Suddenly his lips and tongue were against hers as he stroked her long brown hair.
Then he jerked back, upright in the drivers seat. He peered out the windshield. "I'm sorry," he said. "I don't know what happened." He swallowed. "I've never done anything like that before."
He stared at the leafless tree in the parking lot behind her parent's house, waiting for her to say something. When she didn't, he turned. She was leaning against the door; her quiet intense eyes pored over his face.
And then he felt like her was being pulled toward her, the way he had earlier, when it was like what he had always heard, like actually falling and not being able to catch himself. Only this time he wasn't surprised. He dove into her body, and forgot the voice inside.
She's kind of cute but not your type. She's in high school. She's eighteen. You're in college, god damn it, and three years older.
After several long minutes, she whispered, "I've got to go."
He watched her through the windshield, her full blue jeans, her loose wind breaker, her tall graceful walk. She went into the back of her parent's house and closed the door.
He sat there without moving in his old Rambler and then pounded his fists on the steering wheel. He gunned the car and drove off.
He kept giving her a lift in the afternoon and said he might be going to another college up north in a year. But she didn't seem to mind. In November when she got a job baby sitting, he came by often to help her. After the parents were gone and the children asleep, they began to loosen their clothes.
In December he took off her shirt, in January her skirt, in February her bra.
In March they drove to his small apartment.
Because his landlord didn't allow women, they locked the door, and pulled the shades down. Then they settled into each other's arms on the edge of his single bed. And he unbuttoned her blouse, she unbuckled his belt. Slowly, between caresses, they undressed each other down to their under pants.
Then he gave her several long kisses, questioning kisses before he went ahead and pulled off the rest. But when they saw each other naked for the first time, both of them looked away.
After some minutes he turned to her and asked her with his eyes, but she did not reply, did not say yes or no, was not afraid or encouraging. An hour later they put on their clothes and drove back into town, still virgins.
But at the end of the week, naked on his bed again, he guided her down onto the sheets. He put on a rubber. Then he felt them moving together like she was a part of him, her long hair resting lazily on her breasts. And he lowered himself down, holding her tight, becoming lost in her mouth. Later staring at the tiles on his ceiling, it was this kiss that he remembered.
And then she, curled half on top of him, raised herself up and reached for a book from the shelf behind his bed. Against the dark wall he saw her body like a soft light shining down on him. To his surprise, he caught his breath.
At sundown they rushed out and were surrounded by the scent of flowers blooming at his door. After that he found the fragrance of the spring mingled with his thoughts about her: the forsythias, the jasmine, and the white delicate dog woods.
At other times, she snuck out of her window to be with him in the evenings. They visited a college friend in the country, listening to rock albums and drinking wine. But they always seemed to fall asleep on the large couch. In the early morning when the cock crowed in the chicken yard next door, he would wake abruptly and drive her home quickly in the dawn.
By May in the afternoons it was hot in his place, both of them covered in sweat. He slid over her more than moved. He could feel all of her reaching up to him, surrounding, her wet breasts oily against him, her brown hair sticking to his skin. He licked the drops off her cheek and gave her salty kisses.
At the end of the semester, he heard from the college in the north. He would be transferring, so he gave up his apartment. One afternoon she helped him pack his books into boxes, and load the boards and bricks he used for shelves into the trunk of his car. They roped the mattress and springs to the top of his Rambler. He sold if for ten dollars to a used furniture store.
Later in New York, the picture of her he remembered was not what he expected: it was of her standing where their bed had been, dust pan in hand, sweeping the floor. He had the feeling she was trying to tell him something, but couldn't get around to it. When he thought about it, he realized they never had talked very much.
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