A/N: Rated M for scenes of a decidedly sexual nature. A while ago I decided to try and see if, I could write a sex scene entirely from Anthony's POV, as I often default to Edith's. A bit long because I couldn't find a place to divide it, but hopefully enjoyable nonetheless. :)
I - It's All Right With Me
Music & Lyrics by Cole Porter
As recorded by Frank Sinatra.
XXX
It's the wrong time and the wrong place.
Though your face is charming, it's the wrong face.
It's not her face, but such a charming face,
That it's all right with me.
XXX
Anthony Strallan swallowed, ice clacking to the bottom of his glass as he brought it level. The late afternoon sun glittered in a small puddle of Scotch still to be tasted, and he raised the tumbler once more, the cool, curved glass of the rim pressing comfortingly into the soft flesh of his lip as the amber-gold liquid rolled into his throat, adding to the numbing haze that he'd been cultivating over the past hour. He sighed and leaned his head back into the spine of the soft brown sofa. That was a lie, he thought. We tell ourselves that alcohol numbs the pain, when all it really does is distract us from it for a while.
He closed his eyes. A driving bass from the block party on the street below thrummed through the walls and into his pathetic solitude. He often dealt with such noise; he'd opted for a cheap single apartment after Maud had died and so, obviously, did many of London's university students. This party had begun earlier than usual; a post exam, pre-commencement bash. Usually the noise didn't bother him; he could tone it out. But tonight it just made him feel old and alone. As if the world and everyone in it were moving to that rhythm and he was standing by watching it happen; an old rhythm that didn't fit with anyone else's.
He knew he was wallowing. He knew he was making too much of nothing. But he couldn't help it.
It was all because of Elizabeth. She was the one who had suggested he start dating again. He'd agreed that three years of living as a hermit was likely sufficient. But where did he go anymore? Where did one meet people the other side of forty? And so he had tried the internet.
Over the past few months there had been a handful of dates with perfectly lovely but uninspiring women, and then for the six weeks weeks there had been Anne. Beautiful, intelligent, and a surviving spouse like him, they'd engaged in a lively e-correspondence; culminating in their first actual meeting two days ago. He'd been enchanted, enjoyed himself very much and had allowed himself to hope that maybe they had a future together. The promise of companionship; even love, was too glorious a dream to resist. And once he had let down the careful barriers that allowed him to cope with his solitary life he'd been unable to reconstruct them. So, when he received her email this morning, informing him that she'd had another date with a gentleman she preferred and that she was no longer interested in pursuing a relationship with him, it had utterly crumpled him. Joining her tactful and even complimentary rejection were choruses of self-loathing proclaiming his unworthiness to be with someone like her; to be with anyone; to be loved at all. The easy spiral into loneliness as black as a moonless night, a night that seemed never to give way to dawn.
A clear tone came echoing through the flat. He sat forward instinctively as it was followed by another, which somehow sounded more agitated in spite of its being the same two notes. He levered his long limbs beneath him and ambled to the door.
"Hello."
Standing in the doorway was a young woman, a stray from the party he guessed, a tipsy twenty-something. Several silent moments passed, his alcohol fogged brain spending too much time ogling his unexpected visitor to remember his manners. He examined her, taking in the lithe figure, luminous in the streaming sunlight. Strong shoulders emerged from beneath a floral sundress, which clung to subtle curves and revealed a pair of long legs, clad in a pair of yellow knee leggings. He blinked, pushing away the immediate image of lean creamy thighs, stripped of their yellow stockings. He shifted his somewhat hazy focus to her face. Intelligent brown eyes gazed up at him, set above smooth sun-pinked cheeks and a long nose. Below this, two soft pink lips arced shyly upwards, though the corners in fact, turned slightly downward, giving her a shrewd, dignified look. Together, her features were not precisely beautiful, but fascinating, arresting, and damned alluring. Not that he ought to be looking, he scolded himself.
Her voice, pinched with embarrassment, broke into his observations. "I'm so sorry to intrude, but I was wondering if I might beg a first aid kit." Here she raised her arm to revealed a skinned elbow, and gestured with her other hand at her knee. Now that he wasn't imagining her bare thighs he registered the scraped bloody kneecap pushing through a tear in her leggings.
His eyebrows rose in concern. "Of course. Please, come in."
