I went out into the hallway. The music came not from the living room but from Gwen's bedroom. I stood in the hall wondering if I should just stretch out on the long Chesterfield sofa so in the morning Gwen would see that I had not favored one over the other but had kept to myself. I took a step toward the kitchen thinking this was just another awkward situation that I was so prone to fall into. I am not a practical person. I seldom use cold hard logic to reach a decision. I get into an emotional state and build a rickety plan to bring about a gratification, the fulfilling of a need that is too often a desperate whim.
I turned back to Gwen's bedroom door. She had put the music on to drown out the noise of burdened bed springs and primal sounds. I couldn't just ignore her. Indicate to a woman that you, a man, don't want to sleep with her and you have committed the unforgivable sin. Get her okay to restrain yourself and all will be well, for this one time anyway. But that was only part of it. Now that I felt there was a real attachment between Moira and I, however fragile it might be, I did not want to encourage Gwen. Then, maybe this was not a problem after all. Maybe she was genuinely fond of her new suitor. This would be my out. This would be what we could talk about, a chance for me to ease myself out of the picture. And yet my talk with her in the kitchen seemed to confirm Moira's conviction that she, Gwen, had a sincere desire for neither Kenny nor his opportunistic brother, but rather for me. A poor choice. A choice as void of logic as my own choices often were.
There was one sure way of finding out. I knocked on the door.
The music volume was lowered to a whisper. I heard chair legs scrape the floorboards. Very slowly the door opened, just enough to show her face. Her smile was utterly neutral. "Yes?"
"Can we talk?" And I realized too late that I had switched the awkwardness from me to her. Should she invite me into her bedroom or should she suggest the living room or dining table? I thought of a solution and said, "Moira wants more ham and cornbread. She'll be in the kitchen. Can we talk here?" I nodded at the dimly lit room behind her.
Her smile became almost gleefully conspiratorial. She swung the door wide, and turning her back to me she went to a console across from the bed and pushed a button. The music was silenced. "We'll talk real quiet," she said as I closed the door.
She was wearing a bathrobe and slippers. I could see, even in the faint glow of a nightstand lamp, that she wore make-up and had brushed her hair smooth and sleek. She gave off a scent designed to make you think of Paris and walks along the Seine. The smile was now meant as a challenge. She was a woman and I was a man in her bedroom, and what about it?
Well, she had me sit in the armchair by the nightstand. On the floor near my feet was a small scattering of books and magazines. On the stand was a bottle of Jim Beam. She got a second jigger from her dresser that she said was last used by Larry, and poured herself and me a shot of whiskey. I said, "You mean Kenny's brother."
"I figured she'd tell you. Here's to all the Roadents and their wandering ways." So we drank to the two-wheeler tramps and she sat on the edge of the bed with her face turned away from the light. "Of course I want you to stay here with me all night but I don't want you to feel you owe me anything. You don't owe me a thing. Larry's sober and a hard worker. I'm not complaining. He's a family man. I'm glad I had Kenny 'cause I'd have never met Larry otherwise. Things work out for the best. I've always believed that." She looked at me full in the light. "It'll work out for the girl, too. You or someone else, down the road. Always wanted to take a road and just keep going. Reb made me that way. I envy him."
I almost said that I envied Larry. In a way I did envy him, but to say so would've sent the wrong message. So instead I made a commitment to sleep with her by saying, "Larry doesn't turn you on all that much, I take it." And she made a despairing face while sighing a laugh. "No, he's not the type of man to do that. But he's a good man." To this I remarked, "Good isn't much of a turn-on." This had her giving me a look of mock disapproval. "You think only bad things are a turn on?" And I said, "It's what fuels the biker sub-culture. If being good was a turn on, there wouldn't be any ruffian bikers, not even any weekend warriors."
"Yeah, girls like bad boys. Have you been really bad...Hangman?"
"That's not for me to say."
She held up her glass. "Your favorite dodge. Drink your whiskey and get into bed with me."
No comments:
Post a Comment