“I don’t think that’s such a good idea. I’ve got packing to do. I’ve decided to go back to London tomorrow.”
“Was that planned?”
“No. I’d just feel more secure if I was at home.”
“Is Mervin going with you?”
“It’s Marlin. And no, he isn’t.”
“More fool him.”
“Look, I’d better go. Thanks for thinking of me.”
“It’s no hardship,” he said. “And if you get lonely between now and tomorrow morning—”
“I won’t.”
“You never know. I’m at the Omni. Room one-oh-three. There’s a double bed.”
“You’ll have plenty of room, then.”
“I’ll be thinking of you,” he said. He paused, then added, “I’m glad I saw you.”
“I’m glad you’re glad.”
“Does that mean you’re not?”
“It means I’ve got packing to do. Good night, Gentle.”
“Good night.”
“Have fun.”
He did what little packing of his own he had to do, then ordered up a small supper: a club sandwich, ice cream, bourbon, and coffee. The warmth of the room after the icy street and its exertions made him feel sluggish. He undressed and ate his supper naked in front of the television, picking the crumbs from his pubic hair like lice. By the time he got to the ice cream he was too weary to eat, so he downed the bourbon—which instantly took its toll—and retired to bed, leaving the television on in the next room, its sound turned down to a soporific burble.
His body and his mind went about their different businesses. The former, freed from conscious instruction, breathed, rolled, sweated, and digested. The latter went dreaming. First, of Manhattan served on a plate, sculpted in perfect detail. Then of a waiter, speaking in a whisper, asking if sir wanted night; and of night coming in the form of a blueberry syrup, poured from high above the plate and falling in viscous folds upon the streets and towers. Then, Gentle walking in those streets, between those towers, hand in hand with a shadow, the company of which he was happy to keep, and which turned when they reached an intersection and laid its feather finger upon the middle of his brow, as though Ash Wednesday were dawning.
He liked the touch and opened his mouth to lightly lick the ball of the shadow’s hand. It stroked the place again. He shuddered with pleasure, wishing he could see into the darkness of this other and know Its face. In straining to see, he opened his eyes, body and mind converging once again. He was back in his hotel room, the only light the flicker of the television, reflected in the gloss of a half-open door. Though he was awake the sensation continued, and to it was added sound: a milky sigh that excited him. There was a woman in the room.
“Jude?” he said.
She pressed her cool palm against his open mouth, hushing his inquiry even as she answered it. He couldn’t distinguish her from the darkness, but any lingering doubt that she might belong to the dream from which he’d risen was dispatched as her hand went from his mouth to his bare chest. He reached up in the darkness to take hold of her face and bring it down to his mouth, glad that the murk concealed the satisfaction he wore. She’d come to him. After all the signals of rejection she’d sent out at the apartment—despite Marlin, despite the dangerous streets, despite the hour, despite their bitter history—she’d come, bearing the gift of her body to his bed.
Though he couldn’t see her, the darkness was a black canvas, and he painted her there to perfection, her beauty gazing down on him. His hands found her flawless cheeks. They were cooler than her hands, which were on his belly now, pressing harder as she hoisted herself over him. There was everywhere in their exchange an exquisite syn-chronicity. He thought of her tongue and tasted it; he imagined her breasts, and she took his hands to them; he wished she would speak, and she spoke (oh, how she spoke), words he hadn’t dared admit he’d wanted to hear.
“I had to do this . . .” she said.
“I know. I know.”