As they made their way to the living room, Anthony shook his head, trying to clear the alcohol induced grogginess that he had until now been so desirous of. His conscience told him he ought to focus, and yet all he could seem to focus on was the memory of those deep brown eyes…
When they reached the living room, he waved her to the sofa. She slumped down, eying the half-empty bottle and incriminating glass.
"Partying yourself are you?" she observed wryly.
He frowned a little, then sighed. "If you count a pity-party. Quite pathetic I'm afraid. I'll just be a moment."
A few minutes later he returned, wielding a damp washcloth and a blue box with a red cross.
He handed them over and watched as she dabbed at her elbow, trying not to fixate on the way her mouth twisted in concentration, wrinkling the tip of her long nose. He could imagine her like that, pouring over a textbook, studying for her exams. It was an utterly kissable nose, he thought. But God where the hell was that coming from? What was he some kind of randy teenager? He threw an accusing glance at the Scotch bottle.
"What happened?" he asked at last.
She grimaced. "I..uh..fell. Tripped on something," she said uncomfortably.
"Oh dear," he said, ensuring his words held no judgement. "But you're all right?"
"Yes. Nothing hurt but my pride."
"Well, that's good," he smiled at her, meaning it to be reassuring, but it felt bigger and dopier than he intended.
Oh come on, get a grip.
She moved to clean her knee, the injury there bad enough to need a bandage, and he watched, managing to make polite small talk even though he was mesmerized by the movements of her strong determined fingers as she swabbed, snipped, and dressed her knee. It had been so long since he had watched a woman do something so curiously intimate, much less this lovely young woman who intrigued him immensely.
All finished, she sighed and stretched, leaning back in the sofa and casting an approving eye around the bookshelf-lined room. To his surprise, she seemed reluctant to leave.
"Are you celebrating your degree?" he asked at last.
Her eyes returned to his, brown pools simmering with a dozen unspoken observations. Internally, his intellect licked its lips. He wanted to know those thoughts, to discover the mind behind the captivating exterior.
"I am," she replied with the self-satisfaction borne of hard work completed. "in English literature and writing."
"A-ha! A writer! I should have smelled the ink! My uncle was writer."
"Oh? What did he write?"
"Nothing designed to make the bestseller list. He was a naturalist; so he mostly wrote naturelogues and fishing manuals."
He grinned merrily. She laughed.
"Well," she said, sobering slightly, "I don't know a thing about fishing, so it's a good thing there's someone else out there to write about it."
"And what do you write?"
"That is the question isn't it? With my degree finished, I get to find out."
The tone of her voice told him that she wasn't exactly secure in the possibility.
"I'm sure you'll do splendidly. What do you think you'd like to write?"
"Novels, probably. Maybe some basic journalism. I did the university paper. Even wrote a short play produced by the theatre fraternity."
"No poems?"
"Oh, well, everyone writes poems. How else would we nurse a broken heart?" she said with an air of playful melodrama.
His smiled curled inward and his eyes guiltily traced the bottle on the table.
"Aren't you missing the party?" he said after a long moment.
She colored.
"Yes, I guess so. But…I'm not really a party person. I feel like….I never have anything to say. It's funny, because as a writer you'd think I'd have no trouble..." She shrugged and gave a self-deprecating smile.
"I know just what you mean," he agreed. "You think 'well no one wants to hear about what I'm interested in, so better say nothing.'"
"Yes exactly. It sounds so smug to say it out loud, but why would I spend an evening getting pissed and attempting to have opinions about things that bore me? I'd much rather…"
She didn't finish, but her eyes met his and her blush deepened. Had she been going to say "stay here"?
"I've read that 19th Century hostesses sometimes carried a book with them during parties to help stimulate conversation," he said.
"Now that would make it easy!" Her next thought gurgled out of her in a laugh. "Though I imagine it would get tedious to lug around The Complete Works of Shakespeare all night."
He chuckled too.
"Perhaps you could start with something a bit lighter."
"Well, if it was that crowd," she flung a thumb towards the street outside, "it'd have to be Green Eggs and Ham. College boys." She said with an illustrative grimace that made him chuckle again. "Especially this guy my friend was trying to set me up with. Sure I've had a few drinks, but I'm not so tipsy that I'd fall down and skin my knee without his show-off hackey-sack maneuvers helping me down."
