The Sandra Texts
The season of lovemaking fell hard upon. Joshua and Katherine moved apace into that feast of Eros. Without inhibition, they moved into it, without hesitation. Love and passion so permeated their joinings that the outlines of the objects surrounding them romantically blurred; that the light about them was only balmy and soft and flattering; that a box fan even, or just its purring of the summer air, became melody, a heart's pulse, a warm loose embrace. Carnal were these days, but also holy.
Young trim bodies intertwined, denuded.
Sweating--colliding--then a cooling apart.
The Russian language lab only took students during the academic year. Katherine, consequently, spent just a few hours a day working. The campus newspaper published just twice a week during the summer. Joshua, consequently, was imminently free.
"Close the door."
"I like the sunlight on you."
"Just kiss me."
And she did.
"Class is out at ten. I'll be done at the paper by noon. Wanna meet for lunch?" And his throat thickened at the wicked cock of her smile.
They would swim, bask in the sun at the university pool, then hurry home, hand in hand, for love and a cool shower. Long nights would begin at 4 p.m. and not end until there was a cool bite to the 1 a.m. air and they were happily warming themselves against one another's torsos.
"What if I got pregnant?"
"I would be its father."
Her eyes burned.
"You know what I would do with a million dollars?"
"Buy you a long trip through Russia. A house. Put it all in your name. Give it all to you. Everything. I'd give you the world."
Then, in the dead of the night, comes an old boyfriend inebriatedly knocking. And Katherine rises, shoos away the interloper, returns to Joshua, embracing him fiercely. Rich had been his name. She had told Rich Joshua was here. She had told Rich to leave.
Another old boyfriend then, fresh from a year in Moscow: Conquerer, says his mien and manner. But he finds our hero shirtless on Katherine's sofa, reading Rybakov, in full possession of her heart. Mystified, says his mien and manner. How had the long-hair managed it? Incredulous, he stands.
And always, after meals with French names, long slow lovemakings, or baths together by candlelight, or conversations that did not exist for the words that were made meaningless by the passions that were inexpressible.
In the bed.
On the couch.
In the chair.
On the carpet.
In the shower.
And never just sex. Always with meaning. Always with love.
A balmy, unreal, unfocused interlude that could not continue, that someday had to end, but which seemed, while it lasted, separate from time and reality. She would never stop holding his hand. He would never stop lying in her arms. There was nothing aside from their kissing, from their coos. There was no sound aside from her voice. No shape aside from his phallus. No air aside from their bated breaths. No world outside their summer. No time beyond their season.