The Window's Chill free porn video

Even without touching the window, Peter can feel the chill, the thinnest breath of winter, despite the iron radiator below, its hot breath on his naked thigh, a chill despite the sun that makes the green of new buds glow above a chocolate earth. Even without a touch, there is the chill. On the window's sill, caught on the ancient, chipping paint: dark silk, lace, like a cloud of oily smoke trapped for a moment, starting to dissipate, but only starting (the lace, thinks Peter, is like the first misty tendrils drifting away). Silk tossed -- thrown, perhaps -- landing without a sound, for what sound could there have been as slick thin cloth slithered down cold glass, slumping into a tiny pile of gossamer. A tiny pile - a slip. Silk that Peter thinks whispers, "available, or almost so." Lace that might just let another see but not quite see where thighs begin to curve to where they'll meet, to where breasts begin to rise to where someone will need to lay his hand. A satin ribbon on the verge of sliding down a shoulder. Available, or almost so... A tiny pile; tossed perhaps, a giggle, a happy laugh, as silk slides over upstretched arms, arms held over glistening hair, over an upturned face, an eager smile. Arms upstretched, smoky silk pulled free, free to be crumbled in a hand and with a giggling, with a laugh, be tossed unseen against the glass. And as the slip floats and falls like heavy smoke, a step, two steps, into two waiting arms, a face upturned, a kiss. It might have been like that. Or: from down a narrow hall, the doorknob turning, the click as a key pushes the tumblers clear, another as a brass tang slips from the latch. A creaking of a hinge that needs an oiling. Happy voices in the hall. Steps. Inevitable steps, as rapid as the thundering of Peter's beating heart, knowing the trap's about to spring and catch what no one wanted catching. The pounding beat of panic, that fills the inner ear, that sours throat, that makes knees tremble, stomach sink. A voice, two voices, lighthearted. Talking of a pleasant change of plans, an obligation not obliging any more, and so, one to home, the other follows, they'll meet the third, perhaps all three will share a lunch, stroll out into the springtime woods, admire the pink spray of redbud trees, the dark branches of beeches, sycamores, the lacing fringe of palest green promising better times to come. Two voices call: "Surp..." And then, a choked off gasp. He'd yanked the slip over his head, it was crumpled softly in his hand. But still, Peter could not hide: not his hip, too sharp-edged, too narrow for that band of lace; not his thighs, too narrow for the arch of silk to curve the way it should; not the tiny bow of flattened ribbon meant to sit below a softer belly. A gasp. Whose? What, exactly, do you say? What should Peter say now as Prue tears her slip from his hand, throws it at the window, awkward as a girl throws, awkward as this moment insists all three must be. What could Prue say now before she stalks off, sobbing, to the useless bedroom down the hall? So Peter sits, not quite touching the glass, feeling the chill. Behind him, in the other room, a tiny, keening sound of swallowed sobs, barely-heard whistle of sharp drawn breath, the knife-edged air not sharp to cut her free of what she'd seen. A friend's murmured effort to console, a whimper, words indistinct, for what words could you say now, really? The murmuring goes on. Ten minutes? Fifteen? Half an hour? Peter sits still, as if in shock, unable for the longest time to lift himself from the chair in which he had collapsed, where he'd been still so long that the wide wales of well-worn corduroy had cut their furrows in his skin, unable to even think of taking off the silky panties he'd slipped on, so that it is his naked thighs that feel the hot breath of the radiator. In the other room, he tells himself, it all will be decided. Prue stretched out on our bed, face buried in a pillow. Jean-Pierre standing, patting her shoulder, trying to console, as if he is her friend, not mine, as if we're maybe rivals, as if she needs a friend more than I do, me, with my deepest fear now come to life, me with my life collapsing, sliding down the invisible wall I've finally slammed into, crumpled to a pile, like the slip here, a heavy cloud of smoke beginning now to dissipate. For Peter, as Prue is gasping now between her muffled sobs, does know his Prue, knows her enough to know she'd fling herself onto the bed, bury her face, need Jean-Pierre's touch upon her shaking shoulder. Peter does know, she cries to Jean-Pierre, exactly how to hurt her most (though Jean-Pierre thinks: No, no, there is all manner of things that hurt, that could hurt worse, but this is not the time to list them all; if this hurts you most, or not, who knows? -- it is enough to know it hurts, it hurts). And Peter, as Prue knows and now is sobbing, is not thinking of her, of her life collapsing all around, herself tossed against a wall she hadn't know was there. What is this love, thinks Jean-Pierre, what is this heat that seemed, and not so long ago, to bring his friend into this woman's arms, that seemed to merge two into one. Not so long ago -- for Jean-Pierre could close his eyes and remember -- there was Peter, smiling, as he introduced his new woman to his friend, the same Peter now curled, mostly naked, in the chair in the other room. And there was Prue, long hair flying all around, a shy glance at him, a longer one at Peter. a glance speaking of pride, possession, of a certainty that with her love and his, they'd be transformed. It was that glance, more than anything else, that Jean-Pierre remembers, when he remembers Peter and Prue, standing hand-in-hand, two merging into one, a little shy as they declare they are a couple. A single being, made of two but one. Needing to say, but gently, gently, there's