married. Now I saw how absurd it was, and a chuckle started deep in my throat. I imagined me wrestling on the bed with Stephen, dialing the phone, pulling down my hose, and pulling up my skirt, saying, “Charlie? This is Zelda.” (Puff, puff, pant, pant, heavy breathing, loss of control.) “I just wanted to tell you that I’m going to make love with someone else now. Goodbye!” And then hanging up the phone, and turning to Stephen …
But I pushed him away. Too weak to stand without a wall at my back, shaking all over, I found strength to push him away. I wanted him, but not really. I wanted the senseof romance, the sense of danger, the fun, the acknowledgment that I was desirable, but not the serious final commitment of joining my body to his.
“Stephen,” I gasped as I stood holding him off with my hands, as we stood there panting and shaking and sweating and glaring at each other like two combatants in a battle, “Stephen, I can’t. I can ’ t .”
“Zelda,” Stephen said, his voice aching and low, “you don’t understand. I love you .”
Well, I was drunk. I had had too much wine. I drew my arm back and slapped Stephen as hard as I could on the cheek. We both staggered sideways in surprise.
“You wiseass sleek New England phony!” I hissed. “You vain egotistical fraud. Don’t you ever use words like that so lightly. I’m from Kansas; words like that mean something to me. You don’t love me, don’t tell me you love me. You just want to screw me, that’s all. You’ve ruined everything by saying that.”
I burst into tears. I fell back against the wall and sobbed, both my hands hanging at my side.
After a few moments Stephen said, “I’ll take you home now.”
I went into the bathroom and washed my face in cold water and dried myself on the nice crisp hotel towels. I put lipstick and eyeliner on and smiled at myself in the mirror, trying to look normal, wondering if anything showed, just as I had done so many years ago after dates when I went home to be inspected by my parents’ eagle eyes. But it was Charlie who would be seeing me now. I knew I would tell him nothing. So far I still felt virtuous, only slightly drunk and embarrassed.
Stephen went into the bathroom then, while I sat on the end of a double bed and tried to breathe naturally. When we left the room I couldn’t resist smiling. To think of all the passion that had gone on there, and we hadn’t even paid for the room. We passed Levin’s door, half expecting him to open it and leer out at us, but all was silent. No one looked at us twice, and we went down the elevator and through the lobby and out to the car.
The ride home was absolutely quiet. We said nothing. I rehearsed scenes in my mind to tell Charlie: “Levin’s Hall lecture was wonderful, you should have been there, but he got soaked again at dinner. At least the food was good. I had escargots forappetizer, and—”
Stephen pulled into our driveway, and without turning off the engine, leaned over and opened my door from the inside.
I put my hand on the door and said, “Good night, Stephen.”
And Stephen said, “I love you, Zelda. I’ve loved you for a long time.”
I stared at him for one long moment in dismay, then jumped out of the car and called in my best old sorority voice, “Thanks again, Stephen. Tell Ellen hi. Hope Carrie’s better.”
Then I walked to the house, slowly, normally, when I really wanted to run and hide, as if something would get me if I didn’t hurry.
That was in March. The next day, on my desk, there was a typed copy of a tenderly coercive love poem waiting for me.
I put my head down on my desk and cried. For ten minutes. Then I got up, fixed up my face, and went off to do a slam-bang, cork-popping class for my cute little freshmen.
And I haven’t slept with Stephen yet. I’m not sure why. Probably because the perfect opportunity hasn’t presented itself again. No more hotel bedroom doors have fallen open for us. We have
But I pushed him away. Too weak to stand without a wall at my back, shaking all over, I found strength to push him away. I wanted him, but not really. I wanted the senseof romance, the sense of danger, the fun, the acknowledgment that I was desirable, but not the serious final commitment of joining my body to his.
“Stephen,” I gasped as I stood holding him off with my hands, as we stood there panting and shaking and sweating and glaring at each other like two combatants in a battle, “Stephen, I can’t. I can ’ t .”
“Zelda,” Stephen said, his voice aching and low, “you don’t understand. I love you .”
Well, I was drunk. I had had too much wine. I drew my arm back and slapped Stephen as hard as I could on the cheek. We both staggered sideways in surprise.
“You wiseass sleek New England phony!” I hissed. “You vain egotistical fraud. Don’t you ever use words like that so lightly. I’m from Kansas; words like that mean something to me. You don’t love me, don’t tell me you love me. You just want to screw me, that’s all. You’ve ruined everything by saying that.”
I burst into tears. I fell back against the wall and sobbed, both my hands hanging at my side.
After a few moments Stephen said, “I’ll take you home now.”
I went into the bathroom and washed my face in cold water and dried myself on the nice crisp hotel towels. I put lipstick and eyeliner on and smiled at myself in the mirror, trying to look normal, wondering if anything showed, just as I had done so many years ago after dates when I went home to be inspected by my parents’ eagle eyes. But it was Charlie who would be seeing me now. I knew I would tell him nothing. So far I still felt virtuous, only slightly drunk and embarrassed.
Stephen went into the bathroom then, while I sat on the end of a double bed and tried to breathe naturally. When we left the room I couldn’t resist smiling. To think of all the passion that had gone on there, and we hadn’t even paid for the room. We passed Levin’s door, half expecting him to open it and leer out at us, but all was silent. No one looked at us twice, and we went down the elevator and through the lobby and out to the car.
The ride home was absolutely quiet. We said nothing. I rehearsed scenes in my mind to tell Charlie: “Levin’s Hall lecture was wonderful, you should have been there, but he got soaked again at dinner. At least the food was good. I had escargots forappetizer, and—”
Stephen pulled into our driveway, and without turning off the engine, leaned over and opened my door from the inside.
I put my hand on the door and said, “Good night, Stephen.”
And Stephen said, “I love you, Zelda. I’ve loved you for a long time.”
I stared at him for one long moment in dismay, then jumped out of the car and called in my best old sorority voice, “Thanks again, Stephen. Tell Ellen hi. Hope Carrie’s better.”
Then I walked to the house, slowly, normally, when I really wanted to run and hide, as if something would get me if I didn’t hurry.
That was in March. The next day, on my desk, there was a typed copy of a tenderly coercive love poem waiting for me.
I put my head down on my desk and cried. For ten minutes. Then I got up, fixed up my face, and went off to do a slam-bang, cork-popping class for my cute little freshmen.
And I haven’t slept with Stephen yet. I’m not sure why. Probably because the perfect opportunity hasn’t presented itself again. No more hotel bedroom doors have fallen open for us. We have
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