright flowers on white, full skirt to swing with steps, to be toyed with by a breeze. Sort of old fashioned, meant for a picnic in the park, a Sunday in the garden. It was just the right thing to have picked. But though I wanted to reach out and take it, I did not. Held still. Or not quite still, because of a trembling -- in my knees? behind the curve of lower back? Weakness or fear, or maybe both, I couldn't say. Anticipation? I looked at it, and wanted. He looked at me, eyes opaque, the lines of face and mouth set in a butler's neutral gaze upon the world. Folly? I see no folly, sir. Ma'am. I wait for him to say something, to explain himself, to push. Know that when he does, the moment breaks, I'm free to say nice to have met, I've got an early day, free to go back to that neat room perched high above the now-dark city, let TV blare, get lost inside a book, do a little more work before I go to bed. Or something else. But he just waited for me. And so I took the dress. As I lifted it from his hand, light as it was, his arm rose just enough to gesture, invite me farther towards the back. He led me past tables piled with lingerie, stopped, cast an appraising eye at me, back at the table. Picked up a bra, a satin slip. A pair of panties. Led me back. Silently pointed to a dressing room. I knew I would, though I barely knew how. I wanted my own clothing to vanish, the mechanics of slipping arms free, of hanging up, of kicking off heavy shoes would force me, I knew, to have to tell myself that what was happening was something that I wanted to happen. Me. What I wanted. Help me find what I wanted, he had said. He waited very patiently. The bra was awkward for me to get on. It took a while to steel myself to slide that pair of silky panties up my legs. It wasn't clear to me if you stepped in to the dress or pulled it on. But when I pushed the door open, he was there, to take my hand, to gently pull me out. Not caring that my legs weren't smooth, my lips were bare. Not caring that I didn't know the art. "Let yourself glide," he whispered. "Don't fall into your steps." Then, like a skater pushing his partner into her pirouette, he let his hand drop. Let me glide. I glided. **** I woke up, right with the dawn, alone in the hotel room. On the plush- covered armchair by the window, three shopping bags, heavy brown paper, twine handles. Tiny letters of his store's name in a corner -- sometimes you shout best with a whisper. Bemused -- he'd seemed bemused, or maybe simply knowing but not wanting to let on how much he knew -- he'd let me explore the store, showed me how and where to go. What I had tried and what he approved, for his taste was better, was in the bags. The dress I'd tried. Another, meant for an evening date: black, meant to hug curves I didn't have, meant to flutter a hem, to tickle, halfway up my thigh. A fantasy of lace and silk for underneath. I tried them all, lied to myself about my wanting, lied to myself that I looked right in his mirrors, in the careful light, the rosy glow. We barely spoke a word; we touched only by accident, a gesture just an inch or two too broad, a stumble in a pair of heels. Silent, he'd folded dresses, lingerie into his brown bags, handed them to me, let me slip out into the night. I was the first one at the coffee place that morning, sat in the sun with paper, coffee, once again, watching the palms so that I didn't see him arrive, set coffee down, shake out a Bee and read. "Another coffee?" he asked, after a while. "On me?" You know, of course, how ordinary things, little things -- a cup of coffee, strange bird diving from a palm tree, a grunt over an item in the morning paper -- can seem illuminated with meaning in the quiet of an empty street, the morning sun, the feeling somewhere deep beneath the surface things are changing. You know that you could stay suspended in such a moment forever. But then, the first commuter putters by, the sharp smoke of exhaust is in the air. The coffee's finished, a buzz of voices rises by the cashier. "Big day?" he asked, as he stood to go. "Could be," I said, perhaps talking about my work. "Maybe I'll nail it today, tomorrow." "And then?" I shrugged. "Depends, I guess. Catch a flight back, it's kinda loose." "Weekend's coming," he said. I nodded. "Come round, maybe." he said. "If you like." I thought I wanted to. Knew that I