Crush (8 page)

The wall-to-wall rug had been changed. He had cleaned the closets of old bobby pins, half-empty face-cream jars, an odd shoe here and there. These objects, abandoned by a wife eager to leave the place, had vanished as if they had never been. Doubting his good taste, growing anxious, he had studied every detail of his house, presenting it and himself like a suitor, wearing his butter-colored leather gloves on the day of proposal.

She showed her enthusiasm by being talkative. David began to relax. Determined to take her on the complete tour of the house, he savored her amazement, as well as every one of her comments. Faking an impulsive interest in the second floor, Amélie walked up the stairs ahead of him. She quickly climbed the first steps, stopped as though waiting politely for him, actually hoping he’d notice her dress, made see-through by the backlighting of the window on the landing. He was eye level with her buttocks.

She was wearing a short, sleeveless dress, held closed by a great big bow on the back. The numerous openings were so many avenues of approach to her lithesome body. David tried not to stare at the contour of her hips, seen like shadow play through the light material of her dress. He’d had a hard-on since she arrived, as soon as she had stepped out of her car. But he wanted to exercise self-control in order to establish a solid basis for their conjugal plans. Were he to jump her at every turn, she’d take him for a satyr.

Amélie sashayed up the stairs. Hypnotized by her ass, obsessed by the memory of her skin as smooth and soft as the finest leather, David could no longer control himself. He slipped his hand between her thighs. She was hot, open, horny.

David lifted the sides of her dress and plunged his head in the direction of his hands. His face sheltered by the airy fabric in a siesta penumbra, he recognized, nesting round her vulva, her odor of freshly baked bread. Under the lampshade of her skirt, Amélie’s ass, magnified like the detail of a painting, obscured the perspective. Her skin, iridescent like an earth-baked ceramic amphora, met his eyes. It was smooth, fleshy, vigorous, under its pale, celadon-hued glaze, which betrayed the boldness and unseemliness of her nudity.

David’s vision blurred. He groped across the checkerboard relief of light and shadow. Some obscure islets remained to be discovered, deflowered: the top of her thighs, like a cloudy sky sheltered by her ass, the camera obscura between her legs.

He pursued the crown line of her panties, traced the contours of her buttocks with saliva, before skimming along her slit. Amélie moaned, reeled. David held her up by her hips:

—Turn.

He removed her panties, pulled up her dress, made her stretch out on the steps. Kneeling, he observed her cunt with a surgeon’s gravity. Then, lapping the down that hemmed her glossy, purple vulva, he moved down to capture her clitoris between his lips.

Amélie braced herself, let out a cry. She was going to come too soon, without having seen his face, his cock. Catching her breath, she said:

—I don’t want to come without seeing your hard prick. Show me how much you want me.

David emerged from Amélie’s cunt, his eyes feverish, his lips shining and wet. He carried her off into the bedroom, placed her upon the bed. Standing next to her, he unbuckled his belt, opened his trousers upon a triumphant prick, whose tip glowed with impatience. Amélie tried to draw close, but he stopped her with a gesture. She raised her eyebrows, seeking an explanation, then, giving in to the straining nerves and muscles between her thighs, she turned her head to watch his reactions while she slowly finger-fucked herself.

Without uttering a word, he held up his rod, alternating a fast to-and-fro motion with ample, measured gestures. Seeing him masturbate himself in this fashion, Amélie felt she was stepping beyond the threshold of intimacy, transgressing the limits of discretion. Embarrassed by his masterful technique, the expertise of his own fingers upon his cock, she had the impression of spying on a male fantasy, as though she were watching this scene through a keyhole. She stroked her pussy faster.

Breathless, she gave full vent to her boldness. It was exciting to arouse David’s helpless panting at a distance, using only the lightest touch of her fingertips upon herself, to see his
forehead bead with sweat, witness the spectacle of solitary pleasure staged on the border between shame and obscenity. Before crying out and letting herself climax, she directed her gaze straight into David’s eyes, as though to warn him.

David held back his orgasm. He watched Amélie’s hand contract convulsively, fall upon her vagina. Only the whites of her eyes showed as she drowned in a tidal wave of sexual bliss. He moved forward. She was still limp when he turned her over on her belly. Firmly grasping her hips he raised her rump and took her as he stood by the edge of the bed.

