Craving Flight (4 page)

I know. It’s not like I’ve never fasted before. I know how to break the fast without getting sick. There are few things more pathetic than a bride puking on her wedding day. Elan already thinks I’m silly, I don’t need him thinking I’m a complete and utter moron.

After I’ve crunched a handful of almonds between my teeth and swallowed, I realize he’s watching me instead of eating himself. “You should eat too.”

“I will, now that I’m not worried you’re going to pass out.”

The idea of blacking out in front of him is enough to turn my stomach, especially with his chastising tone, but there’s something to be said for the image of him gathering me up off the floor, gently patting my cheek and calling to me until I came to. He might roll his eyes while he’s doing it—
silly Tzipporah
—but he wouldn’t panic, and he wouldn’t leave me facedown in the carpet. I’m sure of it.

He drinks with more control than I had and reaches for a strawberry. Elan likes strawberries. Something I should remember now that we’ll be living together.

*

At the door
to his apartment—no,
our
apartment, I reach for the mezuzah and bring my fingers to my mouth. The one gracing the doorway to my old apartment had been wood, but this one is metal and glass. Regardless, I know if I were to crack the small, narrow boxes open, I’d find the same thing inside: verses from the Torah inscribed on parchment. Kissing the mezuzah is a habit I used to feel self-conscious about, but no more. Now I’d no more come or go without touching it than I’d leave without putting clothes on. Elan does the same, and then we’re standing in a hallway.

We’d discussed staying in a hotel for our first night as a married couple as lots of people do, but with class tomorrow I’d said I’d feel more comfortable going straight home. Elan had seemed slightly disconcerted by yet another eccentricity of mine, but not inclined to argue.

I’ve been in this apartment a few times; a couple while Rivka was alive and once while the family was sitting shiva for her. I remember the doors that line the narrow passageway, the peculiar shade of green—a not-quite-avocado. I wonder if he’d be averse to me painting it? These are my thoughts as I walk through the hall of my new home, where I’ll live from now on. With Elan. I follow his broad back to the living room and when we get there, he turns to me.

“Are you hungry?”

Seriously? We’ve just eaten enough to feed a small country. “No. Are you?”

He’s a large man, but surely even he had his fill at the reception. We’d made a point of eating, both of us remembering how we’d been famished after our first weddings because we’d spent so much time visiting and taking pictures instead of enjoying the feast. Not this time.

“No, I just…” There’s a quick shake of his head and that’s when I realize that he’s nervous. Elan, who I can’t imagine being afraid of anything because he’s so solid and dwarfs everything around him, is nervous. I make him uneasy.

“It’s strange to have me in your home.” The
your
to me is plural. I still think of this as Elan and Rivka’s home. When his face darkens, I wonder if it’s not because he thinks of it the same way. I can imagine them moving here as young newlyweds, can practically hear Rivka’s vibrant laugh bouncing off the walls. He must have so many fond memories and here I am, awkward and so unlike her.

I won’t ask to paint the hallway. I don’t want him to feel as though I’m trying to erase her. He’s allowed to still love her.

“Our home,” he says, laying hands on my upper arms. His fingers reach nearly around my biceps and they’re hot through the fabric of my wedding dress. The intimacy of the sensation makes me swallow.

“Of course.” I try to smile, though I find it difficult to look in his eyes when I do. The touch reminds me that we’ll be having more contact in the very near future. A lot more. And artless though I may be when it comes to men, I believe the expression on his face could be described as desire. Perhaps even lust?

Though it’s probably a result of the epic dry spell he’s endured, it makes me feel good. To know a man wants me. Not any man, but the man I’ve promised myself to, the man I’ve built fantasies around in the hopes that they’ll sustain me.

His thumbs are stroking my arms and the purposeful contact curbs my breath. I haven’t been touched for so long in a covetous way and I ache for it.
More.
When one of his hands leaves my body, I want to protest but it lands at the side of my neck before I can. It makes me sigh and take a step forward, closer to him. So close I can feel the heat of his body, hear the sound of his breath.