shouldn't. Told myself that, in my hotel room that evening, looking at the papers stacked upon the desk, database splashed on laptop screen, listening to my boss tell me to take all the time I needed. There were the shopping bags, thought: I really ought to take them back. Told myself that's what I thought. I heard the horns bleating, a dozen stories lower down. Saw that the sun was lower than I'd guessed. I thought, he closes soon. I really ought ... I was fingering the smooth, slick satin of the slip. I really ought... With a lurch, a sudden decision I wasn't aware I made, I pulled myself out of the chair, into the bathroom. I stripped, fast, angry almost. I tugged on the panties, pulled on the half slip. Not right. No. Still racing, the fog of disengagement rising behind my eyes, same as when I stumble through my model's strut, I twist the bathtub taps, run water hot as I can stand. It is the kind of hotel that leaves not only tiny bottles of shampoo but also a sachet of bath oil: in it went. I take my razor. I never dared to shave my legs before; what kind of guy does that? The crunch of the razor harvesting hair from the curve of calf: a pathway cleared like some strange machine of war's chewed through the barbed wire at the border. But what about the guards, the mines? One calf, the other. One shin, two. Slowly up a thigh. Bend and turn and slowly shave the other. If you take care, you won't even cut yourself. Calmer now, I ease the panties up, feel slick cloth on smooth skin. Pull on the camisole, ignore how it bunched when I yanked trousers back on. In a daze, an almost daze, for I knew where I was headed, to the elevator, through empty lobby, down the street. Tapping at a glass door, sign that said closed. "Ah," a smile. "I was hoping..." Something caught his eye. I wore no tie, maybe he saw a flash of something where I'd not buttoned my shirt, maybe the way a strap tugged shoulder, catching the cloth. "I was hoping," he said again. "Come on inside." I followed him to the back. Whatever it was that seized me, swept me here, a thought without a form, a need, a wave of unnamed feeling boiling over, started to dissipate, fading to confusion, maybe fear. And yet I followed. He held a chair, the kind of chair you keep for decoration, a fancy back, no arms, embroidered cushion, tucked it under me as I eased down. Grabbed another, swung it round, straddled it like a cowboy on a horse. He sat like that a while, thinking. Looking. "You know," he said at last. "I'd kinda like a bite to eat. You think you might?" I did. Maybe, I thought, maybe that's all I really needed. But he kept sitting. I held still. I thought perhaps he was just thinking of where to go, maybe just enjoying the quiet at the end of day. Maybe thinking, how he wanted things to go. Maybe. His voice so low, I almost could've missed it: "You want to try ..." I waited, expecting him to name a restaurant, a place to go. But: "I've got something you might like." He nodded over towards a table. I guess it was what you'd call a suit that he'd laid out there, the kind of thing that lots of women in this town would wear, to say I'm serious, to say, don't judge too fast, to say I am a lot like you are. Not too much like a man's, not navy blue, not gray. But not too different, either. In this town, only the secretaries, the lazy ones, wear pink or red. So: a brown the color of my too-sweet coffee in the morning. A skirt, maybe not so narrow that a quick trip down the corridor for a file that you forgot would set his mind to wander where you were not ready for it to go. Just right to tug crisply over knees in case the office couch is just a shade too low, or there's a minute after swapping business cards you need to fill. A high-necked, pale blouse, tiny fringe of lace along the collar. I looked at the clothing lying flat and empty, looked back at him. "If you should want to try," he started, shook his head. "No. Let me try again. I'm happy to head out now. We'll get a bite, chat for a little. Not about the Kings. Read the paper, you'd know what I do, anyway. I study, just to know things I can say to folks. But if you'd like to try..." He nodded at the table, "And I think you might like that. I can help." He reached out, held the hanger up. "It's a kind of disguise, you know. My bread and butter here. A woman who might buy this, buys it to go