Maryanne Stahl, an associate editor at Literary Potpourri (http://www.literarypotpourri.com), lives in Atlanta with her dog, cats, ducks, humans, and other wild creatures.  She has published widely on the net, including short stories, flash fiction, poetry and essays. Her first novel, Forgive the Moon (NAL/Penguin-Putnam), was published in June 2002.  Her second, The Opposite Shore, will be out August 2003. Visit Maryanne's website at http://www.maryannestahl.com/.

                                                         we don't do this


In the archway between the kitchen and the living room, after all of the guests (but me) have gone, I wipe my damp hands along the sides of my black dress. I stay to help you clean up; I stay because I cannot go. I turn from the sink and you turn from the door and we pull toward each other and meet like magnets, like two parts of a bridge.

We kiss.

Would you like to see the rest of the house?

I would.

It’s a crazy structure, all levels and angles, yours for the week which ends tonight. Yours and now mine, a memory object I will later retrieve and turn over like a stone.

You take my hand and lead me to the outdoor staircase. We wind and turn and stop to admire the view toward the sea, to hear more than see it, to smell it and feel it against our skin.

Beneath the sweep of stars an earring falls, hits my shoulder, disappears into sand.

I follow you up up up into darkness. Your room is lit by someone else’s light, reflected through glass, off mirrors.  We kiss and kiss and kiss. We shed items of clothing, my dress, your shirt, our shoes. I tell you I like your shoes.

We speak quick words in low voices. You tell me about your children, your first wife, your current wife. You tell me, I don’t do this. Neither do I.

Your mouth on my neck. What is this we don’t do?

Your hands in my hair, my hands on your chest. Even in this borrowed light, your eyes are astonishingly blue.

I didn’t plan this.

Nor I.

We tell each other the story of us, so far: I liked the way you stepped backwards as you spoke. You liked that my smile was skewed. You looked at me as I looked away. Our glances bumped and caught.

Later, we argued, still later laughed. Aware precisely where the other stood in a crowded room, we tried not to seek each other out, and failed. Our skin communicated, disregarding signs. We began to invent ourselves together.

We kiss. We tell each other how we smell. We touch each other in small places—cleft, dimple, fold. We kiss and touch. In the diffused light, we cast no shadows. I trace your outline, learning, memorizing you.

I tell you: I can’t stay. No. Yes. No. We kiss.

You take me back to my place. This is thrilling, you say. I thrill at thrilling, the chest-constricting fizzle of it.  We kiss. I offer you strawberries. You eat two from my fingers.

I stand at someone else’s door; you turn when you reach the street. We’ll know each other, you say. Never more than we already do, I know but don’t believe.

In the taxi to the airport, I replay and replay and replay us together. Words. Silences. Specific licks. A moan escapes me, desire and shame. The driver turns his head and tells me about his idea for a new business.

I plan a coded message to you.

We don’t do this, but we have begun.

                                                                   # # #

© 2003 Maryanne Stahl