Clay
The heat was stifling. He couldn’t allow himself to pay again the high electricity bill of last month, so he preferred to keep the airco unit off. The overhead fan was just shoving the hot air around, carrying no other benefit than helping dry the sweat off his skin. Probably providing also a joyride for the mosquito nation, which in the process forgot to buzz close to his ears. So, some advantage to it nevertheless.
The window was open. Joshua dragged his feet to the kitchen enjoying the chill of the tiles, closed one eye as he opened the refrigerator door, to prevent the sudden flash of light from hurting his eyes, and popped open a bottle of soda. To hell with tooth brushing, he needed some chilly liquid and some stinging gas bubbles down his throat. He gulped half of the bottle’s content, placed it back on the rack and closed the fridge’s door. Blessed darkness again.
The window stood wide open, a scintillating hole in the barely visible wall. He approached it and placed his palms on the sill, inhaling deeply. Not much better than inside the room, actually the buzzing attacks he avoided inside became an audible nuisance close to the window. Damn, he cursed softly, slapping his ear.
She was there, same like every night, with very few exceptions on some weekends. The time was about 2:30am, and she was bent over the silently turning potter’s wheel, her feet keeping the steady rotation as her hands kept shaping the wet clay in a variety of rotary shapes. She wasn’t always working on the machine. A few times he spotted her working atop a wide, wooden table, kneading a large lump of clay and trying to shape it in something resembling human, probably one of the many figures she had up for sale in her courtyard. Rarely, she was just sitting on her swing, eyes closed, a cup of something or other in her hand, and swinging herself for hours. Crack-pot, thought Joshua, agreeing with random remarks he heard from people in the street, and smiling at the nice connotation. He knew that her eyes were closed on those occasions, since sometimes he watched her through binoculars, more fascinated than curious. He did not pick up the binoculars this time, just slapped himself several times around the ears trying to catch the pests looking for his blood, then retreated to the relative safety of the rotating fan and fell asleep.
Before leaving for work, around 6:30, he closed the window, more to try to keep the sun out than for any security reasons. At the third floor out of seven, there was not much risk of someone trying to get in this way. The porch across was deserted, some clay leftovers lying on the table, nothing on the potter’s wheel. The door to the house was closed, the habitual stray cat lying next to it warming its belly against some early stray sun rays. Yep, a family of strays - woman, cat, sun... Joshua locked the door behind him and rushed downstairs, eager to catch the early bus. He wanted to get the afternoon off and had to show a smiling face to his supervisor this morning. Does she ever sleep, he asked himself as he passed next to her garden’s gate just as a foot was pushing out a bowl, probably some food for the cat. Is she twenty, forty, sixty - was the other question which seemed to try finding place in his mind, as he dozed against the bus window, his nodding head banging from time to time on his chest.
*
There was nothing glamorous in shelving food products in the fresh vegetables department of a store. Be it even a big store. But it was a job, and Joshua was content with it. His male colleagues were few, his female colleagues were ugly and married, with one exception but she was gay and pregnant and his supervisor, they all had a lot of fun together in the breaks and sometimes even met for weekend barbeques. Normal. Actually it worked great for him, since he could bring a bottle of wine worth one buck and enjoy food worth twenty. And he had a good excuse for not organizing any himself - he lived in an apartments block.
Jessica, his supervisor, was okay with his afternoon off.
“Meeting the fat lady again?” The fat lady was in reality a nice looking client, a bit on the voluptuous side, and Joshua had a one night stand with her about three months back. It worked great for both, and there was no continuation. It became, however, the favorite tease for his colleagues. He did not mind. There were other before, other after, why did this one’s image stick with them?...
“Jealous?” he asked Jessica, caressing lightly her protruding belly. She laughed, patted his bottom in maternal manner - though she could almost have been his daughter in age, and moved towards the back of the store.
“Do me a favor, sue me for sexual harassment, I need the vacation,” she called back, disappearing in the ladies’ rest room.
It was the wrong time of the day. The wrong time, the wrong timing, the wrong moment for a hold-up, yet a hold-up it was. There were four of them, wearing ski masks and carrying snub nosed hand guns. They irrupted into the store five minutes after the doors opened, screaming “everybody on the floor, everybody on the floor...” and with everybody obeying immediately, two of them started opening the cash registers. Idiots, thought Joshua, lying on his belly like everybody else, there were hardly fifty bucks in the registers at this time, and most of it in small denominations and coins. But what did he care, it was the third hold-up in five months, and the store owners did not do anything about it except ensure there will be a cash collection every hour or so.
The robbers were hastily dumping the contents of the cash registers in plastic sacks, when the door to the back opened and Jessica appeared in the doorway, carrying a broom. One of the robbers turned around sharply. Joshua didn’t think, he didn’t have the time. He was close to the guy and kicked him in the shin. The shot followed and a mayhem of screams and curses started throughout the shop as the robbers rushed to the door and out into the street. Joshua got hastily up and rushed towards a visibly shaken Jessica.
“Are you okay?” he asked, touching her everywhere for signs of wounds. She looked up at him, almost in a daze, grabbed him by the nape of the neck and took possession of his mouth in a kiss as deep and as wet as possible, tongue and all.
“If you were a woman,” she whispered, “I would have fucked you right here right now right into the floor.” She took a step back, still shaking. “Joshua, you are bleeding.”
He became suddenly aware of a wet sleeve which was bothering him, and looked down at a red pool accumulating at his feet. Then he crumbled.
*
It was a long four day stretch, before he could return home. Hospital, police, interrogations, journalists. At first he was blamed with endangering the lives of the store’s personnel and clients by irresponsibly provoking one of the robbers into a shoot-out (one shot became a shoot-out), the shop manager calling him a heel. Then the more objective police officers, watching the security cameras videos at reduced speed and high zoom settings, clearly identified the motion of the robber that was kicked by Joshua as raising the hand and pulling the hammer and starting to squeeze the trigger in one fluent motion just as the kick got him in the shins. He might have hit Jessica or he might have not, the intent was there and the kick just made him lose his balance and aim, hitting Joshua in the arm. The same store manager then called Joshua his hero, and offered him a prize of five hundred dollars and two weeks paid leave, for recovery. To this, the store personnel added a collective donation of one hundred seventy five dollars and fifty cents, and Joshua was suddenly rich. It was Jessica, who brought him the money to the hospital, on the evening of the day he was discharged.
“If it is a boy, I will call him Joshua,” she said, placing Joshua’s hand on her belly.