out in to world, to say, okay, I am a girl, but let's set that aside for now, 'cuz this contract really needs a looking over, and that bill's moving out of committee, here's what I think we should do. It is a way to keep the, I want to say emotion, passion under wraps. To keep the fundamental separate from the day to day. It won't ever be draped over the back of a hotel chair when she and he pour themselves into each other's arms. If you should like to try, it should do for you what it will do for her." If I should like to try. "Say: O.K., I'm a girl," he murmured. "The back door here opens onto an alley. A block, my car is there. Five minutes, ten. I park. Ten steps, a dozen. I hold a door, then when you're through, slip past to tell the girl there's two. Maybe I'll wink, ask for a private corner. There won't be many people, maybe none. I'll hold your elbow just to steer you to the booth in back. I'm a big guy, you're someone in a skirt, long-enough hair. All anyone will see is an ordinary couple, out for a bite. A meal, a talk. Glass of wine, two. Dozen steps to the door, a dozen to my car. The alley." He softly clapped his hands. "There. You've done it. If you should want to try." My hands somehow had floated to my throat Not quite touching, but still I felt my pulse hammer. Two fingers gently pull, thumb pushed, button undone. I saw his eyes dart to the feathering of lace I had unveiled. Widen. "I would," I said. *** It's not as simple as desire, not just a layer, or even two. It's art. Perhaps it was when I lifted my foot, to untie my shoe, and pants rose just enough to show the smallest band of smooth and newly-shaven skin, that we decided on a painting, not a sketch. I saw my secret exposed. I saw him look. I looked up at his face, tried a small smile. "Let me help," I thought I heard him whisper. So: What can a band of cloth, a line of inter-weaving lacing do? Oh that? Oh, look at that. What does a pad here do? And there? That. Look at that. And if you fill one cup with this, the other one with that, and if you dip yourself into the bra, the way the girls do; yes, you know how, bend elbows round and reach. Yes, and what does that do? Oh yes. Oh yes. Sit here and let me ... Brush my hair, why combing backwards? Because. Look at it frame your face, you really leave it awfully long for a guy. But for today, you're not ... No. Let's not say it. Close eyes instead. Let him trace lips' edges, paint. Now, a waxy slide of color, my desert dry smoothed soft. A peek: red, not near as bold as I am feeling, a pink that's redder than my own. Tip of tongue touches. A smile. Close eyes again. Almost astringent sting of -- is that lotion on my face, making skin tighten just a little. No. It's, what do they call it? Eyebrows: that stings. A pad swipes just below, then a touch on eyes. Soft puff of, is that cotton, on cheekbones. Earlobe pinched. The other. The lightest something swings as I turn my head; brushing my neck, it tickles. A silvery feeling: earrings, yes? Stand now. Eyes still closed? Given me your hand, step to your right. There. Now: Deep breath. Open your eyes. Oh my. *** It went the way he said it would, by and large. Dressed in the disguise he'd picked, disguise that hid and yet revealed. A dozen steps, car door held open. Eyes linger as I tuck in my legs; I'm not looking but somehow I see. Perhaps the skirt's a little shorter, tighter than I thought. Between two cones of light, around the side, the door, a hand held out, held. Standing out in the world, heart pounding. A distant siren, blocks away. Yellow light seeps from houses' windows, a small red neon sign invites people to eat who are not coming. A dozen steps. A door. A wink. A booth 'way in the back. Heels click on tiled floor. The heady smell of sauces simmering when you're hungry. An unexpected favorite on the menu. Bottle of wine. The little ceremony of inspection, consideration, tiny sip. The nod. A gurgle, splash for wine. For me, for him. He floats his glass halfway across the table, cocks an eyebrow. A tiny clink. What was the toast? On the edge of a glass, a smudge of color. Mine. He sees my glance, sees me start. Gives me a little smile, I think it's supposed to be reassuring, as if to say, well, that's what women do, isn't it? No big deal. Whether with a kiss, or just a touch of lips, you leave your mark. My mark. Mine. I'm