“I really am very sorry for my late arrival,” he repeated, following her into her studio.
“Don’t fret, Vincent, I really don’t mind. However, I must say, I didn’t put this costume on this morning for my own benefit,” she responded nonchalantly, immersing herself in a drawing. Vincent was pleased; she had expected him and had dressed accordingly; he saw the time approaching when it would be his turn to control the situation and he would have her completely. He looked at her as she worked, an ophelimitic quality to her profile, her hair in two pigtails, matching the innocence of her clothing, long white stockings, little brown penny-loafers, the entire assortment for him. Vincent grew weary, although it was he who asked for her to dress in such a way, it suddenly seemed like another way for her to control him. He already found himself staring at her naked thighs, he had already found himself imagining her disheveled, her shirt torn open, one stocking on and one off, her little plaid skirt lifted over her waist, her hair partially torn from its perfect order. Elisa’s body was Vincent’s labefaction, he knew it, but couldn’t help himself.
“What are you working on?” he finally asked, trying to begin a conversation.
“You know me, Vincent, my clothes are designed not so much to make a girl look good as to make men look good.” Conversation did not go very easily between them, for she never responded honestly and Vincent was never sure exactly what she meant, whether she was making a joke or serious and whether it was at his expense.
Elisa had her back turned to him, standing at her drafting table, slightly bent over it, absorbed in her drawing as if he wasn’t even there. Vincent was growing restless; he tried not to look at her but he couldn’t help himself; he enjoyed it altogether too much. Her short plaid skirt ended just at the beginning of her legs and he could see the faint shadows of the slopes of her posterior. He wanted desperately to drop his pants and take her as she stood, but this was as she wanted. He needed to control the circumstances. She shifted her weight and stood with her legs further apart, arching her back over the table.
“Feeling a bit thorny today?” she finally asked, breaking the silence. Vincent was pleased with himself; she had addressed him first. She cocked her head slightly and turned slightly back towards him, raising her eyebrows and indicating to him with her eyes her exposed skin.
“What do you mean by that?” he asked, wetting his lips uncomfortably.
“I hope you weren’t just lost in thought, my dear, you’d be a stranger in a strange land.”
“No.”
“You poor man, I don’t mean to be rude, you’re unarmed and I’m trying to engage you in a little battle of wits.”
“I know I’m no Greene, Elisa. However, I’m no idiot, that I assure you. I don’t see why you feel the need to be so combative all the time.”
“Are you trying to have a conversation with me? I apologize, I hadn’t realized.”
“Do you want me to go? Are you angry with me for being late?” Vincent offered, hoping that this was the case and that she’d confess to it, that she’d give him some indication of her feelings for him. He was very anxious to pretend that he didn’t mind her urticant words, but he was seized with a feeling of inferiority. He had an urgent desire for her to be near him and the temptation to contrectate her was growing irresistible.
“We’ve settled that, I don’t mind you’re a whimling of sorts. I just don’t see why you want to focus on it by talking to me. We both know why you’re here, I dressed accordingly, so let’s not bother with the formalities.”
“Elisa, I’m not just interested in you sexually, I adore you.”
She had no mercy for him. He looked at her legs and she grabbed the edge of her skirt with two fingers and raised it slowly. He watched carefully despite what he had said. She had a coy smile on her face, as if she was taunting him and he wanted to smack her as hard as he could. At the same time, he wanted to embrace her and for her to weep in his arms.
Captain Vincent told himself that Elisa had to have emotions and sensibilities like everyone else, that he only needed to comfort her, to awaken them within her and that then, she would return his feelings. It was simply a question of watching for the opportunity, allowing her to maintain her control, wearing her down with small conquests, taking advantage of the physical attention, which she seemed to want solely, making himself a stable figure that she would come to depend upon.
As their relationship continued, he began to talk to her of a fictitious future life together, and she never objected. He poured into Elisa’s ears a story of stability, of family, and of progress. He never responded to her barbs, her criticisms of his prejudices, but sought to combat them by pure force of will, forcing upon her his vision, to make it her own. He never let himself be disturbed by her personal attacks, nor irritated by her indifference to his dream. By sheer effort Vincent made himself her willing whipping boy; he never complained of her cruelty, or her different habits and lifestyle. When she asked him about his life, he lied, when he asked her about her life, she responded in kind. Vincent never let her see that she hurt him or that he was desperate for her. He understood that his passion had given her the upper hand, and he took great care to appear as though he was not just interested in her for her sexuality. He never refused her, but he made sure to continue to hold her afterwards (even though she seemed to not see the purpose in it), and he did all he could to keep their sexual relations conventional, even though she was a willing participant in any fantasy and implored him on several occasions to explore his more deviant desires.
Neither of them ever mentioned Vincent’s slow change, although they were both conscious of it, he believed, quite vividly, that it was affecting her nevertheless: she appeared to become more confidential with him and more reliant on his presence. She would talk to him without cruelty and, once or twice, even appeared to gaze into his eyes with a loving look. Vincent was pleased with himself, although he couldn’t harness his own passion, he could contort it and seem less of a sexual tyrant. He knew he was the opposite of her former lover, and he believed that she appreciated him for it. No one, not even her with her foul mouth and deprecating attitude, would prefer violent paizogony, not when they had a gentle, careful, and serious partner.
“I like you when you want to make love to me,” she told him once, while they were waiting for seats at the theatre.
“I’m so pleased,” he replied.
“I don’t mind so much all of this foreplay, the nice dinners, the theatre tickets, the walks in the park, and all of these annoying acts, but I’d much rather we just spent our time in bed.”
She didn’t realize how her words, seemingly so benign, set back his plans nor how difficult it was for him to reply so nonchalantly. He had been fighting a battle against his desire for months, trying to seem to her a true and kind suitor, a serious man who very much loved her. To hear her say all she wanted him for was sex, it destroyed any notion of progress he thought he was making with her. Vincent didn’t know what else he could possibly do. Perhaps, she should be rebranded, perhaps it would help her out of her moral quagmire, perhaps it was truly the best thing for her. She was obviously of questionable moral fiber, she may never change, all his work and she was still only with him for her own purposes. The seeming headway he had made reduced to physical contact, she was still working against him, still seeking information from him. She was not with him by choice, this was her job, just as his was to watch her. He was silent.