not quite room enough for you, old friend from Peter's past, not at the core of feeling though of course we all and always will be friends, the three of us. They'd stood all three by the low stone fence, where you can look out over the city, the wide river, the haze over the flat land on the other side hiding the hills beyond, Jean-Pierre remembers, and as he looked at them he saw that that would be the way things would be. No need, even, for words. What is this love, thinks Jean-Pierre, that seemed to merge two into one but now leaves two, slumping in their miseries, crying: me, me, me and what of me? And what, thinks Jean-Pierre, of me? From where Peter is sitting, he can still see the mirror, see how he had tucked his legs together, see the lace-edged silk on his hip, though not notice (is he blind?) how it cannot hide the bulge between his legs. From where Peter is sitting, he had planned to take an afternoon alone, alone except for the woman in the mirror, the woman who was, who is, a part of him. To gaze at her, to primp, to blow a kiss, to dream a little. What is her name? A flower's name, Peter had long ago decided. A flower's name. But not, he's whispered to himself, gazing at the mirror, not that one. Nor Narcissus. So Peter sits, like a stone sits, perhaps, or like that gazer in an ancient story, trapped by a vision in the limpid water of a forest pool. Trapped, heart still pounding, knowing that Prue and Jean-Pierre are talking, knowing that soon the time will come to learn what is to happen next. In the other room, he knows, she'll find before too long the battered old suitcase of his woman's things that he left gaping open on the bathroom floor when he began to dress that afternoon. There's nothing that can tell you what to do, or what to say, Jean- Pierre is telling Prue, as he stays standing in the other room, trying to reassure this woman whom he doesn't really know despite the years that passed since they first met, this wife of a friend he thought he knew. Actually, there are no rules, he says, in that slow and careful way of his that feels he must use, speaking English, speaking to her. There is no manual of etiquette that covers this, thinks Peter, in the other room, afraid to stir. How can I stand, walk down the hall, stand in the doorway, wearing only ... He cannot even sketch the scene that has to follow, two pairs of eyes, piercing him, trapping him in between two states, in the middle of a transformation, leaving him a clown, a smirk, a joke, a kind of monster. What am I going to say to make this right, asks Peter of himself, and in a muddle of trying this line, wondering if it might work, he knows he can't decide on even a single word, not over the tiny sound of Prue sobbing into the pillow, Jean- Pierre murmuring. Not a single word. Not even: sorry. Not even though he is, he is. Prue, though, is clear: Peter, she says, after an hour, two, after the sobs have slowed, Peter cannot stay here. Can Not. Unconsciously, she echoes Jean-Pierre's formality, that careful enunciation, careful as the stiff and awkward way he stoops, so he can pat her shoulder, not quite giving comfort. Are you sure? he asks. Perhaps the two of you had better talk. Perhaps there is something that he could say to you or that you could say to him. Her voice rises; she's sitting up in bed. Even in the next room, where he's sitting, Peter can hear the sharp edge in her words, like a knife that hisses as it slices through the cloth: Just get him out of here. Just do me that favor, tonight, OK? OK. Now Peter hears her voice grow even stronger, hears her feet hit the floor as she throws herself out of bed, stomps to his closet. He hears the swish and clatter of clothes torn from hangers, thrown towards the hall. Here, she says, here's his things, as if the little fag would want to bother, Here, she cries, yanking her dresser drawer, he wants to dress up like a girl, take this, and this and this. She's crying once again. And when she finds his suitcase as she goes into the bathroom to fetch his toothbrush, she wails as if her world is ending. The cry brings Jean-Pierre, running. She flaps a hand, like a child frightened by a bee: It's his, it's his, she sobs, until he understands the women's things spilling from the suitcase belong to Peter. Now she's dumping clothes: his shirts, her lingerie, who knows, who can tell in the confusion? He takes a pair of slacks from a closet -- Peter's is to the right, no? Not too many things, hoping (or so he tells himself) that things will soon blow over, watching Prue, who's flung herself back on the bed, as he picks this and that from the floor where she has thrown them: thin cloth, a shirt; wool, that must be a sweater; should he hand back the lingeries she's thrown, or will that just start her crying once again. Peter, calls Jean-Pierre, Peter, I think it may be best to come away. Jean-Pierre, back turned, still watching Prue, flicks a shirt, trousers that Prue had tossed onto the floor out to the hallway. Silently, Peter pads down the hall, snatches the clothes, hugs them close, as if to hide himself. He cannot look into the bedroom; Jean-Pierre will not look at him. Retreating to a corner, he slips into the clothing. Take him away, Prue cries. Get him out. Now, at last, Jean-Pierre turns to face his friend, his old friend. I think we'd better find a place for you tonight, he says. Peut-etre, then he stops, and starts again: Maybe it's best for now. So Peter follows to the rental car, lets Jean-Pierre sling his suitcase in the back seat, stands silent as a wife as Jean-Pierre, at the hotel's front desk, asks if there is another room, muttering to the desk clerk, leaning up against the counter, a man of the world asking for a favor, nudging an elbow, winning someone over with a wink. So Peter stands, one hand holding the other, clasped below his belly, as if they