--Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
"The Waste Land"
[Section I: The Burial of the Dead]
T.S. Eliot
Beverly adjusted the jalousie on the living-room window in order to view Carl. Among his blond strands stood some conspicuous grays. The gray hairs were coarser, sturdier than the blond wisps that had carried him through his fifty years. He swept his callused hand through his locks and settled into his wicker chair.
"Carl, do you want something to drink?"
Carl waited for Beverly to come to the porch door, then shook his head. Beverly, dressed only in her underwear, walked out onto the porch and sat at his feet. The cold wooden planks touched her thighs and caused her shoulders to shiver.
"Night's creeping up on us," she said.
"I've got to go home."
"Stay, Carl, please. I'll make bouillabaisse and fresh garlic bread."
Carl shook his head. She knew he could see the river peeking out from behind the trees. His rowboat would be by the bank of the river. If he started rowing upstream now, he would be home before dark. He rubbed his hands together, then stretched his arms out wide. As he brought his hands down to his knees to rise, Beverly grabbed one hand.
"Do you love me?" she asked.
He looked at her without expression. With his free hand he reached into the pocket of his white trousers and pulled out a piece of paper. It was folded into a small square. Uninvited, she took the paper from his hand and unfolded it. There was her body, sketched out in pencil: her long legs, the slightly domed tummy with the pubic hair rising almost to her navel, the funnel-like breasts peaking in dark swirls, and the slender nape reaching up behind the earlobes. But it was the perfection of the facial features that gave her the confidence to smile up at him. He stood.
"Tomorrow?" she asked.
Carl shrugged and moved down the steps to the gravel path. She waved, but he never turned to see it. He probably would listen to some Mahler, she thought, finish the Nietzsche book that they had discussed earlier that day, and have a light supper.
Most of the next day Beverly pecked at letters on her computer keyboard, forming words that ran into sentences. The drawing lay to the right of the keyboard. She was sorry she hadn't asked him to sign it, "Love, Carl." Maybe tonight.
Beverly had dinner late that night. She didn't know whether to make it for one or two. Eventually she put single portions on the stove. At bedtime she plumped up some pillows along his side of the bed and threw her left leg across the bottom pillow.
The pillow was still buried between her thighs when she felt a hand slide up her buttocks. She looked at the clock. Seven a.m. The hand felt rough against her. It coursed over her flesh like sandpaper levelling a rough board. His full lips touched her shoulder blades. Then she felt the hair of his chest rest softly against her back. She could feel her wetness spreading across the pillowcase as her pelvis pushed into it.