He stopped behind my back and lowered his hands to my shoulders; he did not hold my shoulders but simply let the weight of his hands rest on them; I felt not the slightest tension in his muscles, no body weight was communicated through his hands, which made the gesture rather friendly but guarded, too.
I leaned back and looked up at him; that palm-size area on my skull that so enjoys the caressing softness of another's hand — a spot not sufficiently appreciated for its sensitivity — was touching his belly; he looked down at me, smiling.
What's going to happen to us? I asked.
Now he did grip my shoulders just a little, squeezing some of his strength into me; Nothing, he said.
Just enough strength to take the edge off the meaning of that word.
This area of the skull with its peculiar nature is called the fontanel in an infant, and even after the bones fuse and harden, the spot continues to respond to stimuli as sensitively as if it were still a piece of throbbing purple-veined tissue, in some respects even more sensitively than our sense organs, because it seems to specialize in reacting exclusively to either friendly or hostile stimuli, perceiving them with unerring accuracy; I wanted to be aware of, wanted to feel, this area of my skull, and I pressed the spot against his stomach with the same force with which he was grasping my shoulders.
Articulating his words carefully, he said I had to understand, and I certainly mustn't misunderstand, that it was no accident, could not be construed an accident, that until now I'd kept my thoughts to myself about what we mentioned earlier; but he wouldn't want to tell me how to lead my life, wasn't taking back what he'd said before, either, which would be silly; he wouldn't want to influence me in any way.
Looking up at him I laughed, and said I had to laugh, because if he really meant that, then he should have behaved differently from the beginning.
The smile moved from the corner of his eyes back to his mouth; for a while he stared into my eyes, then, across the back of the chair, he pressed me to himself.
It was too late, he said.
For what? I asked.
Just too late, he repeated, his voice deeper.
The position of our bodies, with him looking at me from above and with me looking up at him, as the fragrance of his voice reached me with his every word, seemed to give him more security.
What did he mean, I asked, he had to tell me.
He couldn't tell me.
His white shirt was open to the waist, the gentle warmth his skin exhaled on me was like a memento, its odor containing at least as many meaningful particles as a word or an intonation, a gesture or a glance, except, unlike sight or hearing, smell works in our minds with more insidious and mysterious signals.
He didn't want to tell me, I said.
That's right, he didn't.
Very gently, I peeled his arms away, but now he leaned closer, gripping the armrest of the chair, so the wings of his unbuttoned shirt touched and enclosed my face; in this position our faces came very close, although I would have wanted not his body to speak but his mouth, for him to say not with his body but with his mouth the opposite of what his mouth would have said and what he couldn't say with words.
And so as not to comply with this impossible demand, he kissed my mouth, angrily almost, and I let him, couldn't do otherwise, and in the soft warmth of his lips, under their hard little grooves, my lips did not move.
I should go on with my work, he told me, and he'd have to finish his, the meaning of his kiss now matching that of his words earlier, both intended as a conclusion.
He wouldn't get away so easily, I said as he was about to walk away, and held on to his hand.
It's no good insisting, he said, much as he would like to tell me, and I must understand that he really did, he couldn't help himself, didn't want to know what the next moment would be like, didn't want to know, wasn't interested, that's the way he was, it would make him sick if we started talking seriously about this, and what did I want from him? should we chat about rearranging the apartment? or should we, now there's an idea, go to City Hall and declare our serious intentions? we'd be a great hit with that! perhaps we should plan for a nice little future together? let this be enough, what we had, why wasn't it enough for me that he was happy, all the time I was with him he was happy? he'd say it, if I wanted to hear it, but that's all there was, he couldn't do more, and I shouldn't spoil things.
All right, but he had wanted more before, he'd wanted something else; he talked differently, not like this, why was he taking it back now?
He wasn't taking back anything, that was only my hangup.
I told him he was a coward.
Maybe, maybe he was.
Because he never loved anybody and nobody ever loved him.
Talking like that wasn't exactly attractive.
I couldn't live without him.
With him, without him — these were idiotic phrases, but what he was telling me just a few minutes ago was that he couldn't either.
Then what did he want?
Nothing.
He pulled out his hand from under mine, a movement that perfectly matched his last word; he walked away, to return to what may have been the only secure spot left for him in this room, his typewriter, back to the task that he'd set for himself and that he had to complete, but in the middle of the room he stopped, under the slanting sunbeam, his back to me, and now he, too, looked out the window, up at the sky, as if enjoying the warmth of the light, basking in it, and through the white shirt I could see the outlines of his slender body, whose fragrance was still with me.
And in that fragrance was the memory of the night before, and in that memory all the morning-after recollections of all previous nights.
And in the night, the glimmering darkness of the bedroom, and in the darkness the luminous spots of closed eyes, and in the flashing, flickering patches of light the smell of the coverlet, the sheets, the pillows, and in them, too, signs of what had gone on before: the chill of the room being aired, and in the hot, dry clouds of foaming detergent and steaming iron, his mother's hand.
And under the covers our bodies, and in our bodies our desire for each other, and in the afterglow of sated desire our sprawled bodies on the crumpled bedding, the skin, the vapor of the skin pores, and in the pores the moisture of secretions, the cooling perspiration settling in body hair, the pungent sweat in curves and bends, the smell of vehicles, offices, and restaurants trapped in the tangled strands of wet hair, and in the accumulated smells of the city the sea-salt taste of odorless semen, the bitter taste of tobacco in sweet saliva, food dissolving in saliva in the warm cave of the mouth; decaying teeth, and scraps of meat, fruit skins, and toothpaste stuck between the teeth, and from the depth of the stomach, alcohol reverting to yeast, the cooling fervor of the body in the solitude of sleep, and the fluids of dreams' indefinable excitements, the cool awakening, bracing water, soap, mint-scented shaving cream, and, in yesterday's shirt flung on the back of the chair, the day that's just past.