could protect him there somehow, patient, resigned as Jean- Pierre turns away from the counter, says: There seems to be some kind of convention coming, if you want to, we could wait to see if there is a, a cancellation. Peter just stares. Or look, says Jean-Pierre, There are two beds in my room. Why do you not just take one for the night? A tiny nod. But that's enough. "What does it want to say," Jean-Pierre used to ask, before Peter suggested "what does it mean" is how to translate the phrase from French, "What does it want to say, when you say 'actually' now," asked Jean-Pierre one day. In point of fact, Peter wanted to reply, it means the fact is, the situation is. The situation is this: when we are sitting here together, the way friends do, my heart beats a little faster, as if there's danger, as if I've embarked on adventure, here in this little place we've been so many times before, dark wood, gold lights, Labatt 50s on the battered table, his shrug one he shrugged before, my hand flying circles it always does when I'm looking for the right word to say. As if although we've been precisely here -- this bar, these beers, this talk -- a dozen times before, I'd stepped across a jungle creek, to where the map says unexplored. Perhaps, Peter would think, I'm missing too many words, between my bad French and your English; perhaps I'm hearing words you never spoke, perhaps that's why, these winter nights, trying to reach across the line that separates, I seem to glow, the way you might when running up the steep path on a winter day to the very summit of Parc Mont Royal. Sometimes, Peter would think, it's all that I can do to keep myself from laying a hand, gently, on his cheek. So once again, they sit across a table, trying now to reach across a different kind of line than just a language, trying to understand. Peter sits in a rumpled sweatshirt, baggy cords; what is underneath? Still the satin and the lace that he'd been caught in, maybe, Jean- Pierre wonders. He had kept his back turned, Peter had turned as well, as flushing, shamed, he scrambled into clothes he was supposed to wear, dull in color like the dead air in empty hotel restaurant where they sit, crumpled as the way that Peter slumps in the chair. Loose as this very moment, Jean-Pierre looking at his friend, Peter not able to hold his gaze for more than a moment or two. But there is time, and quiet, and after a while, they're looking at each other's eyes again, ready to see the smallest signal that tells them what they're really trying now to say. Dull as the dead way Peter feels, wrinkled as the lingerie crammed in the suitcase, loose as the moment, waiting to see what next will come. "I thought I'd put it all behind me," Peter whispers, so low than Jean- Pierre can barely hear. "I'd hoped ... Well, I'd read a line once (he'd read, he is not telling Jean-Pierre, with that flush and pounding heart that comes when the writer's gotten just a bit too close for comfort, reading once, and again, and again) I read this line a long, time ago that when boys wrap themselves in satin or a robe, when we squint at the mirror and pretend, it's simply that we yearn to touch the feminine in all of us, to find in that way the balance that all men, all women find. A little bit from column A, a little more from column B." "Column A?" "A saying," Peter tries a laugh. "You know, those dumpy Chinese restaurants; for dinner, one from column A and two from column B ... you know..." "Ah," Jean-Pierre nods. "And so you can pick from column A or column B. What one do you pick?" "Oh God," says Peter. "I don't know. I just wanted to be normal. Don't we all?" "We do." -- or is Jean-Pierre asking: "We do?" They strain, the two of them, to see the smallest signal. Did a voice rise to make a question; cheek flush to make an answer? Did a hand start to reach, or not? Eventually, of course, the restaurant has to close; the cashier needs to catch the last bus home, the busboy yawns, the bill must be paid. Two friends, tired, a drink or two too many, time for sleep, pad through the empty lobby, the elevator's tolling bell the only sound as they rise skyward. Dark sky above, glitter of lights splashed below before Jean-Pierre pulls the curtain closed. Peter sits, tense, on the edge of one of the beds. Jean-Pierre, after a moment, on the other -- if he were to lean across the narrow space between, he'd be able to whisper something to his friend. They sit like that a while. And then -- is Jean-Pierre leaning, does he whisper, could he be saying: "You know, I never saw ..." "Never saw?" "I never ... Well, you know, Prudence went in first; then what I see is Prudence running back down the hallway. I see you standing, naked shoulder. Did I see a strap, a bit of ribbon? I don't know. Really, I did not see what all the fuss was all about." "And?" "Well, you know..." That half smile again. A friend, unlike a lover, can understand, so Peter thinks. Will let you be, because friendship is content with who you are, while lovers always need, need something from one another. He'd not thought he'd see that half smile again; it had not been an afternoon, an evening with room for a friend's half smile. It's hard, almost too hard, to not reach a hand across the narrow space, let a palm brush a cheek. "You want ..." Peter cannot complete the question. And maybe sees a sign, a tiny sign. So Peter turns, so Jean-Pierre turns. In Peter's suitcase: yes, inside: well, there is what he needs. He takes some some things, slips into the bathroom, murmuring: "Just a sec'." Baggy trousers drop, nothing to stop the fall. The sweatshirt's gone. New panties slide on, black; black stockings, black enough to hide that he hadn't shaved -- the light is dim enough out there -- not so dark that he would not see the darker band around the top, the shadows where calves curve up from ankles. The bra, a little tight, wanting