not invisible, not tonight, not my night. On the wineglass, a smudge of red. Mine. Like surgeons, we cut in tiny strokes, carve this time into tiny bites. The fork pierces, carries. A little food, a sentence. A sip of wine, a story. Again, again. I write his biography. He writes mine. We don't know anything. We know everything. On a slow night, legislature out of town, weekend beckoning, nobody minds how long this takes. The waitress dozes, busboy rubs stiff back. It takes forever, it goes too fast. It's time to clear the plates, to take a final sip of wine, prepare to venture back to the darkness just beyond the window. "Here," he says, hands me the purse I must've carried in. A purse, I had a purse? "Right at the top," he whispers, so no one will hear. "The compact, see it? Take it, O.K. Open ... " There are my painted lips, duller now. A flowerily smell rising from the pressed powder beneath the tiny mirror. "Stick out your tongue," he says. "Stick out your tongue, and with the tip, trace the edges of your lips...just so." Just so. "The tube is there, inside the purse. I put it there," the softest whisper. "Yes, that's it." The lipstick's open, compact held to my face. Somehow I know to arch my back, to slide one knee over the other, feel the skirt slide higher still. A tiny pucker, intent stare. Mine, at the tiny mirror. Others, maybe, at a smooth curve of thigh, the golden tube's smooth tip extended, red. A stroke of color, another. Lips press. A tiny smile. "How does that feel?" he asks. How do you think it feels? And then, a dozen steps, past a booth, a table. Another couple. Do I hear a mutter: faggot? Why am I shaking, why am I walking just a little faster? Did I hear? Or did I simply fear? Don't worry, there's the door. Heels beat a tattoo on the tile. Heart beats another in my chest. Slow down. One foot before the other, wiggle a little, what the hell. Who cares what they said, if they said it, safe here, car door slammed shut. A ride. A short ride. Five minutes, ten. Just like he said. A ride over before you're quite ready. We all remember high school, that moment when the ride has ended, outside the door, wondering what the next step is -- though in that day, it was me who would be driving. And in that day, I'd think, can I? do I now? And she'd think, will he? Do I want? The moment's come again, but someone else has driven. I'm thinking, can I? Do I want? He's watching. He's not in high school. Nor am I. Maybe we've learned since then that there is no hurry. Or that the path isn't always clear. Maybe we've learned the question's really: can we, do we want? I tug the door handle. Somehow, by the time I push it open, he's there, hand ready to help me out. Does he know what I don't think I do yet? He hasn't let my hand go. Hasn't bent closer, either. "I think," I start to say, not sure exactly what I think. "I think," I try again. "I'd like it if you'd walk me home." A silent question, head tilts toward the alley door. "No," I say. "I think I'm ready. Just need the key." A dozen steps up the alley. A lighted street. Deep breath, step. Nobody there. A dozen steps. A car drifts by, an idle glance. A dozen steps. The corner. An arm around my waist now as we cross. Now the palms stand, shiver in a breeze. The pale blue light of the moon, the smoky scent of sage, of pine? A block, another. There's the hotel. Across the minefield of a lobby, a night desk clerk who surely must suspect. By the brass doors of an elevator, confused by mirrors. It seems forever for the bell to sound. We ride, in silence. Silent down the patterned carpet. Silent to my door. His arm has slipped down from my waist. I turn. Take a deep breath. I need to say, but how to say... He's laid his index finger on my lip, light as a moth might touch me. "I know," he says. "It's time to say good night." All I can do is nod. Not quite the moment. Almost, not quite. "You're very ..." he starts to say. "No," I whisper. "I'm just me." A deep breath. "I've had a lovely time." My face tilts up: how? why? My lips brush his. His, mine. **** I watched deep blue lighten to gray, felt that extra stillness, extra quiet of a weekend morning in a strictly-business downtown. Standing by the hotel window, I stared down the long, straight, empty streets of this place I didn't know, at all the hopes and happiness, despair and desperation