VERY IMPORTANT AUTHOR'S NOTE: I do NOT want any comments about the fact that this was a SEXUAL story. It is not very explicit, and you have been WARNED, TWICE now. Also, I DO believe that this scene is IMPORTANT to the way the characters are developing and seen by the readers. This is NOT a HAPPY ROMP IN THE HAY. This is something that's provoked by insecurity, anger, sadness, misunderstanding, loneliness, and grief. IF THIS IS NOT OKAY WITH YOU, READ NO FUTHER!
HANDICAPPED
Ephraim woke to the sound of rain outside and a young James Taylor emanating from the black retro boom box on the ground under the window. The room was chilly and the blankets were thick; the air was gray and thin and quiet; the clock on the floor next to him said nine thirty. The bathroom faucet was running, and Amy was absent from the bed next to him. His legs were spread out over the mattress as though he had slept there alone all night. He was diagonal across it, and the dim light from the blinded window falling over the white sheets and his pale chest looked like ice. He closed his eyes and his chest rose steadily as he breathed in the slow poetry of memory.
It was a very small, very cheep hotel room in his hometown. They had arrived the morning they left and slept through the day, waking up only now, in the early hours of a sleepy New York morning, when the rain is steady and the air is quiet with the white noise from outside.
Amy had been distant lately, but strangely affectionate. They never spoke, but she kissed him; cold, mechanical interactions when her hands fell straight to his crotch and didn't move from there until she was done. She didn't speak to him often. She never looked into his eyes.
The faucet shut off suddenly, and the door of the bathroom was cracked open. White steam and light fled into the bedroom.
Ephraim sat up. Then lay back down. The steam thinned and the door opened all the way. Amy stood in the doorway, naked, framed glowingly in steam and florescence. Her hair hung limply and her body had the sheen of hot water. The smoky steam blurred the lines and definitions of her body, and she looked like Aphrodite emerging from the foam.
She walked to him and lay on top of him. Her slick lips fell on his with an urgent carelessness; she tasted of soap and toothpaste, and she smelled of clean, sheer steam; her slipping, wise hands removed his clothes.
Her wet blonde hair shielded them and brushed him; it was cold and smelling cleanly of oranges. This awful, sad need radiated from her. This need to feel complete in something; to seal this deal of love between Ephraim and herself. To come full circle, and embrace this awkward destiny that she had chosen for herself. She needed this and hated it at once. She forced it on herself.
Her eyes filled quickly and Ephraim felt tears shower his face. She closed her eyes tightly.
"Amy-"
"Quiet." she whispered harshly. Her body remained taught and wincing.
Ephraim looked away.
"Look at my face." she commanded, and he did, leaning up to kiss her lips. She didn't respond, but she didn't push him off either.
Ephraim came. He immediately hated the way he sounded: as though he were a small child, whining loudly. She rolled onto the mattress next to him.
Ephraim was shaking, and so was Amy. They lay there in silence for almost two minutes.
"Amy," Ephraim finally started. Amy said nothing. She got up slowly and walked to the bathroom.
Ephraim turned over quickly and vomited into the trashcan next to the mattress. He grabbed Kleenexes out of the box and wiped at his mouth.
He lay back down on the bed, shaking again. His body was pumping and exhausted and sweating. He felt ill. He was confused ... oh, god, he was so confused. He saw her face in his mind, her long, wet blonde hair and her pale face. She was so beautiful, oh god she was so beautiful and she didn't love him.
He rolled onto his side and pulled the covers around him. He closed his eyes and woke up an hour later, and Amy was dressed and eating cold sesame chicken by the window, watching the rain and listening to a young James Taylor.
HANDICAPPED
Ephraim woke to the sound of rain outside and a young James Taylor emanating from the black retro boom box on the ground under the window. The room was chilly and the blankets were thick; the air was gray and thin and quiet; the clock on the floor next to him said nine thirty. The bathroom faucet was running, and Amy was absent from the bed next to him. His legs were spread out over the mattress as though he had slept there alone all night. He was diagonal across it, and the dim light from the blinded window falling over the white sheets and his pale chest looked like ice. He closed his eyes and his chest rose steadily as he breathed in the slow poetry of memory.
It was a very small, very cheep hotel room in his hometown. They had arrived the morning they left and slept through the day, waking up only now, in the early hours of a sleepy New York morning, when the rain is steady and the air is quiet with the white noise from outside.
Amy had been distant lately, but strangely affectionate. They never spoke, but she kissed him; cold, mechanical interactions when her hands fell straight to his crotch and didn't move from there until she was done. She didn't speak to him often. She never looked into his eyes.
The faucet shut off suddenly, and the door of the bathroom was cracked open. White steam and light fled into the bedroom.
Ephraim sat up. Then lay back down. The steam thinned and the door opened all the way. Amy stood in the doorway, naked, framed glowingly in steam and florescence. Her hair hung limply and her body had the sheen of hot water. The smoky steam blurred the lines and definitions of her body, and she looked like Aphrodite emerging from the foam.
She walked to him and lay on top of him. Her slick lips fell on his with an urgent carelessness; she tasted of soap and toothpaste, and she smelled of clean, sheer steam; her slipping, wise hands removed his clothes.
Her wet blonde hair shielded them and brushed him; it was cold and smelling cleanly of oranges. This awful, sad need radiated from her. This need to feel complete in something; to seal this deal of love between Ephraim and herself. To come full circle, and embrace this awkward destiny that she had chosen for herself. She needed this and hated it at once. She forced it on herself.
Her eyes filled quickly and Ephraim felt tears shower his face. She closed her eyes tightly.
"Amy-"
"Quiet." she whispered harshly. Her body remained taught and wincing.
Ephraim looked away.
"Look at my face." she commanded, and he did, leaning up to kiss her lips. She didn't respond, but she didn't push him off either.
Ephraim came. He immediately hated the way he sounded: as though he were a small child, whining loudly. She rolled onto the mattress next to him.
Ephraim was shaking, and so was Amy. They lay there in silence for almost two minutes.
"Amy," Ephraim finally started. Amy said nothing. She got up slowly and walked to the bathroom.
Ephraim turned over quickly and vomited into the trashcan next to the mattress. He grabbed Kleenexes out of the box and wiped at his mouth.
He lay back down on the bed, shaking again. His body was pumping and exhausted and sweating. He felt ill. He was confused ... oh, god, he was so confused. He saw her face in his mind, her long, wet blonde hair and her pale face. She was so beautiful, oh god she was so beautiful and she didn't love him.
He rolled onto his side and pulled the covers around him. He closed his eyes and woke up an hour later, and Amy was dressed and eating cold sesame chicken by the window, watching the rain and listening to a young James Taylor.