to press softness into a steep-sided valley to lead an eye on, lead a hand -- if only there were the softness there to press. The band below, a furrow across the ribs. And yes, the slip. Old-fashioned, but just right. Heels, because -- just because. Some mousse, then, fingers through too-long hair. Dark lines make eyes look sultry, why not? Pucker at the mirror, paint a line of darkest red, another. The creamy slick of lipstick. Pucker, kiss. A tissue stained. Turn. Two steps. Clicking steps on tile. Two steps, no sound now on the carpet. A softer surface, uncertain footing; Peter sways. Jean-Pierre stands by the small space between the beds. Two steps away. Peter takes one. Looks up, tosses his head to flip the hair out of his face, somehow knowing it would leave his face tilted just so. His hand, at last, reaches to his friend's face. They stand like that a minute, five -- who can count? Peter, who never has been seen, now is seen, thinks: so this is what it's like, feeling another drink you in, this is what it is like when eyes roam over you, and over you. So this is what it's like when a hand resting on a cheek begins to pull, when an arm rises, circles a waist. So this is what it's like when lips brush from a few inches above, when stubble scrapes and mouth parts for his tongue. So this is what it feels like, when that bulge is pressing your belly. Peter, thinks Jean-Pierre, is this Peter standing here? Peter in that silk, the color of the shadowed corners of this room, now that the lights are out? Is this Peter, falling into my arms the way that I've seen Prue falling into his, as if he studied how she moved; just as, I think, he must have watched her gliding into a room, seen how she sways, the way she tilts her head and runs her hand through her hair; is this Peter in the slip I'd caught a glimpse of her in once, waiting for them to let me tag along, was it for dinner, for a concert? Is this Peter whose lips have just touched mine, whose mouth now parts? So arms encircle, bodies spin and orbit. So fingers toy with buttons, so the cloth slips free. Hands stroke silk, stroke skin; one hand slides on slick thin fabric, one hand stops to feel a beating heart, a muscle tenses as two friends draw still closer, another button loosened, another. Fingers slip lower, still, into a grove of curling hair, a damp close space, and then ... Somehow this last button, the tension on it greater than the others, is undone; it takes two, it seems. Someone has tugged a zipper down, thumb and finger encircle, slowly stroke lower. "So," someone whispers, maybe. "So, do you want to pick from column A?" A tug, these trousers start to fall; kneeling to pull them lower. Peter's hand rests on his friend's thigh, feels heavy muscle tense as Jean Pierre steps free of the tangle at his feet; now Peter slowly strokes, down to a knee, back up the inside of a thigh, back to cup his fingers around and toy with the heavy, hanging fruit. Trembling, he leans, lays one cheek on his friend's warm skin, presses the red-brown shaft to the other, then turns, so he can trace the curve from root to tip with his tongue; lifts his head, parts his lips to softly encircle, just for a moment, softly encircle, softly withdraw, red lips soft on purpling tip, tongue lingering, fingers still gently stroking, down between his legs. Jean-Pierre moans. Peter sinks once again, once more lips encircle, tongue dances, once more withdraws, once more sinks. Does Jean-Pierre step closer, is Peter sinking deeper? Whose moan -- could it be, all this distance, Prue? Or is that just Jean-Pierre, his hand in Peter's hair, as if Peter needed to know that now it's time to sink and now to rise and now, again. Beneath a palm, where he holds Jean-Pierre's rear, to keep him close, hold himself steady as his lips slide down again, Peter can feel muscles tensing, trembling, can feel, it is almost time, almost time, can feel... A final push, a throb from deep within, and then it can't be stopped... So is Peter gay? moans Prue, tossing in her bed, five miles away. Is Peter, is that the way it really was, so many years, so much hope. So Peter is gay, thinks Jean-Pierre; so that's the way it was, for all this time, he thinks as he lets his hand drop from Peter's hair, as Peter lifts his face and hopes to see ... So am I? Peter thinks, afraid almost to say the word. Is that what this is all about, why I have yearned so long to slip into this other skin, to live this part of me I'd kept so deeply hidden for so long? Is this what being a woman is really all about? And Jean-Pierre has started now to snore. There are no answers from a night of tossing in a bed when the half where he's slept is empty now; no answers in a bed where one is deep in sleep, has tugged the cover closer, the other, chilly in the thin slip, is too cold and scared to sleep, and finally huddles by the window, staring at the dark city below. They'll need, as Jean-Pierre declares the next morning, to clear the air. Before Peter can say a word, to ask if that's a good idea now, Jean-Pierre's on the phone to Prue; and if, she, too, might wonder if it's time just yet, there seems to be no denying Jean-Pierre. Perhaps because he has a plane to catch, can't bear to leave things hanging. Perhaps he has another plan. "I don't want to lose her," Peter says. "She's still everything to me." But Jean-Pierre remembers Peter on his knees, Peter wearing Prue's slip. "You cannot now simply ..." Jean-Pierre searches for the right word, as Peter sits, knees to his chest, sheet to his shoulders. "You cannot now pretend, cannot ask her to forget. She saw. You cannot now deny that this is part of you. You've tried, you said. You've tried, but still you need this. This is you. She has to see, she has to understand." Why is he so insistent, why does he see the course so clearly, no one thinks to ask. But when the talking