sheltering under the endless neat rows of roofs, beneath the lines of unfamiliar trees. I wondered, what would it be like to waken in that house, there, over by the park; to see the first rays of the sun glint of the Capitol from one of those apartments there. Who would be sleeping there beside me? How strong, how slim the hand that, still asleep, reached out for mine? When had I wanted to see pale, long fingers, nails gleaming with color? When had I wondered how blunter, harder fingers relax in rest, how might it feel to trace a finger on roughness of a squarer chin? No others' hand here. Neat stacks of papers by the laptop. And three brown bags on the armchair. It took a while to stretch my own hand out to the armchair, though I knew all along I'd have to. Want to. It took a while to reach inside, to lift the neatly folded dress, to slowly lay it on the bedspread. To reach inside and feel thin, slick cloth slide between my fingers, take one bit out, another. They are such tiny things, crumpled they can be hidden in a hand. And yet a color, a band of lace, a tiny bow made of a ribbon have all this meaning, all this power, despite their delicacy, to change you. Change me. And so I changed. Hot bath. Panties slowly pulled up still-smooth legs. Put on a bra, manage the hooks and eyes first time. The cups are padded, I see my shape emerge. Almost, not quite. Strong cloth again grips waist. Slip hugs me tight there, brushes thighs. Pantyhose. The dress. I stare into the mirror. See me. A girl, a guy in a dress. Blink: girl. Blink: guy. Blink: The makeup kit he had bought for me was on my dresser. It wasn't one of those all-in-one things you see in discount stores -- he had picked all the pieces just for me: A set of makeup brushes, for eyes, cheeks, lips. Foundation and blush that matched my complexion. How did he know? Several lipsticks with matching polish. Tiny bottles, tubes; my fingers clumsy as I picked them up. Would I? Could I? He'd whispered as he'd given me my face last night: foundation. A soft sponge smoothes it on cheeks and forehead, nose and chin. When you do that, when you are there, when I am there, with smooth and even skin, "now", he had said "you're ready." Eyes first, right? Stiff narrow brush leaves a dark line on my lids, "all the way to the end," he'd whispered. Not very smooth, my eyelids fluttered against the touch of the brush. Something bright above? Under the arch of my brow, was it enough? I took the tweezers: Focus, grab, pull. Six, eight, ten times on each side. I must be crazy, everyone will see. I like the arch. The color below: lurid. Try again. No bright colors this time. The same dark line on my lid, I'm smoother now. A new applicator sponge, its rounded virgin head completely white. I touch it to the dark shadow, it comes away -- dark brown glistens on its end. Gentle touch under lower lashes, slowly sweep: Yes, that's its. My eyes now hers. Hers? Mine. Smudge a little with the sponge tip. Smokey. My eyes... Dip now into the next lightest pot, back and forth over eye lid, starting outside the middle edge and keeping it all within the line of the crease, then extending it slightly, that's it, "to open up your eyes," he had said. Now the other. Aaack, they're not even, a little more there, now here. Now there's too much. Third time's a charm, they say. Studying my eyes now, I see it's so. Smoky, smoky brown. Cheeks get the biggest brush. It is sable, soft as a cloud must be on the back of my hand, on my cheeks. I touch to the reddish powder and then bring it up to my face as I look back, intent, into the mirror. "Smile," he had said. I smiled. "And then start on the apple of your cheek." Do I have one? Yes, there. See, there: brush back along the cheek bone. He had done it with a flair, the impresario: I lingered, the brush caressing my face, softer than eyelashes, the softest thing I've ever felt. Then the other. Oh. No, not even. Clean it off with a tissue and start again. Again. And there: the faintest flush, as if I'd just come in from the cold. Lips, another brush. The bottom lip is easy to outline, the smooth, slightly greasy tip following my lip line just so. But the top? Two spikes, clown's spikes: Tissue, wipe. Again. Lips red as a wound: maybe a darker shade? I paint the lines once more, pick up the tube, its pointed top extended like a tongue to touch my