was no business meeting at all. In fact, even the interviews
had become more than business.
I was trying to heed the mechanical psychiatrist’s advice,
trying to reach out and accept human warmth. And, in
small ways, in kisses and touches and a few words, she
was returning that effort of mine. To me, so thirsty
for companionship after a long drought, it seemed even
more heady and fine than it really was.
The sky was gray again and whispered snow. It was
a regular oldtime winter, a Christmas-card sort of winter,
sparkling and white and bitterly cold. Somewhere, far
above, floated Dragonfly.
“Did the FBI mistreat you at any other time?” she
asked.
The black microphone dangled above us like a bloated
spider. Behind the couch where we sat, reels hissed in the
recorder, like voices commenting on the anecdotes I told.
“It wasn’t the FBI so often as the doctors who treated
me not as a human being, but as something to be pricked,
punched, and jabbed. I remember once when—”
“Keep remembering,” she said. She reached behind the
couch and stopped the recorder, laid the microphone
down. “That’s enough for one day. If it gets moving too
fast, you lose the color. You try to tell too much, and the
details are blurred. It happens with everyone.”
“I guess so,” I said.
She was wearing a peasant blouse with a scalloped
neckline, an alluring garment which I found myself staring
at. And that, in itself, was a shock. It did not seem
disgusting, as it once would have. In fact, the fullness, the
perfect roundness of her breasts seemed deeply exciting.
Perhaps my mechanical psychiatrist had been correct. Per-
haps this was a purpose, a legitimate need.
She saw the direction of my gaze. Perhaps that was
what produced the following. Perhaps she had been await-
ing a sign, and this was the one she saw and chose to
travel by. She moved across to the couch, beside me,
leaned upwards, and made a bow of her mouth, her
tongue flicking along those lips, anxious and inquiring.
What is your mood, the tongue seemed to say. How do
you feel? Is this the time? Why don’t you do something?
I obeyed the wishes of the tongue. I found it with my
lips and with my own tongue, drew her closer with both
arms and felt her breasts against my chest And was not
disgusted.
In time, I had touched the flesh of her legs, felt the
warmth of her thighs through her skirt. Then I scooped
her breasts free of the peasant blouse and tested them
with teeth and lips. An hour passed in a minute and had
the joy of a century encapsulated in it
When I left, a hundred yearsa minute later, she stood
clean and brown before me, a dark, supple woman
divested of all but the glow of her body’s youth. We kissed
and said nothing more—for there was nothing more to be
said. Not really. Even if I could have forced words out of
my dry throat
Outside, I stood in the drive a long while, oblivious of
snow and wind, of stares from passing pedestrians, of the
need to get to the AC complex and confront Child again.
For the first time in my life, I had been with a woman.
And she had been a goddess, a good place to start. I didn’t
feel tainted or used or sinful. I felt better, in fact, than I
had ever felt in my life. In time, I managed to think enough
to get to the car, climb inside, and close the door. I sat for
maybe five minutes before I started it.
My body seemed to burn where she had touched me.
Flames played along my lips. All the way to AC …
I was in love: no question. I had not even attempted
to esp her thoughts ever since we had met, and that was
unusual. I was affording her the same privilege that Harry
received, but before she had done half as much for me as
he had, before I really knew whether she would accept me
or demolish me. I imagine I had been afraid, at first that