starts, downstairs, in the restaurant off the hotel lobby, Jean-Pierre will head down first, talk to Prue, try to calm her down, make her see reason. Then, when it's time, they'll come up and see Peter. Let Peter show her... "No," says Peter, "I'm not sure ..." But that is what he'll do, it is decided. Jean-Pierre admires the way Prue looks, he always has, he's told Peter from the start: like her name, once he was sure that he'd translated it right, a hint of primness that made her all the more tantalizing -- could it really be, he'd asked Peter once, someone would call a daughter Prudence, what a name for a girl. Something intriguing: a contrast, surface and inside. Prudence or passion? Peter or ... Funny, thinks Jean-Pierre, watching her now pick her way among the round tables of the hotel restaurant, even now that she'd moved to the States with him, she still favored those crisp skirts, soft sweaters in pale colors, he thinks now, watching her approach his table in the hotel restaurant, thinking of what was in Peter's suitcase, what he'd suggested. He watches her approach, as careful as a young girl parading out for the first dance of the cotillion, teetering on high heels she'd barely practiced in. Today, though, she's wearing modest flats, a prim wool skirt brushing her knees, a sweater, soft as a sleeping cat's fur. His smile makes her blush. Prue says she wants her Peter back, but she's afraid she's lost him; Jean-Pierre nods wisely, holds his tongue. Prue doesn't understand, she adds. What kind of man? She'd had no clue. Or maybe... And Jean-Pierre just nods. Somehow, his hand is on hers now, he's looking in her eyes, sees unshed tears glistening there, murmurs something that makes her try to smile. Things can work out, he says. "I need to have a man," she says. "I'm a normal woman, I need a man to love me, hold me." "Well," says Jean-Pierre, "I think that Peter understands. I think it's time to talk things out. He's upstairs. Shall we?" He stands, her hand in his, he seems to lift her; she follows as he signs the check, steps to the elevator, walks down the hall. Is his hand on her lower back? Is that his hand guiding her, leading her through the doorway to his room, to where Peter is waiting, standing by the window, heart thumping. In the white blouse, in the prim tweed skirt that somehow as she'd cried and tossed clothing around, had ended up, folded carefully, in Peter's suitcase. I need to have a man, she'd just told Jean-Pierre, she has to understand, Jean-Pierre told Peter just before he went downstairs. No, Peter said then, I don't think... Yes, said Jean-Pierre. And should it be that flouncy summer frock that was in the suitcase? Jeans -- his, hers -- a soft white shirt. No, no, Jean-Pierre had said, do not now be ambivalent, you must be clear, you must be now, for her sake. But in the end, once Jean-Pierre had left the room to greet Prue in the restaurant, Peter decided to make one last change. If not the dress, the skirt. He'd always wondered how it looked, he thinks, as he steps in, pulls it up, feels silk lining brush his legs. So when she steps by Jean-Pierre into the hotel room, Prue sees Peter sitting, tugging at the prim wool skirt so that the hem lies, modestly, across his knees. She gasps. He flushes. What does it mean, Jean Pierre wonders, watching the two of them, what does it mean to be a woman? Why does a swirl of cloth around your knees, the swish of nylon and of silk, demand you curl inward, as if the feelings and the fears kindled within need shelter from a wind, the way a tiny candle flame demands a hand be cupped around? Why does a small folly of lace, hidden from view, a softer fabric on your skin, brushing of your long hair on your cheeks leave you feeling so exposed, make your eyes prickle when his will not, leave you looking to him to tell you what we're going to do right now? Eyes water; Prue's. Peter's. Why did she listen to his friend? Why did I, Peter wonders. Eyes water, the tiny flame flickers, expires. Prue turns on her heel, looks at Jean-Pierre, waiting. Sometimes, it all comes down to practicalities: you have to be somewhere, where? Jean-Pierre has to catch the flight back to Montreal tonight. Peter needs a place to stay, and perhaps, says Jean-Pierre, the broker of the tense, snapped-short words they speak, their eyes that will not meet, perhaps, says Jean-Pierre, you might want to head home a while, see your family, give yourself some time to see what it is you really want to do. There is, he adds, space on the flight tonight, I think. Funny, how little it takes to empty an apartment. A suitcase? Two? A frenzied hour, Peter can't tell, he wasn't there, the terms Jean-Pierre negotiated demanded that. A half hour to the airport, change in Washington. And then, she's gone. Despite the warmth of the sun, despite the coming of the spring, Peter still feels the chill air by the window, even without quite touching the glass. The weeks pass by, the days grow warmer still, the chill remains. When he telephones Prue's parents' home, they tell him she's not in right now, they'll tell her that he called. When he calls Jean-Pierre, his friend tells him not to worry, she just needs time, he's trying to make things work out right. And when, unable to sleep, he calls his friend late one night, it's Prue who answers. "Mmmm?" she murmurs. "Yes?" Peter can only stutter, hears an impatient grunt. Perhaps, relying on memory, he dialed her parents, caught her at last, he thinks. How can he hold her on the line, hold her across the miles and miles separating them, what can he say? Then, a rustling -- she's shifting in the bed perhaps -- a muttered: "It's for you, hey. Wake up. It's him. Come on. Wake up." "Allo," Jean-Pierre yawns into the phone. He had dialed Jean-Pierre, there had been no mistake. "Allo, Peter?" Peter still clutches the phone, lets himself fall, flat on his