"Well, it may sound odd, but I'm rather glad he did," he said, in spite of himself. In vino veritas, he thought, casting a glance at the Scotch.
She smiled at him. "So am I."
Her keen brown eyes were softer now, large and warm. He felt that warmth spread through him and tug the corners of his mouth into what he was sure was a hopelessly besotted grin.
"I'm Edith by the way," she said.
"Anthony."
She beamed in acknowledgement.
From there the talk passed to a comparison of their views on everything from literature to pizza toppings. Conversation flowed so easily between them, aided by a few healthy doses of Scotch, that they hardly noticed the growing dark. Once the thought occurred to Anthony that it was strange that Edith's friends didn't come looking for her; but he wasn't in the least sorry. Talking to Edith was like exploring a beautiful cave, with one cavern opening onto another even more magnificent than the last; and through each passage was another sparkling crystal drawing him further in.
The faint glow of a summer evening showed through the windows when she finally stood, rather unsteadily. His heart drooped, but he supposed he couldn't expect her to stay forever. The fact that she had been here this long was a welcome miracle.
"Um, where's your loo?" she asked ungracefully.
He felt his heart return to its apex, leaping with an inordinate amount of pleasure. She wasn't leaving.
He stood also, pointing the way down the hall to the loo, then made his way to the kitchen to rustle up something to eat. When she returned he was bent over, peering into the open fridge, reaching for a jar of olives.
He straightened, and caught her eyeing him appraisingly. He blushed, and she pursed her lips self-consciously and looked away. Had she been admiring his…er..behind? He had the impulse to reach behind and touch it, as if to ascertain that it was worth admiring. Like when someone complimented your tie and you then had to check to see which one you were wearing. A thoroughly unhelpful, no doubt Scotch-provoked voice nagged him. If for some reason she's actually attracted to you, then…
"I thought you might be hungry." He gestured resolutely to the assortment of foods on the counter before him.
She nodded appreciatively and crossed to examine the smorgasbord. "I've had far too much alcohol and not enough to eat."
"And I," he said, feeling his head swimming with delicious impossibilities, "have had even less."
He tried to train his mind on the snacks before him, but any hope of that was lost as she moved to reach for one of the empty plates stacked in front of him. His pulse quickened suddenly as her scent washed over him. Why he should find makeup and hair product and perfume filtered through sweat and whiskey attractive, he didn't know, but he suddenly found it the single most arousing smell he had ever experienced. Perhaps it was because the scent was buoyed by the warmth of her. She was closer now than she had been all evening; and he felt the heat from her body jumping like an electric current the few centimeters to his own skin, urging him towards her like a magnet. He became aware that while in the loo she had removed her torn and stained half-leggings, and the smooth skin emerging from the ruffled hem of her dress was even more delicious than he had imagined. The muscles in his hand tightened. What would it feel like, the Scotch coaxed, that smooth skin beneath his palm? How glorious would it be to reach down and trace the line of a slender thigh, to find his way beneath the floral cotton skirt, to cup the rounded flesh of her buttocks, to draw her to him, meeting her look of surprise with a breathtaking kiss…
What the hell was that? God, he was a pervert. Just because she was attractive and brilliant and an enthralling conversationalist didn't give him license to think of her like that. He was drunk, he reminded himself. And he'd imagined that look before. It was absurd to think that a young, vital woman like her would be attracted to a worn-out pathetic old fool like him.
Just then she looked up at him, proffering a jar of red-pepper jam, and he felt his newly formed resolve slip a little. God, she was fantastic.
"Can you open this? I can't get it."
XXX
It's the wrong song in the wrong style
Though your smile is lovely, it's the wrong smile
It's not her smile, but such a lovely smile
So it's all right with me
XXX
They returned to the living room, washing down their impromptu picnic with more Scotch and convivial conversation.
Food completed, the conversation reached an unusual lull. Anthony watched Edith, in full possession of his leather sofa, back nestled against one arm and her long, milk-peach legs stretching towards the other. She eyed him lazily, and he wished he could know what she was thinking.
And if only he knew. If only he could know that she was admiring his tall, angular frame, mentally caressing the long line of his jaw, craving the taste of the wide, agile lips, imagining the feel of those large, warm hands on her bare legs, and elsewhere… She bit her lip, but he couldn't know that it was because she was sizing him up every bit as animalistically as he had been her.
She cleared her throat and dropped her gaze to his antique Turkey carpet.