lips. Deep breath. I pursed my lips and touched. Maybe the most feminine thing to do: To redden lips so that they look engorged with warmth, desire. Excited, like the other lips women have, red and moist and waiting for something to enter them. Waiting for a man to enter them. I step back, still holding that shiny black tube with its deep red tip. Blink: a girl. Blink: a girl. Blink: a girl smiling. Blink: a girl running the tip of her tongue over the edge of her lips, feeling the waxiness. One more thing. Where is it? Ahh. Twist top, pinky dips into to the glossy pot, dabs gently on the bottom lip. Blink: what does this wet gleam say. Blink. Blink: The strident ringing of the telephone. I've got to answer, can't get free of all this. A second ring. A third. A quick glance at the door: Yes, locked. O.K., O.K., I'll be O.K. I wonder if I sound short of breath as I answer. "Hello," he says. "You said you are an early riser, hope I didn't wake you." I try for a calm I do not feel. What I feel is the lipstick on my lips and my heart, beating as if I've run a mile. Two. Ten. "I had this thought," he says. "It's Saturday, you're stuck in town. I thought ... Look, how about coffee. I'm right downstairs." "Ummm, Uuhhh, S... sure," I say. "Sure. I'll be right down. Give me a sec'. I haven't done my hair yet." There's a too long pause. Done my hair? "Just give a sec, okay?," I almost stutter, before he can let me know he's heard. We both knew what a sec was, but it's different for me now. How long's a sec'? As long as I need. Blink: Back-comb for volume, he had said. Part, over one eye. Pull back on the other side. Blink: a girl. Blink, a girl, gazing as she clips an earring on. Blink: a lovely girl. I curtsey to her in the mirror. Curtsey to me. It is more than a little scary, stepping outside your room, turning to lock the door, hoping you are the earliest to rise. More than a little scary, walking down the hallway to the elevators, a hem tickling the back of your knees. The wait is long, the ride down longer. How wide an ocean must be crossed before he's there to help fend off a world that might object. But he is there, right there, when I step out. A bland and watchful look blossoms into a smile; a hand held out, tips of fingers lightly held. Elbow cocked, lightly held. We walk out to the empty, sunny street. Of course my heart is racing. Of course it's hard to breath. The smallest sight, the faintest smell, the molecules of the sunlit air themselves vibrate. Still the same round, white metal table on the sidewalk. The too-sweet coffee. A curlicue of iron against my spine. Palm trees. Peace. But the news we read this morning is from that strangest place of all. Ourselves. We sip and read in silence. And when the time is right, when the coffee has been savored and only the dregs remain, when the news is understood or, rather, when we feel it is, he smiles. "I had a thought," he says. "A nice day, I thought, maybe, a drive out in the countryside. A walk, maybe. I packed a little something -- well, kind of a picnic. Unless you have ... " I smile. Lay my hand on his, just for an instant. "That would be nice," I say. "Am I O.K. like this?" "You're perfect." He smiles, I blush. Actually, I wasn't. But still, the little lie can be quite nice. I guess I ought to know. ***** A half an hour, 45 minutes outside town, the hills begin to lift, and if you know just where to look, you see the first blue line of mountains reaching towards the sky. That's where he left the highway, dipped and swooped through steepening hills, past trees that seemed to grow taller, deeper green as we climbed. A gravel road following the curve a rushing creek had cut, but far below. A wide spot in the shade, a path through a copse I hadn't seen at first. Oh, yes: I wasn't perfect, because the smooth soles of my shoes slipped on the rocks sometimes. He had to hold my hand to help me along. Or maybe, on reflection, I was in fact just right. A hundred yards, two hundred though the trees, shaggy bark pillars in a park of moss and long-shed needles. A bend, a tiny stream to step across. Sunlit hillside, waist high bushes, a sprinkling of orange flowers by the path. Steeper here, another bend, across the stream. Ahead, a meadow rises, glowing green. Small constellations: blue, white, orange flowers. Above, pillars of black stone, halfway to