back, in bed. "Peter? Peter, are you there?" Staring at the ceiling, he hears his friend calling his name, hearing him breathe, waiting for an answer. Is Prue giggling, can he hear that? Does Jean-Pierre, anxious as he sounds, calling Peter's name, holding the phone tight to his ear, slip his other hand around Prue's shoulders, does he pull her close? Peter, staring at the ceiling, as if he could see her snuggle closer to him, stretches a hand to the bedside table, blindly lets the phone fall, cut the connection. Staring at the ceiling, he can see Prue reach for his friend's shoulder, to pull him to her for a kiss. Peter turns on his side, his back to the phone he'd dropped. Pulls a satin strap in place. With wrist turned out, delicately strokes a strand of hair from his face. Then reaches, touches a shoulder. Pulls the man sleeping in his bed to him, for a kiss. There is a bar, he goes to sometimes, Peter will explain to Jean- Pierre, a few weeks later, when his friend is back in town, He says, if you believe him, he's here on business. It's awfully lonely, he's been awfully lonely, Peter will say. He'll rest his hand on the table, he'll hope that Jean-Pierre will lay his own hand there; perhaps hoping, as they sit in the dim-lit restaurant, meeting just after work, for the touch of consolation? So he'll lay his hand, his thin wrist poking out from a thick tweed sleeve, leave it resting on the table, as if resting were the only point. "A bar?" asks Jean-Pierre, "A bar?" Peter flushes. After a silent moment, what feels like a silent hour, he lets his hand drop to his side. The waiter comes, and smiles; a fraction of a second longer than for the ladies at the next table? At Peter? At Jean-Pierre? Jean-Pierre doesn't notice, doesn't see if Peter's eyes drift as the waiter takes their order back to the kitchen. "So how are things?" Peter asks, and hears a long story about problems back at work, why Jean-Pierre must be down, once again, here in the States to try to sort things out. Have you tried this, Peter suggests; tried that? Jean-Pierre nods, a little glum. Work is OK, Peter says, as the stiff dance of words continues -- why are we talking about this, he asks himself but somehow is afraid to ask his friend. Just tell me about Prue; now that you're talking about a weekend in the Laurentians skiing, did you go alone? That restaurant on Prince-Arthur, you never go alone, who did you go with when you tried that new veal thing you're babbling about. Jean-Pierre, as he still does when he's been searching too hard for words, has slipped into speaking French, Peter strains to follow. The salad comes. Respite. Jean-Pierre ignores, seems to, the way Peter, unconsciously, has cocked his little finger as he navigates the fork. The duck, the lamb come; a warning from the smiling waiter about hot plates, a question: do you need anything? Everything, thinks Peter. Do I need? Jean-Pierre asks himself. A bite. Is it good, the one asks. Mmm-hmm, the other says. Try mine? Try yours? The waiter, watching his realm from a corner by kitchen, nods as if he's seen something, perhaps a notion guessed at, a theory proffered, proved. Finally: "Prue?" Peter breathes. "Prue?" Jean-Pierre swallows the response. A deeper breath: "Prue?" Peter asks. "How is Prue?" She is OK, his friend mutters. Is that a flush that Peter sees? OK? Just OK? "She is OK," Jean-Pierre says, a bit more certain. "You see her much?" "I see her some." Another flush. And Peter sees, too. A bite of duck, a bite of lamb. Yours is quite good, you like yours? "Do you think," Peter tries, stumbles, tries again. "Do you think she's coming back?" Jean-Pierre knows, he has to know; just as Peter knows. But the duck is wonderful, the lamb just right, this restaurant one of the best in town. The waiter smiles, a theory tested as once again, as Jean-Pierre lightly lays his hand on Peter, just for a second, just a second, so no one could see. "A bar?" Jean-Pierre asks. "A bar? Tell me about this bar." Now Peter flushes, Peter shrugs. What kind of bar? What kind of bar do you think it is, Peter wants to asks, but bites the words off before they can be spoken. What kind of bar, what kind of drinks are served, are really served, what other kind of bar do you go to when your woman leaves you, and you are alone. What kind of bar do you go to when she's never there when you telephone, though you can hear her in the background, telling Mom to say she's out. We're not meant to be alone, don't you see, Peter wants to ask his friend. None of us are meant to be alone. A bar for a drink, or two. A glance, glance back. A few words whispered. A slow dance. What kind of bar do you need when you call your friend and the woman who walked out on you answers the phone, half sleeping? What kind of bar when you wear women's clothes, need to wear women's clothes? "Just a bar," Peter says. "Ah," says Jean-Pierre. As if he knows. Another bite. "But always, just this one bar?" Jean-Pierre asks after a moment. "No," Peter snaps. "I've got a life here, full life." And wants to say: if she's not coming back, if she's with you, the hell with both of you, I'll manage, I manage. And needs to say: is she not coming back, really not coming back; did you, why did you, why did you with her? Can't you see it hurts, the worst hurt (not the worst, Jean-Pierre thinks, as if he's heard what Peter cannot say here, not the worst maybe, but still, it hurts, it hurts, I know it hurts). "No," Peter says again. "But you said..." Jean Pierre starts. Considers. "But you said, there's a bar you go to. That's what you said. You said you get so lonely, there's a bar you go to." The waiter, watching, knows this is not the time to take the empty plates away. "No," Peter says. "No. You tell me first. Tell me what you're doing these days, why don't you? Tell me who you're with these days, let's have it out." His face is