The Groaning Board

there on the sofa with his feet on the coffee table, having her amuse
him.
    Pas de basque.
    She recognized it as a mating dance.
She wanted to say, I want you to help me. I want you as much as you want me. She couldn’t. She said, “Oh, sure. Now you’re going to join the crowd and tell
me what a great lover you are.”
    A delicate flush tinted his cheeks.
“Tell you? I wouldn’t dream of it, Leslie.”
    He was just sitting there, not
moving, watching her. She wanted to feel his hand on her waist again, his thigh
tight against hers. It was a dull ache like a hunger. “Bill...” Her voice came
out in a croak. She tried again. “Bill, I’ve been with only two men in the last
seven years. How many women have you been with?”
    “I have condoms.”
    “Condoms are for one-night stands.”
    “You want me to take a blood test.”
He was very solemn. She’d offended him.
    “I will too.”
    Battement tendu.
    He got up. “Don’t go away.” He left
the room.
    Leave now, she told herself. There’s
still time. But he was back, taking a folded piece of paper from his billfold.
He handed it to her. Dropping her eyes to read it, she saw with horror, her
pushed-up bosom trembling. “You’re very sure of yourself, Bill Veeder.” She
returned the paper to him. “You did this two weeks ago? Do you think you know
me? Everyone else I know does.”
    “Leslie, I don’t think I know you at
all.” She stood very still as he removed her jacket, dropped it on the sofa. He
took her face in his hands and kissed her forehead, her eyelids, the sides of
her mouth, her throat. Soft, gentle lips for such a tough person. Someone
moaned. She wrapped her arms around him, hooking her thumbs in his belt. When
his lips found her mouth, she was clinging to him.
    Arabesque.
    He stopped and held her away from
him, dislodging her thumbs, a look of astonishment on his face. “I love you,
Leslie Wetzon,” he said. He knew just where to find the catch on the Wonderbra.
    “Oh, God,” she said, reaching for
him. She wanted to feel the skin beneath his shirt. It was torture not to
touch.
    He was smiling at her, keeping her at
a distance. “Leslie, I don’t want a passive partner. Are we together here? Say
it.“
    “Yes. Yes.”
    Pas de bourrée.
    “I’ve wanted to do this since the
first time I met you.” He turned her around and pulled her to him, kissed the
nape of her neck, behind her ears. His fingers touched her topknot. He began
taking the hairpins out one at a time.
    Her topknot paused for a brief
pristine moment, stirred, then coursed down to meet him.
    Grand jeté.
     
    Sunlight woke her, slats making
stripes across the bedding, across her arms and shoulders. Sunlight and the
sound of voices. One voice. The radio? She stretched and rolled over; her body
felt rich, as if she’d danced all night, hair loosened, wild in her face. The
sheets were silky on her bare skin. Izz? She patted the bed.
    Holy shit! Her eyes flew open. Where
was she? The bruised patches on her knees twinged. She snapped up like a rubber
band released. My God, she’d slept with Bill Veeder. And...
    He was talking on the phone. She
eased out of bed and listened at the door. He said, “Yeah, Silvestri...” Then:
“Thought so...” Was Bill going back on his promise? She had to believe he
wouldn’t—
    She flew back to bed and pulled the
sheet over her head. The door opened, but his footsteps were muffled by the
carpet. The side of the bed dipped under his weight.
    “I know you’re awake,” he said.
“Let’s have a look at you the morning after.”
    She rolled back the sheet so that
just her eyes and nose appeared. He wore running shorts and a tee shirt. Lean
body. Strong arms. She knew all that. Runner’s legs, scant of hair. Her arm
moved out from under the sheet. She ran her hand down his thigh. “Encore,” she
said.
     
    The shower had a massaging head. It
was just what she needed. She could smell the sex all over her... like a musk.
She washed her hair. He’d have a hair dryer, but she had very little makeup
with her. Some eye shadow, powder, and mascara. No foundation. No moisturizer.
Well, then, she thought, warts and all. Warts and all. Smelling musky.
    And no clean underwear.
    After he left for his run in the
park, she’d called her super and asked if his son could feed and walk Izz. No
problem. Poor Izz. No Wetzon. No Silvestri.
    The bathroom was elegant, Hollywood
quality, this side of flashy. Marble floors and washstand. A