“And if it is a girl?”
“I will call her Joshua,” she said, smiling.
“Wouldn’t it be a bit cruel on her, carrying such a name through life?” he asked, smiling back. “My name is Sue, how do you do?...” he tried to mimic Johnny Cash, succeeding in the words but failing in the tune.
“Thanks to you, she will have a life to carry her name through.”
He reached his apartment late that night, a hospital nurse having dropped him at the corner of his street on her way home. He opened the door into the stuffy room, opened the window, turned on the overhead fan and turned on the light. Then he remembered the mosquitoes and hastily turned it off again. He did not feel like bed. Took a soda bottle from the fridge, leaned on the window sill and watched down into the pottery courtyard. She was there, what else, working. It was the first time he saw her using a paint spray-can. She was busy making rotary movements across a large piece of some material, then placed the can on the table and lifted the thing up. Joshua almost choked on his soda. The painted side was turned toward his building, and he could clearly read, written in big letters - come here. He turned rigid, feeling the blood drain from his face and moved away from the window. What the hell, how did she spot him? And was it directed to him, at all? Who else, you idiot, was the other voice in his head, as he resolutely went to the fridge, picked two cans of beer, locked the door behind him and descended to the street.
He approached the gate to the house, opened it, expecting it to creak like in ghost movies but feeling it move on smoothly oiled hinges, closed it carefully behind him and approached the porch. She was busy kneading a huge piece of clay on the table, smudges of a variety of colors on her face and clothing, sweat dropping in large rivulets from her face to her neck and chest. Her faded t-shirt was stained with big sweat stains, which did not seem to bother her. A few mosquito candles were lighted around, trying to keep the pests away.
He approached, popped open one can of beer and handed it over.
“Thanks,” she said, taking it in a sticky hand and gulping thirstily. How old was she? Joshua reduced his range, making it forty to sixty, leaning more on the forty-five. Not beautiful yet pleasant, hair dyed a burning red and tied in a small bun, a bit on the plump side, thin fingers however muscular arms... It was all he could absorb of her physiognomy before she lowered her head from the gulping position and handed him back the can. “It’s only clay, not contagious,” she smiled. “Sit over in the swing, while I change to something more presentable.” He took the sticky can in his left hand and went to the swing, laid both cans on the table and sat on the left cushion of the three. He swayed himself lazily, looking upstairs to his apartment’s window. It lay almost straight ahead, higher up of course. There was some soft light in the apartment. “Shit, didn’t fully close the fridge door,” he thought, pissed off at himself. “Now the mosquitoes will follow my polar star and enjoy the chilly weather before doing their best to murder me.” He chuckled, thinking about closing the door on them and trapping them in the fridge, even at the price of smearing mosquito-spiced margarine on his bread, next day.
She was back inside five minutes. The same she, yet somehow different. The bun changed to loose hair hanging down to her shoulders, a touch of lipstick, a short skirt underneath a white t-shirt - she clearly removed her bra since her breasts were bouncing loose and her nipples were slightly showing, barefoot. She stopped by her beer can, finished it, then wiped her hands on a towel hanging near by. She offered him the towel and he wiped the clay from his hand as much as he could.
“You don’t drink your beer?” she asked. He nodded his head absent mindedly and she picked up the second can, opened it and drank it fully. Then dropped both cans in a trash basket and sat down on the swing next to him. Not on the right hand cushion. He did not mind, she smelled nicely of freshly used lavender soap with a tinge of wet clay thrown in. “So now you are a hero, are you? After starting a nobody, going through heel and ending hero.” She added, seeing his surprised look. “I watch TV too, from time to time. Especially before going to bed. Great soporific. Though your event rattled me a bit. Did not know I lived next to a potential hero, who finally materialized into a real one. Want to drink something?”
“Yes, a beer if you do not mind.” She laughed shortly, went into the house and returned with a can of beer and one of coke.
“The coke is for me, need some sugar in my blood.” She handed him his can and they both popped the cans together, gulping noisily. She burped softly, “...sorry, coke always does it to me.”
“How did you know?” asked Joshua, gulping another mouthful.
“That you live up there?” Without waiting for confirmation she got up again, took a battered leather box from a pile of probable junk, and brought it back to the swing. It had some text on it that Joshua recognized as Cyrillic. “Russian. Night vision. Paid one hundred and seven bucks for it. You didn’t think you were the only citizen with binoculars permit, did you?” Luckily it was relatively dark where they were sitting and his blush was probably invisible. He brought the can again to his mouth, more to have a reason for not answering than that he was in immediate need for another swig. “I watched you several times too, I had even a better view due to the better hardware.” She laughed shortly again. “Want it? This will make your life easier when looking this way. By the way, what kind of a name is that - Joshua Stalin?”
Joshua felt embarrassed, kind of trapped, and for whatever reason he did not mind. As long as his neighbor did not make a big issue out of his peeping activity, why should he? And she admitted shamelessly to same.
“You know my name, I don’t know yours,” he answered, looking her for the first time straight in the face. From close by she was almost beautiful, eye color difficult to define, a bit of grayish hair pushing at the roots, nice round lips, nice white though slightly crooked teeth. She did not wear any kind of jewelry - earrings, necklace, rings, not even a watch.
“Sophia. Sophia Menko.”
“Bulgarian?”
“Actually... yes, of Bulgarian origins. Was Makarenko, but sounded too, well, Bulgarian, so my parents decided to slightly change it. And you? Stalin?”
It was his turn to laugh, this strange encounter was turning to be more light mooded than he expected. From close quarters she did not look like much of the crack-pot image he built in his mind.
“It is not Stalin, but Stalijn. Of some obscure Dutch origins. Five generations back and we lost all track of our ancestry. My friends call me Jojo.”
"My friends don’t call me Soso,” she smiled. “They call me Sophia. You may.”
“Because I am not your friend?”
“Because you are a hero. Heroes enjoy privileges in my house. Like the privilege of getting a sandwich, if they ask for it. Do you ask for a sandwich?”
He was hungry. The hospital food was good for weight watchers, not healthy humans, and they adamantly refused any topping up’s. It was possible only against a surcharge or for those with a more expensive insurance, sorry. Hero or no hero, it did not help him much.
“Yes, a big one please.”
“Big sandwich on the way...” She disappeared in the house for a full quarter of an hour, and now, that the word food was mentioned, his stomach started protesting loudly. When she emerged she held two plates in her hands, each laid with three inches of bread slices topped with meat topped with vegetables topped with hard boiled eggs, cold meat cuts... “Still alive? If not, I can finish both, you know?”