"Anthony, I'm sorry to have intruded on your night like this," she said, flatly.
"It's no intrusion, truly. I'm having a lovely time."
She raised her eyes to him once more, her gaze unmistakably sympathetic. "So am I," she said softly.
The tenderness in her voice expanded in his chest.
She continued, once again speaking to the stylized blossoms on his floor.
"Well, I feel I ought to tell you…I feel like a bit of a jerk…and you'll probably think it very….well I dunno, vulgar of me but…" she huffed resignedly. "I don't live in any of these apartments. Mine's around the block. But my friends have an apartment just across the way," she waved a hand at the window which framed the block party and a similar apartment building. "So I'm here a lot, hanging, studying."
Two fingers began to fiddle with the hem of her dress. Anthony tried not to let it distract him.
"Ok," he said, and waited for her to continue.
"So, I've seen you…around. Putting out the trash and coming home from work, and... Sometimes, at night when you sit in here with your laptop with the lights on and the window open…But I mean it's not like I was spying on you or anything, not being creepy just…I'd glance out the window and there you'd be, typing away…"
Several moments passed. He wasn't sure the reaction she required.
"Okay, well there's nothing wrong there, I mean, I'm the one who had the window wide open…"
"So, I was at the party tonight with the same friend, and when mister Olympic hackey sack acquainted me with the pavement, he dared me to knock on your door for help. I could have gone to his flat, it's not like he doesn't have bandaids." This last was said in self-reproof.
"Edith, you don't need to…"
"I just—wanted to meet you," she said shortly.
And he found he had nothing to say. But when she finally looked at him, he eased the mortification in her expression with the beatification in his.
"Well," he said at last. "I'd best get these dishes to the kitchen."
And he stood, scooping up his plate, with only a slight waver. She snatched hers before he could, and followed him to the kitchen.
She placed her plate next to his, and he thought how companionable it looked, as if the plates finally matched simply because one was hers and one was his. He shook his head. That was merely Scotch sentimentality. He really needed to calm down. But his heart thrummed hopefully. So am I.
She lingered, her hip pressing into the counter mere inches from his own. Her hand slid tentatively along the counter's edge and up over his knuckles. She stroked slowly, as if petting a feral cat she was wary of frightening. Tendrils of sensation spread from her fingertips along his arm and tingling into the base of his skull. Her body was closer now, radiant, and thrillingly alive, a symphony of shallow breaths and humming veins. The warmth of her filled the kitchen as if the oven were on full power, the walls closed in around them, and the only breathable air seemed to exist in the distance between their lips. He gasped a short searing breath and then her small, sweet lips closed over his mouth. And, oh they were delicious.
He responded unconsciously, hungrily, eagerly tasting kiss after kiss as if she were a rich dessert and he'd never eaten anything but plain bread. Her mouth was hot, insistent, and he obeyed its summons, wrapping his arms tight around her, pulling her slim, quivering body against his own. Her lissome fingers threaded into his hair, and her hips pressed forward against his. He growled and gave in to temptation, reaching to grasp the smooth, round bottom. She "mmmm'd" her assent and raised a knee, which upset her balance slightly, making them both wobble ungracefully. A mutual sigh sucked from them as they were forced apart by the unsteadiness.
She planted her feet again, panting and laughing a little.
"I'm not…I don't usually…" she insisted breathily.
How had he not thought her beautiful at first? She was glorious, with her hair tousled and her eyes glowing and her lips plump and wet from his kisses.
"Neither do I, I swear. I'm not really the lecher I seem at the moment."
"Lecher? How old are you?" It was a curious question, as if the thought hadn't occurred to her until now.
"Old enough to know that I shouldn't be doing this."
She seemed to consider this for a moment, then leaned up and kissed him again, a thoroughly luxurious kiss, as if she was savoring the taste of him, as if he was a treat to be devoured. And suddenly it was all he wanted to be, to be devoured by this bewitching young woman, and to do a little devouring himself, too.
He began by snaking his arms around her once more, clutching her small form against his broad chest, this time taking long, slow sips of the nectarous mouth, which tenderly yielded to his ministrations. The shadows of her jaw and the turn of her neck were equally delectable. She breathed fire against his earlobe, bending her neck into his lips, releasing flame in magnificent "huahhhh's" and deep gasps. He felt his flesh roar to life, crackling and spitting with white hot sensation.
