A fitful night’s rest awaited her, and this time she could not blame jets and airports. It was her own bed and she should have sunk into a deep sleep.
No dreams stayed with her, but she had a sense of floating just below the surface of consciousness like someone trapped and drowning under a dark red layer of ice, half-impressions of people in the room with her. In the middle of the night she was sure she came groggily awake and saw someone crouched next to the bed, which startled her, but there was nobody there after all. She must have gone right back to sleep. It was a weird hallucinatory dream.
She woke up in the gray of morning, feeling that other impossible things crawled just outside the periphery of her recall. She felt as tired as if she’d had no sleep at all.
From the kitchen came soft noises — her grandfather moving about — and finally the snap of the lock on the apartment door that signaled his departure. Silence reigned, and only then did she truly drift off and sleep deeply for a few more hours.
She awoke lying on top of her down-filled duvet, warm despite having, it seemed, cracked the window at some point during the night. She’d no memory of getting out of bed. Her flannel nightgown had risen up to the tops of her thighs, and she pushed it down as she lay there.
The air coming in was cold. She got up and cranked the window shut.
The kitchen had been cleaned up and it appeared her grandfather had stolen off to the university without making himself any coffee, probably worried that the smell would wake her. She sat awhile, worried about him, wincing at the way he shuffled now like an old man. He had been so hardy. How had he declined this much in four months?
She cut off a slice of the cozonac and then boiled water for tea while she tore off and chewed a hunk of it. It was definitely better the second day, just as everyone said.
Her grandfather had left a newspaper for her. A photo of a huge orange moon filled the middle of the front page, and above it the headline ran “Supermoon Tonight!” She skimmed the accompanying article. The moon was almost at perigee and if the skies were clear, it would look as enormous as in the photo. She wondered if they would be able to see it from their little balcony.
She was going to have to call Costin and tell him something. Maybe she could make up that she had come home ill and shouldn’t see him right now. But all that would do was prolong the —
The door buzzer sounded.
With her mug in her hand, she walked barefoot in her nightgown across the apartment to the door. Leaning up on her toes, she peered through the peephole. An enormous eye stared at her. Then it drew back. Costin had eyelashes so thick that at times he seemed to be wearing mascara. His black hair was windblown. A cowlick stood up at the back.
She stared at him, and for a long moment she debated whether to pretend not to be home. Internally she argued how it wasn’t fair, she wasn’t ready, didn’t know what she wanted to say, what she should say, and damn Vincent again for fucking up her life. But then Costin smiled that goofy, demented smile of his, as if he knew she was on this side of the door and watching, and desire surged through her like the heat from a shot of vodka.
She unlocked and flung the door wide.
Costin wore his long green and purple scarf over a jacket too light for the cold they’d come home in last night, but he didn’t seem to notice. Like a magician, he drew his arm out from behind his back and produced a bouquet in green cellophane.
“Welcome home, stranger,” he said. He stepped forward and kissed her in the doorway.
Ruksana tasted him, the flavor of the coffee he’d consumed on the way over, probably on the trolley. She smelled his body washed fresh with a hint of peppermint in the soap, citrus in the shampoo, and beneath it all the smell of him so familiar and yet newly discovered. She sensed her own body reacting to him with an urgency coming from somewhere undiscovered; a new sensation but she liked it. She tugged at the flowers just hard enough to lead him in, took them and placed them. Somewhere.
She drew him through the kitchen, past the table and the sweet bread. Her tea — she must have set it down. Into her room they went, she walking backwards all the way. Her eyes bored into his, her fingers working at his belt, his zipper. He was hard underneath it.
She turned him, pivoted on her heels. When he was aimed at the bed, she tugged down his pants and pushed him. He fell across her duvet. His feet frantically worked to kick off his shoes, to get at least one leg out of his jeans.
She lifted her flannel nightgown over her head and flung it away. Every bit of her wanted him right now. She dropped to her knees over him, took hold of his penis and fit him into her, surprised by her own wetness. She looked at it on her hand, then held the hand out to him. He licked her palm. Like a dog, she thought, and the image propelled her toward a surprisingly sudden orgasm. She sat on him and groaned, amazed. She never orgasmed without using her fingers or his tongue.
