Silent Screams - C. E. Lawrence [91]
“What’s the matter? Are your injuries bothering you?”
“No.”
“What was that sigh about, then?”
He wasn’t sure how it would sound, to speak of the sadness that always settled upon him after sex. He was afraid she might take it the wrong way.
She rolled over onto her side, her breasts pressed together to create a narrow valley between them. He thought of losing himself in that valley, of sliding in between the heavy softness of those breasts, nestling there forever like a small, furry animal. Her nipples were deep red, almost brown.
“Is it the sadness?” she asked. The question was so unexpected he was caught off guard. She smiled and leaned up on one elbow, her breasts brushing against her arm. “Do you get it too—the sadness that comes afterward?”
He looked away. He had never discussed this with anyone. “Sometimes, I guess.”
She reached over and traced a straight line down his forearm with her little finger. It made him shiver. “I’ve often thought that this might be why the French called orgasm ‘a little death.’”
He couldn’t think of anything to say. He had always believed his reaction to be peculiar to him alone. Talking about it felt more intimate than sex itself.
She retraced the line on his arm in the other direction. “It’s probably a biochemical reaction of some kind. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
Her scientific bluntness made him laugh.
“That’s a relief. I’ll call off the existential angst patrol.”
She laughed and flopped over onto her back. Her breasts were the whitest part of her body, but they were still darker than his skin.
“I just didn’t know anyone else felt it.”
“You never talked about it with anyone?”
“No.” He didn’t want to know whether or not she had.
“It’s really an odd thing, when you look at it—sex, I mean,” she said.
“How so?”
“Well, I suppose nature has made it arduous and difficult for the male for a reason—another form of natural selection, I guess.”
“So how is making it hard for computer geeks to get laid good for the species?”
She punched his arm. “That’s not what I’m talking about. I mean that it requires a certain amount of…stamina. If it weren’t a fairly athletic activity, then anyone could mate, and that would be bad for the species.”
“I just love it when you talk science.” He ran his tongue over the outer rim of her ear, tasting the mixture of sweat, ear wax, and lavender.
After the third time he slipped into a deep, stuporous sleep. Murky images drifted in and out of his dreams, sluggish and bulky as whales, sinking just beneath the reach of his conscious mind. He awoke to a bright dawn seeping through the white curtains and the comforting sounds of pans clattering in the kitchen. For a few minutes he lay there on his back, eyes closed, listening to the city coming to life around him. The sound of traffic was picking up momentum on Amsterdam Avenue, and he separated the various sounds in his head: the low diesel rumble of the M11 bus, the rattle of delivery vans as they lurched from one pothole to another, the clatter of metal security gates being raised as shopkeepers opened their stores for the day.
The two gray kittens entered the room and attacked his feet under the covers. The cats waged a continuous campaign of attacks and counterattacks, flinging themselves upon each other in a series of short leaps and hops, and then went instantly from full battle mode to licking themselves.
Contentment crested over him like a wave. The kitchen sounds were replaced with footsteps. Already, he thought, he could identify her walk, light and quick. She appeared at the doorway, wearing a green terry cloth robe knotted loosely around her waist, so that the upper part of her inner thighs was visible, dark and inviting where the robe came together. The smell of coffee floated in through the open door.
As she entered the room, the cats skittered out of it, brushing her ankles as they dashed off after each other.
Kathy laughed. “Those two—they’re like teenagers cruising down Main Street. They’re just looking for action, and pretty