A sharp, percussive crash broke into his consciousness. And then the flame sputtered in the current of cold air that rushed in between them.
"Oh no! I think I've broken a plate," she was saying, but lingering arousal rasped in her voice.
He blinked dumbly at the ceramic shards on his kitchen floor.
"Maybe we should just…" she suggested vaguely, taking a step towards the door.
XXX
It's the wrong game with the wrong chips
Though your lips are tempting, they're the wrong lips
They're not her lips, but they're such tempting lips…
XXX
They were sitting on the bed now, how had they gotten there? Anthony couldn't remember. He only knew she'd let him kiss her and keep kissing her. His desire for her, painfully obvious beneath his navy trousers, was frighteningly powerful. What was it about her that made him abandon all decency, that made him behave like such an animal? Certainly the Scotch had something to do with it. With a will he focused on situation rather than sensation.
Edith was leaning over undoing her sandals. He swallowed heavily, almost licked his lips. It was clear where this was heading, more than just exhilarating kisses, quite possibly earth-shattering sex. With a woman, a young woman, that he had met only hours ago.
So? People did this all the time. Just because he believed in a deeper connection before intercourse that didn't mean there was anything wrong with what some of his school chums had called "anonymous sex." After all, wasn't that what you were supposed to do when you'd just had your heart broken? Find solace at the bottom of a bottle and in the arms of a stranger?
She straightened, giving him a nervous smile. Then she moved towards him, her face shy and trusting, and at the same time confident and demanding. That dichotomy, he thought, was what made her so enthralling, the vulnerable uncertain girl and the defiant woman of the world, both in the same irresistible shell. She closed the distance between them, letting her nose caress his, her mouth hovering temptingly only millimeters from his own.
"Well, shall we?" she murmured, less a question than an invitation.
"Edith-I'm drunk," it burst from him with a bluntness that perfectly illustrated that fact.
She sat back, regarding him with a bemused expression.
"I think you are as well. This is probably really not the best time to be making this sort of decision."
"Anthony, do you want to have sex with me?" she said simply.
He nodded his head in the manner of a contrite schoolboy.
"Yes. I do. Though I'm certainly going to hell for it."
"I don't think so." She shook her head. "I want to be with you, and you want to be with me. I don't think there's anything wrong with that."
He looked sideways at her.
"I just hope you won't regret it in the morning."
"Somehow I don't think I will," she smiled wickedly, swiftly levering herself onto his lap, knees on either side of his thighs. If the fall on her knee had hurt her, she didn't seem to mind it now. Her deep brown eyes eyes darkened with desire and challenge. She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek, just by the corner of his mouth. The kiss, and the gratified sigh that accompanied it unabashedly articulated the pleasure she took in his body, the pleasure she greedily sought.
"Oh dear lord," he almost whimpered, turning to catch her mouth earnestly with his own, his last bastion of resistance smashed.
He forgot any pretense of decorum then, and gave himself over to sensation and instinct.
Her body gave unspoken commands and he obeyed, rising to meet her gently bucking hips, her thighs warm satin beneath his palms, her lips crushing into his, her hands tugging at his shirt. It took only seconds for her to wrest it from his shoulders, and then her hands were on him, fingers blissfully caressing, exploring. And then there were her lips.
His skin burst into flame once more and he heard a thoroughly graceless groan escape his lips. He brought his hands upwards, and she straightened, allowing him to push her sundress up over her shoulders. With another of those looks that was a mix of timid self-doubt and wanton seductress she reached behind and swiftly removed her bra.
The fire raced to his temples and the room spun. Through the glare of the conflagration he leaned forward, and took one soft breast into his mouth.
"Oohhh" she hummed pure pleasure. Her fingernails made small circles in his scalp. Again he complied, gluttonously coaxing one nipple, then another, into rigid points which scraped deliciously against the hypersensitive skin of his bare chest.
When he lifted his head her eyes met his, heavy-lidded and hazy with arousal.
Somewhat awkwardly he guided her onto her back, removed her underpants and then his own. At the sight of his exposed erection, she started.
"Oh, fuck! A condom!" she expelled coarsely.
He froze. He didn't have any condoms. He hadn't had a need for condom in…well at least a decade. Maud had been barren. His mind raced through the alternatives.