the sky, blue sky, cloudless. When you finally reach the spot where the rocks and meadow meet, holding hands all the while, gasping for breath, for you're up higher than you think, you feel nylon slide on nylon as you tuck legs under, grass tickling your thighs till you touch your skirt in place, toy with hem until you're almost but not quite modest. You sit between the sun and shade: look up and see the snow-tipped peaks march off beyond the far horizon, look down and your own soft swelling. You could sit there for hours, lean against him for a while, shift weight, nylon sliding on slide, to gaze into calm eyes, shift again to let your sail off above the mountains. Never need to say a word. Not needing anything except to let it all flood in. But you can't stay there forever. Otherwise you'd never be able to come back. You want to gaze out to where blue mountains and blue sky blend, to know somewhere between right here and there is where someday you'll be. Still you know, too, that the journey here is one you want to take again. The laughing when you trip, are caught, the gasp of breath when you round a bend and see, the arm around your shoulder. Even the sadness of descent when it is time to go. Where the gravel road ended in the yellow hills, we needed to turn right to head back to the city. The deep blue sky, long shadows of the approaching evening said we should; but he asked, and I said, O.K.. So we turned left. I watched the empty hills go past, picked at my hem. They were not like the hills of home, but more like them than the mountains were, ordinary enough to make me fear I'd only just felt, only just lived illusion, that sitting here in my dress, my women's things, that I was only playacting. For all the hours that we'd spent on illusion, it was as empty, futile as tissue in a dingy bra snatched from the trash bin. The sense that what I wanted was something I could never have. He may sensed it, too. But kept driving. Calm eyes on a winding road, a wrist draped at the very top of a steering wheel, the utter ordinariness, take-it-for-grantedness of a guy driving, girl beside. The quick, casual glance, a smile, back to the road, that says nothing odd is happening here, nothing pretend, nothing extraordinary. Just me. And you. We drove into evening. Turned up a road that wound past dark trees, rocks. At a small house of rough-cut planks, he stopped, and turned to me. "Hot springs," he said. "Lots of stuff churning deep below, cracks and faults in rock, and by the time the steam rises to the surface it's just right for a soak. There's an old couple, set this up years ago, decades. Guessing the Nisei, their kids might want a little chance to visit old Japan. Guess wrong, but..." He pushed his car door open, stepped out. "Come on," he said. I followed. Flagstones through a small garden of moss and gravel, gnarled small trees in pots. In the moonlight, just hard enough to see to make you stop and really take a look. A high fence, dark wood, a mist rising to the stars. Behind, a pool between the rocks, turquoise water steaming. Benches, a small flat place to pause before you ease into the spring; in the shadows, a small hut. We didn't bother. But I did turn my back, as he started to unbutton his shirt. And when I asked, he did unzip me, but then somehow knew he should step back. I heard him step out of his shoes, his trousers. Heard the water gurgle, splash as he slipped in. A small, satisfied sigh. I let the dress fall to the ground, stooped to fold it, lay it neatly on the bench. As far as I could tell, he wasn't watching; just as well, for I felt clumsy, tugging at the slip, trying to unhook my bra. For a long moment, naked, I stood, looking at the blue-green pool, the rising mist, the splash of stars across the sky. Then I stepped in. He eased himself a few inches to the side, to give me space, following a curve of rock so that we weren't quite face to face. Close enough to touch, if one would lean just a little towards the other. Far enough that we could be just two friends in a Japanese spring. Talking business, maybe. I felt the water's warmth, felt chill skin relax, muscles ease, ice in the marrow of my bones begin to melt. A line of sweat along my temples, tickling the edges of my face. I eased down to let the water lap my shoulders, neck. He's looking at me; I've been afraid to tell