“Elan…”

“May I kiss you?”

“Of course.” It’s silly, but it delights me that he’s asked. When his lips hit mine, I’m glad he gave me a warning. This is not a tentative meeting of unfamiliar mouths. This is hunger, pure and simple and it’s echoed by the tightening of his hand at my neck. The squeeze of his fingers, knowing what they could take from me with all of their restrained power, floods me. Yes. It will be so easy to pretend with this man.

He tastes like wine and cake, the flavors of celebration lingering on his tongue as it tangles with mine and his beard scrapes against my face. It’s at once exactly how I thought it would be and not at all. Scratchy but somehow soft, and outrageously masculine. Our bodies press together and I’m clutching the lapels of his suit like I might be blown away if I weren’t. I can’t help but notice he’s hard for me.

We kiss hungrily until he separates us with a sharp inhale. “I want to do more than kiss you.”

“I kind of hoped you would.”

A deep, rumbling sound rises through him, something I’m tempted to call a growl, then he grasps my wrist and leads me back down the hallway, opening the third door and ushering me inside. The bed is large—I’m guessing two twins pushed together to make a king—and neatly made with the lace coverlet from my old bed already draped over it.

Then his hands are on me again and his mouth, oh his mouth. I reach up to thread my fingers through his hair and when I do, I find it soft and so dense I have to work my fingers into it. He makes an approving sound deep in his throat as I scratch gently at his scalp.

Soon our touches are wandering to arms, necks, shoulders and faces, abdomens and hips. There’s a delicious frustration to it because we haven’t pressed much farther than what everyone is allowed to see. I want more than that. I want my rights as his wife to his body, to that spot at the top of his head that’s constantly covered by a kippah, but I’ll get to see it soon enough.

He draws back, his dark eyes wild and his voice appealingly surly as he says, “Turn around.”

When I do, he unbuttons my dress, his fingertips caressing the skin of my back. I wouldn’t have thought the touch of a man so big could be so deft, but soon he’s finished with the buttons and parts the fabric to reveal more skin.

I stand there, willing my breath steady though I’m going to start shaking. Or at least clutching my hands in my skirts. What is he looking at? I’m about to ask when he slips the satin over my shoulders and tugs the sleeves down my arms, the remainder of the dress following suit and puddling at my feet.

Then his hands are clenching around my biceps. While I’m sure he’s
seen
the upper arms of women around the neighborhood, in his shop even, I doubt he’s touched a woman in this intimate place since Rivka died. Has maybe not touched a woman at all, anywhere.

I hope I look beautiful to him, standing in my shoes, my underwear and my tichels. Bina had suggested wearing my hair down just for the day, but I couldn’t, just couldn’t. Not even under the veil. She’d offered the alternative of wearing a sheitel, which would be more typical of a bride here but it would have felt strange to me and I didn’t need anything adding to my nerves. It’s certainly not the first time I’ve bucked expectations, nor will it be the last.

Out of my clothes, I’m more conscious of my physique than I have been for a long time. I don’t have a young woman’s body any more, but I want to please him. He kneels behind me and removes my shoes before drawing my underwear over my hips and down my legs, issuing a grunted instruction of “step out.”

And here I am. Naked in front of a man for the first time in five years. For the first time since my divorce. I hope with all my heart that this will be the last man who will see me this way. That I’ll be able to give myself to him fully, perhaps even more than he knows. There’s only one last piece of my plumage left to give way and though I see motion out of the corner of my eye, it takes longer for his touch to reach me than I’d expect, as if he hesitated.

But then his hands are roving the tightly wound scarves, searching for the place to start. He doesn’t ask for help, so I don’t give him any, but let him fumble until he finds the place where the ends are pinned. He unwinds the bound length and lets it rest against my back.