"Hmmm, I wonder if…." She twisted to edge of the bed and produced a straw handbag he hadn't noticed before. Had she had that the whole time? She began to rummage through it, then gave a triumphant cry and held up a small blue package.
"Thank god campus health drops these in our mailboxes every few weeks."
He took it, and feeling terribly self-conscious, put it on.
"Don't worry, it suits you," she said from the bed, trying to diffuse the awkwardness of the moment.
He gave a crooked grin. "You're too kind," he said dryly. "Now, let's get back to something more interesting."
He bent over her, trailing a line of achingly slow kisses from neck to navel, delighting in the gasps and shivers his touch engendered. Then he returned to her mouth, deep, slow, tantalizing kisses, which grew to fervent, forceful adoration, eliciting a deep moan from Edith. He moved above her, nudging her knees apart. Even through the condom, he could feel the wet heat pulsing against his tip, signaling her readiness. He took her mouth in a final unspoken appeal for approval which was heartily given.
"Shall we?" he repeated her words, his voice distorted by need.
She gave a wry smile.
He entered her, and they gasped together.
"Christ, that's—" he uttered involuntarily.
Adjusting her hips slightly to gather him deeper into her, she said, "I know."
It was as if they'd both tasted an exquisite dish and were corroborating their delight; as if, in spite of the electricity they'd been generating all evening, they were surprised at how good it felt to be together. Age be damned. There was no twenty-something and forty-something. There was only a woman and a man and what lay between them.
He gave a giddy chuckle and moved his hips to plunge into her again. Her body curled towards the point of their coupling, and she exhaled in a blissful "aaaah." Whether it was her husky exaltations or the feel of her, wet and warm and straining for him, that spurred him to repeat the action, gaining rhythm and speed, he neither knew nor cared. He only knew that his world had suddenly shrunk to the miraculous ecstasy of worshipping this woman, this glorious, tenacious, stunning, incomparable woman.
Then thought left him. His senses were flooded, by the harmony of their mingled grunts and guttural vowels; by the rush of frantic breath through his lungs, the urgent fingertips at his shoulder, the instinctive undulation of their hips, Edith meeting him thrust for thrust; by the almost unbearably wonderful pressure which tightened around his entire being, blinding him with blazing sensation, pressing the air from his lungs, a rapturous suffocation that constricted his very blood-and then the pressure released and he pitched forward into unfettered bliss. And his heart burst.
XXX
…but they're such tempting lips
That if some night you're free
Dear, it's all right
Yes, it's all right with me
XXX
Anthony smiled. There was a spill of copper blonde hair against his cheek, a slim gently curving spine fitted perfectly into his chest, and a petite bottom cushioned against his groin. His arm was draped across a warm torso which rose and fell in soft, puffing breaths. He curled it possessively, drawing the sleeping form even closer, inhaling the wonderful scent of her. He couldn't resist a kiss or two, nuzzling into the nape of her neck, bowing his mouth to her bare shoulder. He sighed, thinking how lucky he was to have such a woman in his arms, in his bed. He felt comforted, full, whole, happy. A lump hardened in his throat and his heart throbbed meaningfully.
She stirred, and he realized he was awake, that the glow he felt was not an inebriated dream. He really had spent a phenomenal evening with this young, vibrant woman.
And now it was morning.
Commanding all his willpower he withdrew his arm and slid quietly out of bed. When he returned from the bathroom she was dressed, sitting re-buckling her sandals in the same spot she had sat to unbuckle them hours before.
"Good morning," he said, as though she were a house guest, as though he hadn't been cradling her naked body just twenty minutes before. What was he supposed to say? It had been ages since he'd awakened with anyone, much less a relative stranger, in his bed. Should he ask her to leave? He didn't want her to leave. An intimate breakfast suggested itself. A part of him wouldn't've minded taking her back to bed for a repeat of the night's activities. But that part was buried under a thick layer of propriety, no longer bolstered by Scotch and the mystery of night. Such things took on a different presentation in daylight.
"Did you sleep well?"
She drew her thumb and forefinger together over her eyes. "I did, yes. But I'm afraid I have a terrible head this morning."
"Ah, I have just the thing for that."
He hurried from the room, digging through dinners for one and tinfoil bundled meat from his brother-in-law's farm to reach a small pile of narrow tubes of brightly colored frozen sugar water. He seized three, fished out his kitchen shears and snipped the tops and headed back to the bedroom.