He could hardly finish his. Either his stomach adapted to the hospital size rations or maybe it was too much, he did not finish it. She finished hers, licked her fingers from the crawling leftovers of mayo and ketchup, picked the rests from his plate and threw them unceremoniously in the garden.
“Don’t worry, it is not wasted. The mice, the cat, someone will have a good day tomorrow. Or actually today.”
He took it as a hint.
“I think I better go, I need some sleep and I guess so do you.” he was not so sure about her, but now, on a full stomach, his eyes started getting sticky.
“Do you mind showing me, before you go?” The unexpected question shot a few drops of adrenalin in his blood.
“Show you what?”
“The wound. You were shot, no?” He was not certain what to do. He could have refused, he could have stood up and walked away. He remained sitting and pulled his shirt over his head. For a moment he was ashamed of his slightly bulging belly, of the few grey hairs on his chest. She clearly didn’t have eyes except for the thick bandage surrounding his upper arm. The flesh around it was bluish in color, a larger area smeared with the reddish tint of antiseptic. She touched the bandage lightly, it did not really hurt at that moment.
“Did it hurt?”
“I don’t know, I guess I fainted before I had time to think about it. I was lucky, it seems, the bullet did not harm the muscle, chipped just a bit of bone they had to extract, and hit the vein. It did not hurt much but I could have died very fast from blood loss. I was lucky, you can say.”
“They where lucky too,” she added, mists invading her eyes, and he hated the emotional moment.
“Yes, they got away with their loot. The police are still looking for them.”
“No, not them. That woman you saved.”
“Well, maybe, he might have missed.”
“You saved two lives, my friend Jojo. This is priceless.” She suddenly bent over and kissed him on the cheek, then stood up, clearly embarrassed. Joshua stood up as well, eager to break the embarrassing moment for himself as well. “My father died in Nam, you know? My lover died in Nam, too. Nobody appreciates it. Seems that only their families consider them heroes, these days. They died saving lives.” The mist persisted, getting heavy. “They called me Soso, both of them.”
“Good night, Sophia.” Joshua turned to go, and turned back feeling a slight tap on his shoulder.
“You forgot this”. Her outstretched hand held the box with the Russian inscriptions on it. He took it, after a moment’s hesitation, looking into her eyes. They were deeply blue, he finally could see them. “Please, Jojo, do you mind calling me Soso?” The voice was not imploring, the eyes were.
“Good night, Soso.” The oiled gate closed noiselessly behind him. The light on the porch turned off just as he was entering the door to his building.
*
For the following couple of days, Joshua left his apartment very few times. He disconnected his telephone, since he started getting calls from the most obscene to the most enticing of promises, and he was in no mood for any kind of subliminal or physical experimenting. He went a few times to a nearby grocery to buy some food and drinks, then back to his bed with either a book or some TV. He was in a strange mood. He could have called some of his recent feminine flings for a night of sex and no tomorrow, just the way both sides preferred it, but inexplicably he refuted the idea. He refused to abuse his newly, and most probably short lived, status of hero, and in addition his arm was hurting like hell. Was it all?
On his third day of forced vacation he descended around 2pm, and read carefully the text engraved on the tile nailed to his neighbor’s gate. It said “Opening hours 5-7pm”. He went to the grocery shop, bought a ready made, cheap flowers bouquet and a box of chocolates, then returned home and went to sit on a bench in the miniature park just across the street. The air was relatively cool under the trees, a soft breeze caressed his skin, there were birds and butterflies around, looked like he wasted his time sitting home with his TV on most of the time. He thought of nothing, just waited, dozing on and off.
At 3 o’clock, almost sharply on the second, he saw a young man, tanned, muscled, almost a Chippendale type, pushing the gate to the pottery yard, mounting the porch stairs and leaning on the bell’s button next to the door. The door opened almost instantly and the man entered, the door closing behind him. Joshua rested alert, waiting to see when the man would come out. Around twenty minutes later another man entered the courtyard, mounted the stairs to the porch, looked at his watch and then sat on a bench next to the door. This man was relatively aged, dressed simply, smoking incessantly. At 3:30 the door opened and the first man got out without looking around him, he seemed in a hurry and was just finishing buttoning his shirt on his way to the gate. The second one got in and the door closed. At 4 o’clock a third man, aged probably the same like the second but dressed much better, followed in the courtyard. Joshua stood up, dumped the flowers in a nearby trash bin, and ran the stairs up to his apartment, eating the chocolates on the way.
He got into the apartment, closed tightly the window and the shades, turned on the airco and the TV, and watched the images on the screen unseeing, munching the chocolates automatically, one after the other. He was angry, and he had no reason to be. He went to the telephone, reconnected it and tried to call several numbers with no success. He slammed the receiver in the cradle and it rang.
“Hi, sweetie, are you the guy who kicked the shit out of that mugger? Are you busy tonight? Maybe...”
“Fuck you!” he mumbled with no particular intonation into the mouthpiece and returned the receiver to its cradle, pulling the wire out of the wall.
The following two days he did not go out at all. He had enough food and drinks in his fridge, so he stayed hone, the airco’s full blast drowning even the TV’s noise. He tried again one of his past girl affairs, this time catching her, however the answer “going steady” closed any prospect to a wild night of fire and forgetfulness. He did not connect his telephone again, and did not pull up the window shades again, leaving just a slight crack for some air to enter the room. The two weeks passed. On the last evening before his return to work he heard strong hammering from the general direction of the pottery. It was quite unusual, as mostly she worked extremely quietly, probably to prevent any complaint from the neighbors. He peaked through the crack, lights closed behind him, and saw that she was just finishing to nail to the porch frame the painted piece of cardboard on which she had written - come here. There was just an exclamation mark added after the here. She seemed to be looking upwards towards his window, a frown on her face, then she descended from the chair and started kneading the clay on the big table, her t-shirt soaking with sweat. He lay back on the bed, turned on the TV and watched the beautiful presenter who was promising some more sweltering weather for the coming days. “Fuck you, whore!” he said mindlessly, unknowledgeable of who his target was.
