“Wherever he pleased. What did he have to be scared of?”
Megi leaned over the dark desk; there were a few dents in the wood. The shadow of swelling veins slowly appeared on her hands.
“No,” said Jonathan. “I don’t want old furniture in my home.”
Megi tore her eyes and her fingers away from the texture of the surface. Tomaszek’s squeals as Antosia tickled him came from another part of the shop.
“Why not?”
“I’ve already told you.” He looked around because a thud had reached him from the corner where the children were. “Buying antiques is for the senile. Look around, who comes here to buy anything? Nobody but old fogies.”
“Who, please God, don’t speak Polish.”
“It’s a different matter if the piece of furniture’s been in the family for years. But I don’t intend to bring home something I know nothing about.”
“Don’t you think it’s mysterious?”
“About as mysterious as second-hand underwear.”
The search for desks had already taken them two weekends. Jonathan was annoyed, not so much by the antiques to which Megi persisted in returning as by having to drive around instead of resting. A side effect of moving was the need to throw away old things and buy new ones, just as one of the consequences of having children was constantly having to provide them with something new because they kept growing out of their old things. Jonathan was ground down by the cogs of small necessities.
“Let’s go to IKEA then,” sighed Megi, settling in the front seat of their car.
“And didn’t I say so from the start?” muttered Jonathan, at the last moment pulling out a half-empty carton of juice from beneath him.
The aisle in IKEA led them relentlessly through areas packed with wardrobes, beds, chairs, picture frames, while the children managed to find ways of disappearing in one place and leaping out from another. Megi, in the meantime, filled the yellow and blue bag at an alarming rate with what, in Jonathan’s opinion, were unnecessary objects.
“You said you didn’t want any Swedish artificial egalitarianism at home.” He ruffled his hair as she threw a bathroom rug into the bag.
“Jonathan, those old rags on our floor…” she retorted, assessing the shade of the towels stacked nearby.
He turned so as not to look at this when he heard someone calling him. Kitty stood by a shelf of vegetable graters and next to her were a stout man and a chubby child in a buggy.
“We’re looking for a high chair for Emma.” Kitty indicated the little girl who raised her eyes and studied Jonathan intently.
Unknowingly, he answered the child’s gaze with a smile. Little Antosia had stared like that when she was a baby. “Studying objects,” he and Megi used to call it, admiring how she turned a building brick or spoon in her hands – a miniature scientist.
“And we’re looking for desks for the children.” He waved toward Tomaszek, who was swinging on some curtains. Antosia was not in sight, hiding behind bales of material no doubt.
“Let me introduce you,” he turned to Kitty as Megi approached. “This is my wife. And this is Kitty who comes to my writing course.”
“My wife,” he repeated, introducing her to Kitty’s partner.
Once they’d parted ways, Megi forged ahead without a word.
“Megi,” he called, seeing a desk he thought might be suitable for Antosia. “Wait!”
She turned with a long face.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“I began to think you might have forgotten my name.”
He pulled himself up, looking at her helplessly.
“‘This is my wife,’ ‘my wife,’” she continued, mimicking him. “Have you forgotten what I’m called? I’m Megi!”
She cheered up only once they’d decided on two small desks and were headed to the check-out. On the way, she stopped at the mirror department; he walked up to her and put his arms around her, stroking her hair.
“Well,” he murmured. “That’s out of the way. We coped. As always.”
He looked at her face reflected in the mirror, then took in everything, the two of them, the furniture shop.
“Yes, as always.”
He ran his hand over her cheek, turned, and called the children. He kept calling them even though they’d heard him a long time ago. He called to deafen the thought that had jabbed at him unexpectedly as he gazed into the mirror. Even when you’re old, I’ll love you, he’d thought. Even when you’re old, Andrea.
They circle each other on the pretext of talking; the air sparkles with tension. He comes up to her, pulls up her skirt and caresses her naked butt. His cock presses against his trousers; he swiftly sets it free with his other hand and rubs it against her buttocks. She turns her head and searches for his lips – there they are, the hungry cavern with sharp teeth tears at her lip. She turns and adheres to him with her whole body, slips off her skirt, shakes off her shoes and stands before him in her stockings and summer top.
They move away from each other and, feigning cool, go to the bedroom. Beside the bed, she unbuttons his shirt and licks his chest; he impatiently throws off his trousers, slips off his boxer shorts. He forgets that the socks should go first, then pulls them off, holding on to her hand like a blind man. He kneels in front of the triangle of hair, catches her labia in his lips, slips his tongue beneath them and licks the hollows. He is in her groin, smoothes her clitoris, teases her pussy with his tip.
Juices run from her when he grabs the muscles of her thighs. He strokes them gently; they shake beneath his fingers. He sits her on the edge of the bed and with one hand on her hips, parts her thighs with the other. He licks her there, listening to her sighs; her smooth thighs tug at his ears.
She lies on her back; shudders run through her body; she tingles right down to her toes. She tells him this but the words become incomprehensible; the explosion of orgasm leaves her wordless for a few seconds. He licks her belly, sides, breasts; gathers all of her, submissive and hot, and lies on her. Nothing separates them, except his cock between their naked bellies.
She pushes him on his back and wraps her thighs around his hips; the tip of his penis jabs her groin. “Sit, sit!” he begs her while she lowers herself with teasing slowness, her hair hiding her wide-open eyes and falling over her lips. She rocks rhythmically until the muscles in his stomach grow tense. He has to get out of her, cool off a bit.
He enters her again, smoothly, from the back, he draws the shape of her butt with his fingers, harder and harder. “I mustn’t have any marks,” she pleads breathlessly, and lies on her side while he, behind her, enters and pulls out, a sweating automaton. He turns on his back and scoops up her butt; she sits on him backward; her gently muscular back arches beneath his fingers. He slides his hands down to her hips and leads them up and down, spears her so her head sways, her face turns to the ceiling – until her groan bounces off him.
He pulls her damp body on top of him, turns her lips to his lips and slips into her from beneath; slowly he pushes his tongue into her mouth. The head of his cock, hard as stone, rubs against her inner lining; and finally shudders convulsively. As he injects his charge of sperm into her, Andrea bites his lips. They bleed, but Jonathan doesn’t feel it.
8
WHEN HE RETURNED from Poland after Christmas, Jonathan understood why people in the north didn’t know how to flirt while those in the south seemed constantly aroused. The secret lay in the amount of clothing. As soon as he left the plane in Brussels, although busy gathering the children and suitcases, and finding a taxi, his eyes veered toward several girls; he did what he hadn’t done for a long time – he undressed them with his eyes.