Half sated but still aroused, she rode up and down on him. She leaned forward to kiss him. His palms grazed her nipples and a current jolted through her. When had her breasts ever been so sensitive? She rocked and shivered, bore down on him and thrust her pelvis against him. He came with a gasp, his legs twitching, his head back, over and done in just minutes. She continued to ride a little longer in the sensation of the flood. Her fingers cupped over her pubis, the tip of her middle finger flicking rapidly until, with a shudder and a deep groan of release, she lowered herself to him, her nose in his scarf, her head processing scents of fresh air, coal, car exhaust, and him. When had sex ever been like this?
After a minute, his hands slid up and closed over her shoulder blades. “It’s nice to see you, too,” he muttered in her ear.
Finally, she leaned up on her elbows, felt him shrink out of her. She smiled into his eyes. “Four months is too long,” she said. He barked a laugh. That was what he had said to her at the airport just before she boarded her flight to Antarctica.
“Yes,” he answered. “By about four months. I didn’t even get my clothes off. Of course you cheated by having only one item to remove. Maybe we should start over.” His glance rose then above her eyes. “So, did someone do something to your hair for fun, or did some of it freeze in the cold?”
She tried to look up at her own hair. “What are you talking about?”
“That.” He reached up and pinched a forelock of her hair.
Still thinking that he must be teasing, she got up from him and crossed to the bathroom sink. She barely noticed the cold trickle along her thigh.
In the mirror her short-cropped auburn hair had a solid patch of white in it the size and shape of a rabbit’s foot. She brushed at it, pulled: White all the way to the roots. She tried to think if it had been like that last night. But, no, it couldn’t have.
She met her own gray gaze, saw the concern in her eyes, and lowered her eyelids before turning away. She went and lay beside him on her belly as if she might crawl back into her covers.
“Hey. Did something happen, was the flight back a rough one?” he asked. “I’ve heard of people’s hair turning white from fear.”
She knew that wasn’t the case. This had happened overnight. It was a moment before she turned her head and looked his way. “It’s your fault. Sex with you, that’s what did it. I didn’t have any white hair last night when I went to bed.”
“Sex with me.” He said it as if vaguely impressed that he could cause such a transformation.
“Well, was it white when you came to the door?” she teased.
He pondered a moment. “No, I don’t think it was. I didn’t notice anyway.”
“You see?”
His eyes went sly. “We need to repeat the experiment, to see if you’re right.”
She inhaled him. Her fingers went to the scarf. Her other hand started down the buttons of his shirt. “At least one more time,” she said.
— 7 —
Where the energy came from she could not say, but rather than exhausting her, the sex seemed to charge her battery. Even though they went slowly the second round, her whole being seemed to be humming with life. She wanted to bite Costin all over, and did finally, her teeth closed on his shoulder until he twitched, and she let go, aware that she’d lost control. She still wanted to bite him, but restrained the urge.
By the time he rolled aside, fully naked now, Ruksana’s fever and exhaustion had vanished, replaced with something like a pheromonal high.
“You know, I did come by for a reason,” he said, “I mean, another reason than this. I wanted to remind you that we’re performing in two nights.”
“The orchestra?”
“Yes. Dukas’ Ucenicul Vra˘jitor first, thena wonderful S¸ostakovici concerto for violoncel, and a Sibelius sinfonia to finish. Mihai Marica’s the soloist. It’s going to be stunning. And you love the cello.”
“Of course I’ll come,” she replied, “but I’m only going to hear your violin.”
“That’s right.” He ran a hand along her side and rested it against her hip. “Now, tell me about Antarctica. I want to hear everything about your periglacial …”
“Zones?”
“Yes, right.” He smiled sheepishly. “You see, without you here to quiz me all the time, I forget. I’ve missed you.” He leaned over and they kissed. She lost herself in the taste, some of it her own, some of it his.
Lying back, she said, “You want to know about Antarctica. But, you know, if you quizzed me all day long, I still couldn’t read music.”
“Okay, so make it simple for me. Just hum the melody. But I want to be part of everything with you.”
It took all her effort then to hold his sweet gaze and not tell him about the “everything” she was fairly certain he didn’t want to be part of. She took his hand from her hip, kissed his fingers. They tasted of her. She denied the swirl of arousal that stirred. She seemed to be on the verge of arousal today. “I’ll tell you all about it later,” she said as if to the hand. “Right now I just want to enjoy how you feel and smell.” She snuggled against him and closed her eyes. Behind her eyelids, she thought she could almost see his heartbeat.