Returning to the store was, in some ways, a blessing. First and foremost the store was air-conditioned and this, in itself, was an invaluable benefit. He did not ask for and did not expect any favors to come his way, actually he volunteered more often than not to stay overtime and fill in for any of his colleagues that needed some time out, and this added to his popularity even further. A few of the store’s female clients tried to pick him up in subtle or less subtle ways, but his earlier rage subsided and a vague melancholy settled over him. Sex was not on his mind. He joined the sisterhood on an evening out, going to a weepy movie followed by a late junk-food dinner, which filled him up to a point of almost throwing up. One of them, as ugly as the others but the owner of a divine body, divorced just two days ago and mother to four, proposed to drive him home. It was past midnight and no public transport was available. Except taxis, but these were beyond his pocket’s capability. All the way home she tried to push her hand between his legs, tapping, caressing, nothing happened.
“Hey, Jojo, what’s the matter. Some clients were raving about you. What’s the matter, black pussy don’t talk to you?”
“Angela, please stop the car.” She stopped the car along the sidewalk, watching him strangely. He released the safety belt, leaned over pushing his hand under her skirt and inside her panties, while his mouth bit into hers savagely. Then he let go and opened the passenger’s door. “You were always a wet dream for me, Angela. But not today, sorry, I am exhausted. Good night, love. I’ll finish it on foot.” He closed the door gently, and started walking. The night was clear and starry, the air was chilly and pleasant... The car passed him by slowly, with Angela blowing him a kiss then accelerating away.
He reached his apartment at half past one, not even looking the pottery way. He mounted the stairs slowly, fumbling for the keys. Sophia was lying on the mattress in front of the door, curled up, sleeping. She hugged against her chest a six pack of import beer, tied in cross with a yellow ribbon. Joshua crouched close to her, touching her shoulder lightly.
“Sophia...”
She opened her eyes, disoriented for a moment.
“Sophia?” she asked quietly, sitting up, disappointment in her face.
“Soso...” he repeated, and she took his hand from her shoulder and kissed his finger tips.
“Your fingers smell of pussy,” she whispered, keeping them against her lips.
“Yes, yours.” There was sudden rage in his mind and his body. He pulled her up to her feet, unlocking the door at the same time, and dragged her inside kicking the door behind them. Their mouths were already savaging each other, as one of his hands pushed against the thin skirt fabric trying to penetrate through it in between her thighs while his other hand was pulling savagely at his trousers’ belt. She wore no panties, no bra. Within seconds she lay naked underneath him and he wasn’t even completely undressed when he penetrated her giving body, muffled bellows escaping their throats like slaughtered animals voicing a last prayer.
He got off the bed, undressed completely and ranged both their clothes on a chair. Then he brought over the six pack, opening a can for each.
“Warm,” she said.
“Divine,” he said.
They gulped each the can to its full, then Joshua got off the bed again and started rummaging in between the mess of clothes in his wardrobe until he finally returned victoriously, carrying a crumpled pack of cigarettes in his hand.
“Do you smoke?” she asked.
“Never touched the stuff before. Kept them for guests. You?”
“Never touched the stuff before. Never had guests.” He lighted two cigarettes, handing her one, then lay on his back with her head on his belly, one hand holding the cigarette, the other playing times with her hair, times with her nipples. They kept puffing and coughing, sounding more like two people afflicted with a terminal case of tuberculosis than like two people who had just visited the outskirts of Eden. “Are you going to tell me?” she asked, pulling in a long, last puff in and handing him the stub. He dropped both stubs into one of the empty beer cans, then got up and went to the window opening it wide and pulling the shades all the way up. The lights in the pottery courtyard were still on. The written invitation was still there, nailed to the wood. And five others – one written vertically, one upside down, one in a foreign language, that he guessed to be French...
He returned to the bed, placing her head again on his belly.
“How do you know there is something to tell?” he asked.
“It is written all over you. Tell, nothing can be worse than this cigarette we just smoked.”
Joshua leaned down and attacked her mouth again, their tongues fighting, stretching, sucking the other’s mouth dry.
“Soso, I know. I don’t care. I don’t know if I love you but I don’t care.”
She sat upright, facing him, her breasts hanging heavy yet firm, blue spots starting to develop around the dark red areolae.
“You know what? You don’t care what?” She popped open another can of beer, her hand shaking slightly, her regard intense, sharp. Joshua bent over and kissed her again.
“I know you’re a whore, Soso. I know. I don’t care.”
Her intensity of regard did not change. Her trembling subsided.
“How did you learn about it, Jojo? Tell me, please.” Her voice soft, calm. Almost indifferent.
“I saw men entering your house in the afternoon, at a time when your shop is closed. Several of them, one after the other. Some of them finished dressing just on their way out. See? I saw them myself, Soso.”
Sophia placed the can of beer on the table next to the bed. Then she slapped him. Twice, with all her force, same hand, same cheek.
Joshua closed his eyes, tears streaming from them, with pain, with hope. He was slapped many times in his life, never did a slap feel as wonderful as this time. He opened his eyes, she was dressing.
“Are you going?”
She did not answer immediately. She finished putting on her shoes, passed a few times her fingers through her hair, went to the bathroom to wash her mouth with a few mouthfuls of water, then returned to pull a chair and sit down, watching him.
“Joshua, you are Jewish, aren’t you?”
“How do you know?”
“I have eyes, don’t I?”
He pulled the bed sheet, covering his lower part of the body self-conscientiously, still uncertain where she was leading to.
“I could be Moslem, or English royal, or a nut case.”
“Yes, you could. I could be a Michael Jackson reincarnation.” She did not smile, she did not expect him to smile either, and he didn’t. “I am not. Neither a reincarnation of Michael nor Jewish, yet I followed once an interesting lesson by an orthodox rabbi. Your Talmud claims that one should never blame someone with murder, even if he is seen entering a cave with a knife in his hand and coming out with the knife full of blood and in the cave lies a dead man, with a knife wound. You know why, Joshua?” She waited. He did not answer. “Yes, you are right. As bigger the crime as bigger the punishment as bigger the benefit of doubt.” She stood up. “Jojo, please dress.”
They descended the stairs, hand in hand. Joshua felt like a schoolboy in the presence of his teacher, embarrassed to shame yet hungry for the words about to come. Sophia’s hand was crushing his fingers, and through them she was crushing his heart.
“My body was invaded only by three men. The first time was intercourse. Age twelve. With the one who raped me. The second one was love. Age seventeen. With the one who was my first, greatest love. The third was passion, desire, dream. Age forty-five.” She was quiet.
“With the one?...”
“With the one I hoped would be my last love.”
The sting was unbearable, more than the stinging cheek, more than the crushed fingers.
“Hoped?”
She did not lift her head from his shoulder.
“Hope.”