“I’ve been dreaming of this.” His voice is thick with desire or emotion. It’s difficult to tell which because I can’t see his face. “Every night for weeks, I’ve dreamed of you coming to me. I could imagine your body, but this…this was a mystery.”

Reverence. That’s what colors the timbre of his voice.

I know what my students and the other faculty say about me and probably most of the strangers I see walking down the street. They think I’m foolish and old-fashioned and anti-feminist. I’m not. I understand that sometimes my secular and my religious beliefs come into conflict. I have no excuses to offer. It may seem hypocritical, and yet this is what feels right for me.

But I think if they could hear Elan’s voice at this moment, his hoarse words, they might understand. Covering my hair isn’t about being oppressed. It’s about honoring my faith, but also about giving a gift and in so giving, bringing a man easily twice my weight and a good foot taller than I am to his knees. Having him so consumed with thoughts of me that I occupy his dreams.

With sweetly graceless movements, he begins to unwind the cloth from my hair and when he sees it, there’s a whispered exclamation. “Red.”

His movements become faster, greedy as he separates the scarves from my hair and the locks fall down my back. Then he’s finger-combing through it, separating the strands that have been twisted together under my tichels all day. Five years is a long time to not get your hair cut and mine falls to my waist.

“No. Not red. Auburn,” he says and I can’t help but preen. I’ve always thought it was a pretty color and I’m glad he likes it.

We stumble awkwardly over to the bed—his side or mine?—and he pushes me onto it before he strips his own clothes. Perhaps someday he’ll let me do it but for now I’m content to watch as he peels off his wedding finery and yes, his kippah.

I could stare at him all day, memorize the broad lines of him, but he doesn’t give me the opportunity. He grasps my ankles and swings them onto the bed, making me collapse on the pillows in the process. My shocked giggle is cut off by him settling over me, his hips between my legs and an arm propping him up above me.

“What do you need from me, Tzipporah? Tell me. I won’t have you until you’re ready.”

Bless those conscientious chossen teachers who make it clear to grooms that it’s the man’s responsibility to make sure his wife is ready and willing. People can talk smack about the keeping kosher and hair covering all they like, but this is definitely something Judaism got right.

I’m tempted to fantasize myself to wetness, keep my secrets tucked safe inside because he’s already laid me bare enough for one day. But I don’t want to take that from him, the opportunity to please his partner. Not after he’s asked. And perhaps, if I’m the luckiest woman on earth, he might indulge me. And if he won’t…

It’ll be fine. It will. He’s real enough, control distilled, that it’ll be easy to tell stories about him in my mind while he lies atop me and thrusts inside. I’m lucky in some ways that orgasming is such a mental exercise for me. But what I wouldn’t give to come from what was actually happening instead of the yarn I spin in my head…

So when he strokes his thumb across my cheek, his big hand cradling the side of my face, I tell him. “I…”

Well, I try.

“I…” Oh, big breath. Maybe if I hadn’t studied him for so long from afar, I wouldn’t notice the slight rise of the center of his eyebrows. But I have, so I do. This is his curious face.
What is my crazy wife going to say?

“I like to be…hurt.”

Even through my rapidly fluttering eyelashes I can see his eyes grow wide and his nostrils flare.

“Hurt?” he echoes, and the heat in my cheeks grows more intense.

“Yes.” This is profoundly uncomfortable. Perhaps I should’ve kept this to myself after all. I can’t take it back now, but maybe I can slowly back away from the elephant I’ve just lobbed into the middle of the room. “But—”

I don’t need it.
Yes, I do. This was part of the reason I left Brooks. Because he wouldn’t give this to me. Couldn’t. Why am I pretending that’s not true?

“Do you like to be spanked, little bird?”

Now it’s my turn to be surprised. His tone isn’t cruel or mocking. It’s sweetly enticing, like honey dripping from apples. Or perhaps something not quite as sweet. Darker, earthier, more lingering than honey. Molasses.