Edith was sitting forward with her head in her hands, elbows on her knees. She looked up when he entered and gave a peaked smile in welcome.
"A freezie?" she said dubiously, taking the yellow tube he handed her.
"I don't know what it is about these things, but we used to swear by them when I was at university. Two of those and you'll be able to face the day."
"Two?" she bit slowly into the tip of the one she was holding. He proffered a blue one and himself crunched on the tip of the purple tube in his hand.
She ate hers slowly, but afterward she seemed to be feeling better.
As she was munching her second she felt well enough to follow him to the living room.
"I haven't had one of these in years," she said reminiscently as she lowered onto the sofa, sprawling into the lounging position she'd occupied all evening. "My granny always had some when we went to her house in the summer."
"You forget how good they are," he commented, folding his empty tube in half. "When you've finished that—"
The doorbell clanged loudly, interrupting his words. Interrupting whatever it was that he and Edith had begun. He couldn't help thinking of the person on the other side of the door as hostile, an unwelcome intruder.
"Good morning, sir. This may sound a bit out of sorts but—"
"Thomas?"
Anthony turned to find Edith at his elbow.
The young man's black brows raised, his gaze taking in Edith's rumpled dress, sheepish expression, and blue-stained lips. The high cheekbones redden slightly as he suppressed a smirk. The glint in his eyes made it clear what he thought of Anthony and the entire situation.
Under that gaze the sublime coupling of the night before now seemed like something of which to be ashamed, a dirty old man taking advantage of the drunk young woman on his doorstep. He swallowed, trying in vain to push against the tide of embarrassment that flooded through his veins, cold water on hot coals.
"Well, I um, guess I'd better go," Edith mumbled and shuffled around him towards the door.
"Thank you, Anthony. Uh, for the bandage…and…the freezie… It was nice to meet you."
She raised her hand, arm straight and sharp and formal. A handshake? As though last night had never happened. As though they hadn't chatted for three hours and laughed and… As if he hadn't kissed her. As if they hadn't tasted each other. As if she had arrived on his doorstep, gotten a bandaid and a popsicle and was going trot along home like a good little girl.
And perhaps that was all it had meant to her. A drunken blur that she had already forgotten. He was the one who was a lonely, withered, old sap. The one who'd taken a casual tryst and, without even realizing it, had turned it into something special, and to him at least, terribly significant.
He realized he was frowning at her hand, and took it, shaking it with no more than civil pressure under Thomas' critical eye.
Her face was drawn and uncomfortable, unrecognizable to the shining confident smile she'd shown him as she'd mounted him, daring him to act upon his desires. It hadn't seemed shameful then. But he hadn't been sober then either.
"Yes, it was lovely to meet you too." Lovely. It was far more than that.
She withdrew her hand, and turned.
"Drive safe," he said lamely as they descended his front steps.
As he closed the door he heard Thomas's voice.
"So, you slept with him?"
"Oh, shut up, Thomas," Edith's voice replied irritably.
And the door clunked shut.
Anthony went to the kitchen. He swept up the broken plate, tossed the empty Scotch bottle in the bin along with the counterfull of spoiled food and three sticky plastic tubes. He went to the bedroom and made the bed, took a shower. Lastly, he tucked the blue first aid box back into its place in the hall closet. All traces of Edith Crawley were gone.
Except that he couldn't settle on anything for the rest of the day and paced his apartment restlessly picking up books, then putting them down, flipping through channels on TV, and finally settling on giving his flat a thorough clean. With one exception. Usually cleaning house meant he'd change out his sheets. But he didn't.
The hours passed, he fixed himself a frozen dinner, and sat eating it while he checked his email, Anne's last message topping the list. Below it, their weeks of correspondence stretched towards the bottom of the screen. He would miss Anne, it was true. But somehow the severing of their relationship didn't seem as catastrophic today as it had yesterday. Not that he was any less alone. And now, he missed Edith.
How was that possible? He was being hopelessly melodramatic. Eighteen hours ago he hadn't even known she existed, and suddenly he was moping over her? This was absurd.
He went to bed early, but if he was hoping to leave Edith behind in sleep, he was sorely mistaken. His dreams recalled in detail smiling brown eyes, whispered sighs, and warm flesh against his own. He dreamed about Edith each night that week, carnal animations intertwined with simple scenes of talking with Edith, laughing with Edith, dining with Edith, simply being with Edith. And no matter how often he told himself to grow up, to stop thinking about her, to get on with his life and file that night away as a pleasant experience not to be repeated, his longing for her persisted.