*
She unlocked the door and turned on the light. The entry room was probably the shop. There were many shelves with a variety of glazed clay or ceramics – the run of the mill of such shops: decorative plates, ashtrays, vases of a variety of sizes, shapes and colors. A long desk was densely covered with ceramic jewelry, mainly earrings and necklaces. The prices were ridiculously low, ranging for half a dollar to a maximum of five.
Joshua walked around slowly, curious, and she waited patiently until he toured the room twice.
“I see you don’t believe in point ninety-nine cents.”
“I don’t believe in cheating people.”
“And these?” He was in front of several shelves, clearly not for public sale, each item with a note hanging from it by a short wire.
“These are specific orders. Some people like to have a certain design and I create it for them. Some of them are even incrusted with really expensive stones – sapphires, emeralds, even diamonds.” She approached him and took him by the hand, guiding him to another, bigger room. “Come.” The momentary shock was immense. The room was almost empty, except for a corner of it where a number of naked, dark looking people watched them with an intense stare. Joshua felt the hair at the nape of his neck rising, followed by a shiver that shuddered through his body leaving his skin a mess of prickly goose bumps. “You just paid me an immense compliment,” she laughed, squeezing his hand.
Joshua regained his footing fast, half embarrassed, half thrilled. The third, undisclosed and unreal half being the beginning of a sentiment of happiness, some pieces of the Sophia puzzle starting to fall in place with the smoothness of well oiled rotary bearings.
“Wax?”
“Clay.”
“Impossible.”
He approached the frozen figures, so clearly human that he touched them to make sure that they were not some pantomime artists posing there just for his benefit. They were alive to the point of individual pubic hairs and the tiny bumps on the women’s areolas. There were seven men and four women. In another corner of the room, behind a curtain, six more figures were clearly work in process. A table contained several piles of pictures, all of them of naked men and women in a variety of positions and from a variety of angles, with a large quantity of close-ups.
“A big order from the Museum of Natural History. Five thousand dollars apiece. They build a real life size Roman village, a five year project, and need about one hundred of these. Still a lot of work ahead of me. There are also horses, dogs, pigs to create. I have won the tender and have exclusivity over the project. A horse will be at ten thousand dollars, a pig at five hundred.”
“Cockroaches?”
“Cast. Two dollars a piece.”
He intended it as a joke, seemed he missed the mark.
“I guess they will all be dressed, why do you go into such details with their bodies, down to their intimate parts?”
“I am a perfectionist. It was part on my tender’s offer, take it or leave it. And still cheaper than the other pottery or wax shops contending for the job.”
Joshua was still frowning, puzzled, moving carefully between the figures and inspecting closely a variety of details which seemed absolutely unnecessary yet present in the most realistic of fashions – scars, pimples, calvities, even broken nails.
“I read once a thriller, or maybe it was a movie, don’t remember clearly, where someone was killing people, embalming the bodies, and then coating them with some substance so that the result looked like the most realistic of statues?” He looked at her, half joking, half serious, as he descended to his knees examining a woman’s pregnancy stretch marks on the belly.
There was movement behind him and he saw Sophia approaching, a hammer raised above her head, a strange, sparkling look in her eyes, and before he had time to cower under his raised arm the hammer descended in a deafening din of breakage and dust.
The naked woman’s head split into several shapeless ceramic shards, which fell on the floor around him. Joshua got up and retreated a few paces, bewildered. Sophia dropped the hammer, and looked at him with drilling directness.
“Sorry, I cannot take jokes about death. I couldn’t harm a fly. I killed a man.” She advanced towards him, took him by the hand and pulled him to another room. A big construction in the corner of the room with a large metal door was emanating extreme heat. A big pile of broken clay, clearly discarded human figures, lay in another corner behind a dense metallic fence.
“The oven?” Joshua was in control of his voice and wits once again. All signs of any kind of apprehension left his mind like vaporizing mist, and a renewed wave of uncontrollable desire swept his body.
“It is called kiln. It is a specially built model, according to my specifications. It accepts a human sized figure in its entirety and I can program in it the temperature and air currents according to my wish. I developed a firing process that no other pottery crack-pot...” Joshua laughed involuntarily... “can accommodate with their kilns for now, therefore my quality is much superior to theirs. I also use some own developed mixes of clay and chemistry. The art is not only in shaping, it is also and mainly in finishing. All this costs me a fortune in electricity, of course, I am glad I got this museum deal or I would have gone broke.”
“And this? Refuse? Damaged figures?” Joshua pointed to the pile of broken clay behind the metallic fence, clearly pieces of fully finished figures.
“This? My rapist. Still at large, never to be caught, I am afraid.” She shivered, before looking up at him, her blue clouding again but not with pain, rather with wistfulness. “I build him, then, I break him with a hammer, again and again and again. Joshua, will you model for me?”
“Now?”
“Now.”
His embarrassment at his evident physical desire did not prevent him from accepting with no hesitation. She was not embarrassed in the least as she started undressing him and arranged his clothes nicely on hangers in the room containing the clay figures.
“Do you undress all your models?” he asked, smiling weakly. She raised her had to his face, not slapping but rather caressing.
“The other models I pay. They are professionals, there’s nothing to be embarrassed with for them, certainly no in the way your primitive body reacts.” She kissed him swiftly, then adopted a pure professional approach as she started taking pictures of him, telling him to turn this way or that, zooming in on a variety of body specifics – his few scars, his ears, his fingernails, his genitalia...
“I saw you render all your figures true to life, I even saw a woman with a cesarean cut. I don’t think that the Romans were practicing cesarean cuts. And I don’t think they were circumcised either, you’ll probably have to remodel this part of my body.” Any residue of embarrassment left him, he even enjoyed the session and the attention she was paying to a variety of details on his body, a tinge of jealousy passing nevertheless through him when he thought about the other models who received a similar treatment.
“They probably did practice cesarean cuts, but on dead mothers, in order to save the babies. And I see no problem with your circumcision,” she said, lightly kissing the subject of the discussion and drawing a blushing response, “since their Hebrew slaves were circumcised.”
Joshua couldn’t take it any longer. He pulled the camera gently from her hands, pulled her skirt up and forgot all his worldly worries in a few minutes of shared flesh frenzy.
They swayed slowly on the swing in the courtyard. He put on just his pants and his shirt, she put on a long cotton nightie, her forms clearly discernible through the thin material. He sat on the leftmost cushion, she lay on the other two, her head in his lap. His left foot was pushing on the ground from time to time, the swing oscillating in long, slow motions. Her eyes were closed. She started talking.
