I sit here, alone in my bare apartment, and I remember. Not my
wife -- today my ex-wife -- but about *her*.
I was remembering about that crazy week we met in St. Lucia. It
was her idea to tell our spouses we were off at tedious conferences
in single-sex monasteries. She's a nut; that's one reason why I
was so crazy about her.
I remember we had to slather each other with sun tan lotion to
avoid serious burns. Sometimes we didn't get out of the cabin while
slathering each other. I remember how she moaned when I first
entered her. I remember the look on her face each time she came.
I remember the two of us sweating in the still hot air of our cabin,
her foot on my thigh as I painted her toenails, my foot on her
chair, my big toe snugly fitted inside her, warm and wet, my other
toes occasionally wiggling against her slick lips and her sturdy
button. I teased her: I threatened to pour sand on the sticky red
polish.
And ten minutes later she got even with me by sucking me into her
mouth and holding me there on the brink for an endless golden
moment, until finally she slipped one finger up my ass and I came
into her mouth, emptying myself into her. I remember how she shared
my come with me.
I remember licking and eating her until she left crescent fingernail
marks in my shoulders and scalp.
I remember swimming naked in the water with her, trying to make
giggling love among the bobbing waves without any air mattress or
other support. (We never quite managed; water washes away
lubrication.) I remember coming back ashore and sponging the sea
salt off her, then kissing each area dry. I think that was the only
time her nipples didn't taste of lotion.
I remember how she teased me the night we went into town to go
dancing. I couldn't wait to bend her over, to take her right then
-- but she *made* me wait. I wish I'd lasted longer when she finally
let me in, but I redeemed myself the next time.
I remember the knot in my stomach before I asked her to leave her
husband. I remember how she put her finger to my mouth, almost as
though she knew what I was going to say. I remember what she said.
She quoted John Donne at me. She said no woman was an island. She
said she had her children to think of.
She said maybe someday.
I remember the last swim before she had to leave for the plane. I
remember how her hair sparkled with salt. I kissed the salt off
her neck, her shoulders, her nipples, her hips. I remember how she
tasted.
She tasted as though her entire body was crying.
I remember when I had someone cry for me.
---And it ends here---
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Here's the problem: most of the story is a moderately
interesting recap of images, the actual story happens in the first and
last paragraph. And those two don't work.
The problem may have been one of conflicting intents: Am I trying to
show him as an island, without connections? In that case, he'd better
not be married in the first place. Am I trying to show that once you've
proposed to the woman you're having an affair with, you've pretty much
decided your marriage is over...that is, you've cut off your ties to
others, and the narrator becomes an island? I dunno.