myself. But he has been. Now, he smiles. "It's not the clothes," he says. "Maybe you think it is. That a bit of let's pretend is as close as you can get, as any of us can. So you'll fidget on the seat, twitch a hem, try to get things perfect, think you see in the cold light of day only an awkward bit of acting, see something that even at its best is only theatre. But it's not." He leans to me, his hand reaches to me. "May I?" he asks. All I can do is nod. His palm touches my breast. Under warm water, still he feels even warmer. "Right here," he says, "Right in the middle of my palm. Not that big, maybe not so big as a dime. But pushing out, a slight roughness, surprisingly firm. Like you are cold, except you cannot be. You feel?" "I do," I say. I do. "I push just a little," he continues, "You can barely call it pushing, but it's just enough to move you with me. My fingers stretch..." And so they do. "I feel the way your breast curves out from your shoulder. My thumb, if I do this..." His thumb now "My thumb traces a steeper slope, the line where softness rests upon your ribs. I press, feel all this. Push a little, just enough to move you with me. Can you feel?" And I do. "Now, though I want to tarry, my hand slips down," he murmurs. "Slow, so my fingers climb the gentle slope, flow like a stream past the peak, where each gets to brush past. Down now the steeper slope...." I feel all that. "Slowly, along ribs, a curving in to here. My two hands here ..." And two hands there. "My two hands can almost span your waist entire, and though they want to, slide still lower, along the curve that swells out to your hips. You feel? Can you feel?" I nod. I have to nod. "The clothes you wrap above this do not matter. Cannot hide, cannot reveal. The eyes that will not see this, whether they were yours or merely the rest of the world's, do not count. What counts is what you know you are, what you feel. So here, perhaps..." And now one hand is moving from my hip, between my legs. "So here," he murmurs. "Another curve to trace, another curve. Gateway, maybe, to someplace better, a path though the woods..." Fingers fan through curls of hair. "Then you find the spot where all the world opens up before you." That's where his fingers rest. I feel warm breath now on eyelids, on my cheeks. Lips brush: eyebrow, lashes, cheeks. Lips. His lips on mine. My mouth parts. We kiss. He pulls back, not even an inch. I lift my head, now my lips brush his, now I press close. He is beside me now, knee touches knee, thigh beside thigh, his hand still between my legs, forearm on my belly. Now fingers, palm gently circle, indifferent to what's there except for that small space where my legs join; his arm brushes an erect shaft: mine, though neither of us seems to notice. Still, the brushing. A slight shift of weight and his lips press now, his tongue probes deep, his fingers circle, arm slowly brushing, from the valley between my breasts -- who cares now how shallow -- along my belly, brushing the length of me. I'd be floating on the blue green water, rising with the steam, if not for the weight of him. Despite the warmth of water seeping in to my very core, despite the sense that I am melting, muscles easing, bones like jelly, still I'm trembling, now I shudder. Now, a fountain, gushing forth. **** I woke up hours before the sky began to lighten, found myself crying. From where I sat, I could look out and see a corner of the garden, neatly-raked gravel gleaming in the moon, the tiny, potted trees edged with silver. Steam from the springs billowed, rose skyward, indifferent to wonder, indifferent to pain. The solace that water warmed in the heart of earth can bring mattered not the slightest bit to that eternal cloud of steam on its inevitable journey. Still, I watched it: gather, dissipate, like a giant, slowly-beating heart. Maybe I cried because I'd slipped, let someone see. Because I knew that what had been would never be the same. Maybe I cried for fear: there's something about the irrevocable that makes us tremble, isn't there? Maybe I cried for, well, a different reason. You've seen girls cry that way, haven't you? I wept because you weep when your heart is full. And at the instant that I understood, his arm reached round my waist. His hand stroked gently upward. His palm lay on my swelling breast, above my beating heart. the end