Unbearable, indestructible, David’s desire for her bordered on insanity. Amélie’s body, her skin, her ass obscured his work, his dreams, his priorities; they had become an obsession. Condemned to the irresistible pull of her slit, he sank into it as though falling into an abyss. He burrowed himself into her furiously, seized by the spasmodic throbbing of her cunt.

Amélie felt David take her brutally. Interpreting this assault as a homage, she enclosed him tightly within her, ready to savor his eruption. But he was hurting her, pounding away at her as though moved by rage, by unexpressed desire so overwhelming that they made him forget to take or give pleasure. Used in this fashion, she had no need of seeing his face to know he had drifted far away.

He suddenly came to his senses. Amélie’s inert, resigned body offered no resistance. He curbed his violence, modulated the powerful strokes of his loins. He felt tired, crestfallen. He laid Amélie down, kissed the back of her neck. She remained docile, immobile. Her woeful smile filled him with terror. He stroked her cheek. He could so easily lose her if he went on loving her with the demented passion of a convict on the loose.

—Marry me, I can’t live without you.

—I’m already married, she said.

—I don’t give a damn; I’ll convince you; I’ll wait as long as I’ll have to.

He fell asleep. Amélie carefully freed herself from the tangled sheets and proceeded to make her way in the direction of the bathroom whose door, swollen by humidity, was hard to keep shut. Once there, she let a thin stream of water run into the tub so as not to wake David up. There was an unpleasant hothouse smell in the room. She slipped on a peignoir and was getting ready to return to the bedroom when she noticed the shower stall. It appeared to screen a dressing-room.

She rushed inside. The room, lighted by a night-light, seemed to be a storeroom promoted to the rank of walk-in closet. The elegant cupboards within smelled of cedar and fine workmanship. Curious to check them out, Amélie opened them one by one.

It took her a while to fathom the function of the letters and numbers inscribed upon the edge of every shelf, deduce the classification that she gropingly reconstituted. The numbers went from left to right in horizontal order within each closet, and referred to the garment’s color: white shirts in tray number one, yellow in two, and so on, from light to dark.

A shirt she pulled out from a center pile, checking it as one might a test tube, revealed the number of its attribution sewn on the back of the collar, as mothers do when packing their children off to summer camp. Amélie tried to push back in her mind the growing uneasiness she felt. So compulsive, and not a whit of space for a garment other than his own! How did his ex-wife manage? However, she pursued her detective
work, deciphering the more subjective and delicate typology of the letters. The vertical classification referred to the nature of the garment:
A
for formal shirts,
B
for blazer shirts to be worn with an ascot,
C
for sports shirts . . .

—What are you doing? David asked. He was standing framed by the shower door.

Amélie gave a start:

—You scared me!

Caught in the act like some pitiful whippersnapper. To avoid looking embarrassed or, worse still, admit to the hold he had on her, she put on a defiant, alluring act.

—I admire your sense of order. You’d make a great butler.

—Is it supposed to be a compliment?

—Don’t be mad, my love. You know what a mess I am . . . So, obviously . . . you impress me as an extraterrestrial being.

—Well, what’s so extraordinary? I’ve been doing this for years, now that I can afford a cleaning woman! They do it all wrong, put things away haphazardly, without rhyme or reason!

David’s explanation sounded rational. He showed himself to be a practical, rational human being. Keeping track in this fashion helped avoid the disappearance of warm socks and gloves, all these winter things one looks for in vain when packing for a skiing vacation. How well she knew the anguish of last-minute searches. His system was undoubtedly a precious time—saver.

Methodical, organized, he was in the right. This was undoubtedly the best way of controlling reality. To deny the importance of everyday life, as she arrogantly persisted in
doing, made no sense at all. She had acted foolishly, and now no idea what to do to be forgiven.

—I love you.

—Too bad! he answered.

Hearing these words, Amélie’s goodwill and repentance faded. She took a look at David. He was not angry. Then why did he make use of antagonism as a stylistic device? She saw no advantage in it. Was he trying to hide his embarrassment, his inability to react with simplicity and kindness to a show of affection, or was it simply a device to mask the fact that he had nothing to say? She changed the subject:

—My love, I’m famished . . . And I haven’t yet seen your kitchen.