“My mother died at birth. My father never remarried. Who would be crazy enough to share the life of a professional soldier? He dedicated his life to his career and his daughter. He was my guardian angel.” They moved from military camp to military camp, her father, Major Phil, being a marines’ trainer in face to face combat. The women in his life were few and never more than transient events. He always asked for her permission when he was going out for a date, he used to call her his little guardian angel. “At age twelve we were stationed already one year at camp Lejeune. I had many friends outside of the camp. One night I was returning from a movie. It was not so late, about 9pm. On my way to the bus station I was attacked by two youngsters, white. It wasn’t even fully dark yet. They dragged me to a bushed area, ripped my clothing and one of them raped me, at knife point. The second one was about to rape me letting the knife fall next to me. I grabbed it and stabbed him in the chest. The one who raped me ran away. He was never caught.”
She turned on her right side, burying her face in his shirt, crying, shivering. She refused to stop talking, even though Joshua tried to coax her into a pause. She just blew her nose in his shirt’s lapels, and continued. She wanted it off her chest and he decided to let her.
Her father was devastated. She was interned in an institution dealing with raped children, and luckily the military subsidized her stay there. She found out she was pregnant, at three months however she lost the foetus. Her recovery was slow, for two years it was touch and go between insanity and normalcy. Then Richard, Rich, appeared in her life. He was a temporary intern, helping the institution with menial tasks, yet his greatest gift was his cheerfulness. It was the first human she met after her rape, who succeeded to make her laugh. At age sixteen she was released, being considered sufficiently recovered to be able to join life once more, under the supervision of her father. It was in this institution that she learned the basics of clay handling.
Her father took to a fatherly love towards Richard, and persuaded him to join the marines. It wasn’t difficult – Richard was pure grain patriot, same like her father. She and Rich became lovers, and they had their first intimate encounter when she reached seventeen. Richard was about to finish boot camp, and getting ready to be shipped overseas. She insisted in making love to him, physical love and physical abandon, they were madly in love with each other, like in Hollywood classics, he used to say. Like in reality – she used to say. She told her father. He just listened, blessed them both with his kiss, saying that he didn’t give a damn about legalities and regulations – his daughter’s happiness comes first and foremost and only.
She and Rich made love three times. They did not do any plans for the future, there was no need, the plans were implied in their relationship. Rich was flown over the Vietnam on October, 17. On March, 22 he was shipped back in a plastic bag. Her father waited until she was past eighteen, and settled in a small apartment, with a relatively safe job in a pottery atelier. Then he volunteered for service overseas as well. He flew over on November, 10. One year later, on November 11, he was flown back in a plastic bag.
“My two men, those that I loved more than anything else. My two heroes, dead.”
She sat up, and went to the bathroom. Joshua heard her blowing her nose, muffled sounds of crying penetrating outside. He tried to follow her, but the door was latched. He forced the flimsy latch open and found her sitting on the john, her body bent, head on knees, crying convulsions shaking her shoulders incessantly. He lifted her up gently.
“Where is your bedroom, you did not show me this one yet?’ Her sobs were interrupted by a short laughter and she squeezed tighter into him, as she guided him to her bedroom. The bed was not made. He pulled the thin bed sheet away, pulled her nightie over her head and tucked her under the sheet. He identified the airco’s controls and turned it on, putting it on low speed.
“Will you stay?’ she asked, eyes closed.
“No, have to go to work. Soso...”
“Yes.”
“Do you think you love me, Soso?”
She did not respond immediately.
“No, I don’t think so. I am lonely. I think I fall in love with you. I think I am too old for you. How old are you, Jojo? Do you love me, Jojo?”
It was all said in one breath, and he did not feel any need to answer in similar order, neither was he capable of it.
“No, I don’t think so. I have to think. I don’t know if I am ready. Thirty three.”
“You know, you could have been my son,” she whispered.
“It would have been one hell of a hot incestuous relationship. Don’t think my congregation’s rabbi would have agreed. I would have had to bribe him.”
Her breathing was getting regular. She laughed shortly.
“Neither my congregation’s confessional priest. Hey, Jojo.”
“Yes, Soso.”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For making me laugh.”
*
They avoided meeting each other for the following few days. Embarrassed? Accumulated discomfort? Too much too fast too early? Joshua didn’t change much his habits, except that he dropped his regular flirting habits to inexistent, and kept volunteering for overtime work as much as possible, He bought all his needs from the store, so that he did not have to leave his apartment to go the neighborhood’s grocery shop. Sophia removed all the cardboard inscriptions from her porch and seemed to have returned to the routine of either kneading lumps of clay or bending over the potter’s wheel with that watchmaker’s precision he knew her capable of.
Angela moved her aspirations towards a newcomer, a handsome black, young college guy who was filling in for a sick worker, so Joshua did not need anymore to maneuver himself out of an unpleasant situation. Five days later Jessica arrived at noon, later than usual, all shining with self importance. She went straight to Joshua, and repeated the kiss she had delivered the first time, leaving him a bit dizzy and smiling questioningly.
“It’s a girl, daddy sweet,” she laughed happily. “A beautiful girl, oh my God, I am so delighted.”
“So I guess you came back to your senses, on the subject of her name,” he smiled back, caressing her belly. She retorted almost angrily.
“No way. You gave her life, man, she should carry your name. In some ways you are as important to us both as the anonymous sperm donor. And you, I know. Oh, I wish, I wish you were a woman,” which did not prevent her from kissing him in third the same like the previous two. “Now I need to find a charm or something to keep her from harm.” She patted his bottom, it was getting a habit with her, then moved on to tell the good news to the “girls”.
That day Joshua did not volunteer for overtime. He made sure he got back home in time for the opening hours of the pottery shop, waiting impatiently for five o’clock. At five and five minutes he was stepping into the cluttered room, and found to his amazement that there were already about ten people there. Two of them discussing with Sophia, the rest scanning the offers around. Her eyes sparkled when she saw him, but she continued her discussion with her clients until they shook hands and left. She approached him.
“Anything I can do for you, sir?” She was dressed smartly, even elegantly, high heeled black shoes, a narrow black skirt with a white silk blouse tucked in, a colorful scarf around her neck, one row of pearls descending inside her cleavage, pearls hanging from her ears at the end of inch long golden chains. The only concession to her trade being a ceramic broche on her blouse, butterfly shaped and with two sapphires – were these diamonds? – as eyes. Joshua was partly stunned, partly admirative.
“I would like to place an order with the lady of the house, if possible.”