XXXXX
Anthony stood in front of a slightly battered black door. He strained foolishly and peered at the peephole as if he could see something on the other side of it. He shifted impatiently, his fingers squeaking against the cellophaned tulips in his hand.
Maybe she wasn't in. Maybe he should just go. This was mad. She'd probably be mortified to see him. She was clearly embarrassed about what had happened, why else would she have been upset when Thomas had asked about it? She wasn't a drunk university student on a dare now, she was a practical, young woman, and there was no reason she'd want to spend any more time with a pathetic old codger like him.
But he remembered the way she'd blushed when she'd admitted that she'd wanted to meet him. And the way she had kissed him, she had kissed him. And before that—she'd sat on his couch for hours, just talking to him. If she could do that, then maybe…. He reached up and pressed the doorbell a second time.
"Coming!" a female voice hollered on the other side of the door and footsteps clomped on stairs.
The door schicked open, but it wasn't Edith standing there. The young woman who regarded him had straight blonde hair, a comparatively broad nose, and was significantly shorter than Edith. She was wearing jogging shorts and a t-shirt, and as she waited for his explanation her hands skillfully bundled her hair into a serviceable bun.
"Can I help you?"
Anthony felt the temptation to leave strengthen.
"Uh…yes… Does Edith Crawley live here?"
"Ahhh," her eyes narrowed and her lips curled into a knowing smile. "Wait there, I'll fetch her."
She turned on her heel and disappeared up a staircase that opened off of the entryway.
Several eternal minutes passed. Through the open door he could hear muffled voices, and then hasty footsteps pounded on the floor above. It sounded like they were moving away from where he stood, further into the flat. He felt uncertainty twist in his stomach. She was angry, she didn't want to see him.
And then the petite blonde returned, and behind her was Edith. Her legs appeared first, clad in dark jeans, a familiar pair of wedge sandals carefully negotiating the steep stairs. A peach blouse floated around her torso, a gold necklace glimmered on her chest, and matching earrings danced in her ears. Eyeliner rimmed her deep brown eyes and pink gloss painted her lovely lips. He felt his mouth go dry at the sight of her.
"Well, I'm off for a run," the shorter girl said loudly, and Anthony forced his eyes to her face. She seemed plain by compassion, though she wore no makeup.
"Thank you," he mumbled.
She grinned broadly and gave him a wink.
"Okay, Anna, see you later," Edith said pointedly, and her roommate squirmed past them and away.
Edith watched her jog away for a few minutes then turned her attention to him.
Under her gaze, he felt a wide smile spread across his face. She smiled too, and it glittered enchantingly in her eyes.
"Hello," he said, sounding like a lovesick schoolboy. "These are for you."
He handed her the flowers.
"Thank you."
She took them, then waited expectantly.
"I'm sorry for just showing up at your door like this…" he ran a hand absently through his hair. "I just wanted to—to apologize if I offended you with my abominable conduct the other night. I should never have…" he fixed her with a sincere stare. "But I have to tell you that I can't stop thinking about that night and how wonderful it felt to be with you." His voice emerged slightly breathless, his heart in his throat.
"And I know it is mad, but I was wondering if maybe you wanted to….to start over….to do this properly… have dinner with me."
He paused. When she didn't answer right away he continued, hurriedly.
"I don't just mean the sex. Which of course was great but—"
"Yes. I would like that. Thank you."
He stopped, looking warily at her.
"Are you sure?"
She gave a good-natured snort. "Yes. I'm sure. Why shouldn't I have dinner with you?"
He shrugged, feeling the convivial atmosphere of that evening settle between them.
"I wasn't sure if you'd…" he trailed off. "I mean, I'm…"
She turned to place the bouquet on the stairs, pulled the door closed and came to hook her arm around his.
"You know, Anthony, if you're having trouble finding something to say I can always grab my Complete Works," she said lightly.
How wonderful to hear his name spring to her lips in such a familiar tone.
He laughed, placing his hand over hers where it lay against his forearm.
"That will not be necessary, I assure you. Shall we?"
And with that they set off down the street, arm in arm.
XXXXX