—You’re hungry? I’m going to make lunch, he stated in the weary tone of a happy man burdened with new responsibilities.

He took her by the hand, led her to the ground floor. The kitchen’s decoration was helter-skelter: walls covered by a patchwork of grey and green tiles, selected at various times by various owners. Formica furniture clashed with traditional, potbellied sideboards.

David declared he’d now devote himself to the art of cooking. This restaurant-keeper jargon was his way of dismissing with a joke a hobby he enjoyed. Amélie sat down to watch him, her elbows upon the oilcloth table cover. He cooked as he made love. Competent, experienced, he mused on what he wanted, took his time to make sure he was in prime condition. Then, all at once, bursting with strongly focused inventiveness, he’d combine bold, unusual flavors.

She watched him chop up herbs, handle the blade of a knife as he sliced a piece of meat, one hand flat on blood-glutted
flesh. She kept a close watch on every gesture, seeing him knead, mince, stud the fat with cloves. She was fascinated by his skillfulness, nimble fingers, intimate connection to matter. He kept a running commentary on what he was about to perform, as articulate in this context as he was about sex. He could speak for hours of fricassée, rabbit stew, the difference between round steak sirloin and veal gristle!

Flabbergasted by the wealth of his gastronomical vocabulary, Amélie asked many questions. He emphasized esoteric words, scanning them like some culinary incantation; then he grew quiet, too absorbed to talk. With his eyes on the pans, mouth gaping with expectation, lips swollen with desire, he didn’t even see her. She, however, kept on goading and circling him, determined not to be ignored.

—Smells wonderful! Could I have a taste?

—Come on! It’s not ready yet! he scolded her, smiling with pleasure at her impatience.

Amélie had just finished setting the dining room table when David appeared, a napkin draped over his forearm. He pushed open the swinging door with his foot to bring in a steaming dish. A happy expression on his face, he awaited the first mouthfuls, Amélie’s first compliments. She tasted, marveled, offered her congratulations. Next she tried to converse.

—It needs salt, don’t you think? David interrupted her. Is the meat cooked enough?

Amélie’s silence, broken by exclamations, reassured him. If this was the price to be paid for a successful lunch . . . so be it. She was willing to put up with this exchange of onomatopoeias.

Following the meal, a walk in the garden. Made self-conscious by this green square, Amélie felt awkward, clumsy.
“Nature, what’s the good of it?” she had often wondered. It gave her no energy, no joy. What’s more she seemed to be the only one of her kind. On the rare occasions when she admitted to these feelings, people voiced their amazement, doubt, and disapproval.

And yet that’s how it was. She wilted under rain, burned in the sun, like a hothouse plant. One of her outdoors activities was to rise above these petty annoyances. The other was to memorize the scenery.

The sea reminded her of a mottled cashmere sweater. The reddish tint of the soil of Provence was like the rouille of bouillabaisse. Looking at the roots of olive trees, hanging from the hillsides, she was reminded of the torsos of black men, their frizzy body hair woven together like thickets. Embarrassed by the incongruity of these metaphors, Amélie would censor herself. Was she deprived of poetic sensibility, had she no culture whatsoever?

She’d stare at the horizon, in search of honorable references; gape at an empty beach, to find the contrasting stretches of sand of a Tanguy painting. She pursued Cézanne’s palette in the rocks, and Vermeer’s pale yellow in her florist’s jonquils.

She sought to forget her coarse first impressions by dint of a quest for refinement. However, she grew rapidly winded. Her undertaking would then appear to her as artificial, ridiculous. Her mind rejected these affectations as cultured poses. Piqued by the uselessness of lifting these tenuous scraps of culture, she renounced paltry attempts at appropriating bits of scenery, making up her mind to submit, without stepping back, to the elements’ supremacy.

In David’s garden Amélie became bookish. Like a conscientious student using a yellow marker to underline a text’s
important sentences, she made a mental note of broad, burly trees, bushes spreading like gigantic escaroles, broomlike spiny shrubs.