“Oh.” She looked positively surprised, enchanted, and smiled invitingly, taking him by the elbow to a corner of the shop. “What would you like to order, Jojo?”
“My parents are of North African origin, and in our, or rather their tradition there is a symbol called hamsa which is supposed to bring luck to those who hang it in their house or wear it around their neck.
“I know what a hamsa is. Do you want me to create one for you?”
“No, not for me. Could you please create a hamsa pendant, small, beautifully designed, and incrust in it this sapphire as well? It is something I kept from my mother, may she rest in peace.”
“Oh, this must be for a very special occasion, I guess.” Sophia smiled, taking the sapphire from his hand and watching it intently. Her voice had a slight trill to it. “For when do you want it?”
“Oh, yes, this is a very special occasion. Would it be possible for this week?” He kissed her happily on the cheek. He was suddenly in a great mood.
“It will have to be for tomorrow. Even tomorrow early. I will do it for you. I am leaving, tomorrow afternoon.”
His great mood dispersed like morning’s breeze.
“Leaving, what do you mean leaving? Leaving where? Why?” She took him by the elbow to a remote side of the room, far from the clients which kept pouring in.
“No, not leaving forever, silly. Leaving for a month. Going to Washington, will stay with friends from my father’s unit. There is a commemoration ceremony at the VVMW – the Vietnam Wall. I have two heroes to commemorate, as you know.” The tear was not late in following. He collected it with his knuckle, kissed the knuckle, and left. Showing that his heart was breaking was not yet in his plans, though living through its breakage was impossible to avoid.
He rushed back to the store, exceptionally taking a cab and hoping to find Jessica still around. She was there, in her small office, busy with paperwork. Her eyes lighted, seeing him come in.
“Hey, Jojo, thought I gave you the rest of the day off. What are you doing here?”
“Jess, I have the right charm for you. The most perfect the most beautiful the most lucky charm you could ever have. Cross my heart. Tomorrow, before noon, you go to this address...” he scribbled hastily on a piece of paper, “... and ask for a hamsa. Here, I write it for you, h-a-m-s-a. This will protect you and your daughter against the evil eye, against Alzheimer’s, against hurricanes and getting fired.” He leaned over the desk and kissed her on the cheek.
“Jojo, are you ok? You look kinda flustered? You run a fever or something?”
“Yes, in a terrible place. I am in love, woman.”
He almost danced out of the room. There, he said it. Wrong place wrong time wrong person... he said it. He rushed over to the DIY department and bought a can of red spray paint and a large, rolled, cardboard sheet, went to Angela’s till and waited patiently until his turn arrived, paid and leaned over kissing her intimately and interminably on the mouth... “I wish you luck, Angel...” then ran away to a mix of Angela’ic swooning sighs and high voiced complaints from the heavy-set matron following in the queue.
He took a cab the return way as well, “what the hell, it is only money...” rushed up to his apartment, spread the cardboard on the floor and painted on it in big letters: I LOVE YOU. After a moment’s hesitation he added to it an exclamation mark, and two moments later another two. Then he opened the window, leaned dangerously outside and nailed it to the window frame. Five minutes later he was asleep, the big decision behind him.
He woke up to work next morning, peeked from behind his cardboard, a smile spreading on his face when he saw a big 2 on a single cardboard piece attached to the porch, next to an even bigger smiley.
The day rolled on. He had a full month to adapt to the idea of losing his independence, and – not really surprisingly – he found that it bothered him less than expected. Jessica left around noon and returned two hours later, red eyed and blowing her nose incessantly. She hugged him so hard that he got worried she might squash the life budding inside her belly. The hamsa hanging around her neck was thin, small, sparkling with tiny crystals placed in circles around the middle sapphire, the chain was thin, probably gold... God bless you sweet Soso, thought Joshua, returning Jessica’s hug with almost similar force.
That night he went out with the girls again, saw another weepy, danced with them in a “female patrons only” club, having them force the massive bouncers to allow him in, and finally allowing Angela to take him home once more. There were no advances to fend off this time. “You’re a great guy, Jojo,” she said, blowing him a kiss and leaving him on the pedestrian’s strip next to his apartment. The pottery was completely dark. The large cardboard with the 2 and the smiley was removed, the gate locked with key. He went up to his apartment, removed the I LOVE YOU inscription as well to prevent any misunderstanding from a variety of possible sources, and set down to wait. One month is not so long, he consoled himself, eating a piece of cold steak with a fresh, thick slice of bread. One month, then the hottest incestuous relationship this earth had ever seen, he promised himself.
He clicked the airco on, the overhead ventilator on, the TV on and the light off. Sometimes, the TV was almost supportable.
*
The days passed absolutely eventless. He counted them. Work, food, sleep, work, food, sleep, from time to time another outing with the “girls”. He was tense, however refused both to show it and to think about it. On the sixteenth day he saw the wooden sign placed in front of the pottery, a bit towards the street: For Sale. A local telephone number was provided for interested parties. For Sale? What does it mean for sale? He looked at the sign for several evenings in a row, hesitant, a bit apprehensive, then on day twenty two he decided to call the number. A professionally happy voice answered the phone, regretting that no details could be given by phone. However, if he was a serious client, a visit could be organized following day.
A brisk, young lady, elegantly dressed and with a big, plastic smile plastered underneath her eyes but not in them, arrived next morning. Joshua told Jessica he would be arriving a bit later and it was okay with her. The young lady presented herself as Bette... “no, not Davis...” she smiled away in advance a possible joke, as she unlocked the gate, then the house, and started venting the various advantages of the location, of the price, of the previous owner.
“The house will be ready for transfer to the new ownership in about four weeks. We are busy with packaging everything, except for the personal stuff. Then it will be cleaned and refreshed, all this is included in the price of course. The price is...”
Joshua hardly listened to any of the babble. There were lots of boxes in the room, a variety of sizes, some of them already placed aside and closed with several layers of tape. Several big rolls of bubble packaging were present in the room as well, the big statues were in the process of being packaged with layers of straw around them.
“Why is the owner selling?” he asked, impolitely cutting her flow. The seller lady did not mind, it was her job to not mind impolite customers.
“I did not talk to her personally, but I understand she decided to close her business here and move to another state.”
“Is the house long on the market?”
“Oh, no, this is hot property. We were approached about three weeks ago, and expect to sell it inside two three weeks from now. Serious buyers better hurry,” she smiled, indulgently yet emphatically, even slightly aggressively. She didn’t give a damn, all she wanted was her commission, and fast. “May I ask where you live presently, Mr...?”