flushed, so is his friend's. A lover's quarrel, the waiter thinks, waiting to clear the table, hoping -- well, it's unkind to hope, but still a little drama to make a slow evening, disappointing tips, pass sooner. He's ignoring another couple, trying to catch his eye, as they dart nervous glances at Peter and Jean-Pierre. "Shh," says Jean-Pierre. His hand, beneath the table, pats Peter's knee. "Shh," he says, "There's nothing to tell you, nothing that you do not already know." "You've betrayed me." But Peter whispers now. "No," says Jean-Pierre. "Maybe you betrayed Prudence, it depends, your point of view. Maybe that's what happened. That is what she thinks." Peter just stares; does he feel Jean-Pierre's hand, below the table, holding his, holding him gently, trying to comfort with a touch because the words are going to hurt? Peter wants to argue, wants to say his friend is wrong, except he knows he's right, except this hand holding his tells him to be calm, now. He wants to ask: How do you know, except he knows how. "That is what she thinks," Jean-Pierre says. "That's what she tells me." "Why does she tell you?" Peter whispers. "She's hurt, she wants to hurt," says Jean-Pierre, answering if not intending to. "She says: I am a woman, I want a man, but all I had was... Never mind the word, she says all she had was someone who wanted to be woman, too. And is she wrong?" Peter will not reply. "And now," says Jean-Pierre, "She is a woman, needs a man. Feels, she says, as she says..." He closes his eyes as if to concentrate, to quote exactly: "I need to make up for lost time. What does she mean, by that, I'm not quite sure." "It means," Peter whispers, "It means she thinks our lives together came to nothing." And did they not? Jean Pierre wants to ask, as he squeezes Peter's hand. Can't you see why she'd feel that way -- aren't you woman enough to see she'd have to feel that way? Can't you see her say: Spurned, I'm spurned, I'll spurn. Can't you see how she'll need to sit on the bar stool at the Ritz, legs crossed so her skirt rides high; how she might catch an eye, whisper a word or two, laugh. And ... Peter nods, blindly, as if he hears unspoken words. "Can you see," Jean-Pierre says "She has a friend, they talk -- they both know, they've both seen, there is no need to explain, for she has not tried to explain, has not told her parents, not told the men we were at school with who she's met, with whom ..." "Don't tell me," Peter says. But Jean-Pierre must tell him this at least, this that Peter knows, that Peter needs to know. "Can't you see," he whispers, "She will need to sleep with men, she'll need men in her bed, since when they are in her bed, when they are in her, when they plunge deep (when I did, he thinks) and her heels need to flail the air, her hands need to push him (push me, he thinks) still deeper, faster, harder -- she will know she is a woman, a beautiful woman, a woman who can win someone's heart..." "She had my heart," Peter cries. The waiter starts, the couple at the next table signal once again for their check. "A woman who can win a heart, although you don't win hearts from pickups in the bar," Jean-Pierre says. "She needs to feel what she thinks you hid from her, what she thinks you fooled her with, she needs to feel she is a woman who can be loved." Now Jean-Pierre leans close. "Tell me now," he whispers. "Tell me you do not understand this. Tell me you are not doing this, just this, at the bar you go to. At this just-a-bar you go to, this no-I-don't-go-to-just-one-bar place you go to." Peter cannot break his gaze "Tell me what you do at this I-get-so-lonely bar you go to," Jean- Pierre says. There is, perhaps no need to tell. Jean-Pierre knows; Peter knows he knows. No need to talk about steaming baths, razors sliding over legs. No need to talk about the way silk feels on your rear, the way a bra can hold you tight, the way that, though they're nerveless, the jounce of silicon beneath a lacy cup lets you imagine... Could a friend really understand what it's like to roll slick, snug stocking up your leg, to feel the slither of satin when you slip on the camisole. The way the tiny astringent sting of makeup first touched to your face pulls you together, the deep red glide of lipstick and the promise you'll leave it marking another. Can Jean-Pierre understand the feel of a hem dancing above your knees, the way nyloned legs slide when you've perched on the barstool, crossed your legs; the feel of someone else's eyes tracing the lazy-S curve between your knees and rear? It's not something you can tell someone. Not something, Peter thinks, anyone else can understand. But: "Show me," says Jean-Pierre. He waits, politely, by the window, not feeling the chill. Just waiting, as Peter, in the other room, behind a closed door, dresses for the night. Jean-Pierre, content to wait; Peter, fretting: the black dress? The red suit? Will a quick brush do; perhaps it'd better, dark lipstick between darker lines. Pale shadow below arching brow, darker eyelashes, flush of rose on cheeks. Perhaps he'll complain he had to wait so long, then smile, the way men do when their date fusses over how she looks. But Jean-Pierre waits, politely. The bar, it could be any bar. Except it's not. It is the place where Peter goes, where he can find who he is seeking for the night: not any bar, the bar. Every town has one. The girls perched on the barstools need the darkness, the men along the walls wait to catch an eye, invitations murmured, couples dance. This time, no stool for Peter, a darting eye ignored, for all he is aware, he squeezes Jean-Pierre's bicep a little tighter, smiles a secret smile. They take a booth, order a drink: the waiter, different waiter, smiles, a glance at Peter, a little gesture Jean-Pierre misses. A drink, two drinks. Will Jean- Pierre ask, or must Peter when the music starts -- whoever does, they