He promised to call her back, accepting her business card on their way out. Some packers were already in the house, going on with the packaging. His mind was a mess of question marks, frustration, anger, somewhere there was also pain but he shoved it aside in favor of his complete lack of understanding of what was going on. The sales lady admitted she had the phone number of the owner, however she refused to give it to him, company regulations you know... Anyway, the contract between them and the owner did not permit the owner to sell directly, only via their exclusive services, so speaking to the owner will not help you anything, you know... However she could share with him a secret, since he looked such a nice person and promising prospect, she could tell him when the owner planned to come to start packing her personal belongings, but you did not hear it from me, you know...
He was in a haze. Going to work, returning, hardly eating, no smile crossing his lips even in the presence of Jessica, who tried in vain to raise his moral and pair him with a variety of nice looking bimbos. No, it wasn’t fair to call them bimbos, all of them nice girls, ladies, but all of the world’s woman population was suddenly reduced to the level of bimbos with one exception. And this exception was about to join them all as well. The day arrived.
He did not even ask permission to arrive late. He watched through his lowered shades until he caught glimpse of Sophia carrying a box outside, then entering the house again. He rolled his cardboard text and rushed down the stairs, disregarding even the need to push closed the door to his apartment. He crossed over to her house, rushed through the gate and up the porch stairs and entered the shop room. Several workers were busy wrapping the small stuff in old newspapers and arranging it in boxes. She was not there. She was in the room with her big sculptures, helping a worker lower one into a large sized box.
“Sophia,” he whispered, loud enough for her to hear, not loud enough for her to run away. She lost her grip on the statue and the worker could hardly get enough grip on the loud piece of clay, succeeding finally to lower it with a thud to the bottom of the box without breaking it. She turned around, she looked terrible. Her eyes bloodshot, dark lines underlining them, her lips dry, her hair in disarray – a case study in distress, or rather a stereotype for a woman in distress, a woman beyond any possibility of emotional recovery...
“What are you doing here?” Even her voice was rough, cracked, he barely recognized it.
“What is going on?” he asked, making an all encompassing movement with his hand. She looked through him, not reacting, not responding. He unrolled the piece of cardboard in front of him, on the floor. “Is there any spelling mistake here?”
She started crying, suddenly, sat heavily on the floor and cried almost soundlessly, not even averting her face or wiping her eyes.
“Ma’am, is everything okay?” asked the packer who was working with her, eyeing Joshua with hostility.
“What are you doing here?” she asked again, making an effort to be understood.
“I love you,” he said, sliding the cardboard on the floor, her way. “There was a 2, several weeks back. What happened? What happens?”
She succeeded to get her sobs under control, and got back to her feet with a heaviness much beyond pure lack of muscle power. She went over to the piece of cardboard, picked it up, looked at it for several seconds, tore it in two pieces then in four and let them drop to the floor. She turned to the packer, moving to another sculpture with the packer following.
“Better leave now, Joshua, please. Otherwise I will have to ask some workers here to help you out.”
His anger was way beyond reason or self preservation.
“Soso, an answer, you owe me an answer, for decency’s sake. What happened. Tell me and I go.”
This time she turned around, pale in her fury, her fists closed tight, her voice just one notch beneath shouting.
“Sophia! Soso time is over. Decency you ask for? You are a father, you bastard, you are a father to a child about to be born and you want now to skip that responsibility and jump into my bed? Get out of here or get thrown out.” She was not sobbing anymore in a controlled way, she was sobbing hysterically.
Click, click, click... things clicked in Joshua’s mind like pieces of a perfectly fitting puzzle suddenly streaming into their allotted slots with one masterful move.
“Soso, oh God, Soso, I can explain, please listen to me, for heaven’s sake, listen to me.” She made a dismissing move with her hand, and several packers that were in the doorway advanced towards him, grabbing him by the hands and turning him around. He was desperate... “Soso, remember that Talmudic lesson you told me about, remember?...” He was already beyond the door when he heard...
“Wait!...” She appeared in the door way, her eyes wild, her breathing a mess of hisses and groans. Her hands were trembling uncontrollably and she leaned against the door. “Please, let him go. What about that lesson?”
“Three hours, please, give me just three hours. Please.”
She did not answer directly. She just told the packers to take three hours paid break, then slid down against the door, watching him with undisguised bewilderment. She was not going to say anything more, she was going to wait three hours in which her world would either crumble into nothingness or rise from its ashes.
He ran out. He chased desperately for a cab, finally caught one and gave the driver the address of the store. Oh, God, just no traffic jams, please, just no traffic jams.
Two hours and fifteen minutes later he was back. Jessica was with him. A young, elegantly dressed woman, who was waiting in a car at the gate, joined them. They entered the house. Sophia was still seated in the same position, no more alive than one of her sculptures. When she saw the trio entering the room she got up slowly, still leaning against the door. Seemed that her body didn’t stop shivering from the moment she saw him first. Joshua was panting, hard.
“Jessica, please do the presentations.”
Jessica went over to the young woman who joined them and hugged her waist tightly.
“This is Maria, Maria is my boyfriend. Maria, did you bring it?” The young woman opened her purse and handed Jessica a folded piece of paper. Jessica unfolded it, scanned it with her eyes... “this is a copy, it should do...” and handed it to Sophia. “This paper is my contractual insemination act. I don’t know who the father of my baby is. For all practical purposes – Jojo is the father. He saved my baby’s life. He gave my baby life.”
Joshua jumped forward. He’d never before witnessed a real fainting act, and all he could do was jump forward and prevent Sophia’s head from hitting the tiles.
*
He moved in with Sophia the following day. Jessica allowed him a sickness week, which he used for moving what little stuff he had over to Sophia’s place. She insisted first to glue back the torn cardboard pieces, before starting the unpacking and the reorganizing process of all her own packed stuff. She still had that beaten puppy look to her, even though her voice had found back its natural timber. Evening descended, and he knew that it was only subjectively that it seemed to have descended faster that the previous day.
“Come,” he said.
He took her by the hand to the bathroom, undressed her and helped her sink slowly in the hot, nearly scalding water. Then he picked up the mobile shower, shampooed her hair, rinsed it thoroughly, and started combing it. He dried her, enveloped her with a towel, helped her along as she stumbled towards the bed, helped her get between the chilly sheets and kept combing her hair until she fell asleep. He undressed, spooned into her and fell asleep instantly as well. He even forgot to lock the door.
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