dance. They spin around too-small space between the bar and DJ, others scatter, Peter's sure, to give them room -- though in fact, everyone thinks all the others do just that. The beat of drums, of bass, flights of silver sound, fast, so that you feel you cannot catch you breath, slow, at last, so Jean-Pierre pulls Peter close, arm across his lower back, lips almost touching for the final twirl before it's time to go. It's not too far to Peter's place, they barely feel the chill of night; it is as if the last dance never ended and in the dark hallway, when the door is closed, Jean-Pierre once again pulls Peter close; once again they spin, though there's no music anyone else could hear. Once again, lips almost touch and with another spin... Peter's hands hold Jean-Pierre's head, Jean-Pierre presses close, lips part, tongue probes. Jean-Pierre's hands run up Peter's back, holding his head close, down again past breasts that cannot really feel, grasping a waist, a butt, pushing belly to belly so Peter can feel. -- and Peter does, and moans. Fingers find buttons, zippers, short one, longer; cloth falls to the floor, two fall onto a bed, for they've been dancing that way, as if they didn't know the bed was there behind that door. Jean-Pierre stretches, naked, on his back; Peter, still in the black, lacy camisole, the satin tap pants that he'd picked, after a long moment of consideration, rejecting that slip, the peach, hoping -- and maybe knowing -- that the time would come for Jean-Pierre to see. And so, half hidden yet revealed, Peter straddles his friend's thighs, feels hard muscle press the inside of his own legs, where the dark band of his stocking tops, his pale skin meeting. He lays his right palm over his friend's heart, feels it beating. Lays his left palm, too, on a firm muscle, strokes down, palms on hard stomach, almost that far, then leaning forward slides his hands to Jean-Pierre's shoulders, feels his friend's shaft touching his belly, leans forward still to kiss. Now Jean-Pierre reaches, his hands on Peter's rear, gently pulling the waistband of the tap pants, Peter leaning deeper into the kiss so Jean Pierre can slide them free, then leaning back, and feels Jean Pierre slowly slide in: one gasps, one moans. Slowly slide in, slowly retreat. Again. A deeper kiss, another. A moan rises from somewhere deep within, pulsing out, warm and urgent, a moan, shivering, trembling: slide in, slowly retreat, deeper now, faster. Trembling now, on the edge. Shuddering with need, again, Peter feels muscles tense between his legs, feels hands grasping his waist still tighter, urgent, faster push, retreat, push and then the explosive pump of warmth and wet, as he collapses on his friend's chest. They lie that way a while, maybe sleeping, maybe not quite, until the phone, harsh bell ringing angrily, startles, It's Prue. Her voice is tight and brittle; her words are clipped: Has Peter seen Jean-Pierre? She needs to have him call; tomorrow's fine, but she missed him at the hotel, it's too late to call him there. "That's OK," Peter says. "He's here, you want to talk, he's here." His hand is at his throat; her's too, though he cannot see. It is the first time that they've talked in months, and what to say: Have you seen, yes he's here; what to hear but a tiny gasp dying in the back of her throat, a grunt, a creak of springs, the words: wake up, it's for you." Perhaps from where he's sitting now, shivering by the window, Peter can hear her scream, the name she calls his friend; perhaps he sees a flash of something on an impassive face. You had Peter, too, she cries, and Jean-Pierre just nods, phone pressed tight to his ear, so tight that, maybe, Peter cannot hear, close as he is. You had Peter, too, she cries. Don't think you're coming back to me. She lets her hand flop, lets the phone fall, tries not to sob. Jean- Pierre, not looking, sets the phone down on the bedside table. What do think it means, she wants to ask, what do you think it means to be a woman? What is this that you want, what do you think's so wonderful. And now she is crying. What does it mean to be a woman, Peter wants to ask, as he watches his friend gather his things, stalk off to the bathroom; hears the front door slam behind him? Maybe, he wonders, she wonders, it is this yearning, this knowing what it's like to have him inside you, knowing he will never understand how much you need him? Maybe that he may never feel the way you can be transformed by love. Or sorrow. But it is to be transformed that is what we desire, what some of us desire. To be changed, somehow. He wonders, she wonders, who else might understand. Not Jean-Pierre, it seems. Prue will not see him; he won't see Peter, will not come back. He will not stay in the middle, he will say, should either ask. He cannot find a way to make things right; cannot broker the truce that they still need to reach. Who gets the sofa, the CD player, the car; who signs the papers, who says what on what affidavit: Peter and Prue must meet, they still have things to settle. The conference room, the lawyer calls it. Filing cabinets shoved in the corner, old maps of ancient subdivisions that made a partner rich, decades ago. A long table in the middle. Two manila folders, lists, the printout of the joint account, the mutual funds they'd planned to retire together on. The lawyers know each other, need to step outside a minute, consult a secretary, check a good day to go to court. Peter and Prue sit, silent, across the table. There are a thousand things to ask, there's only one thing: what does it mean, he wonders, what does it really mean to be what I think I want to be; what does it mean, she wonders, what does it really mean when he wants to be what I am, and what then am I? The lawyers murmur in the other room. "Peter," she says. "Prue" He stretches out his hand. She reaches towards him. the end