“I thought you were famous in your family for having no sense of smell? It’s a good thing, too. I haven’t had a shower in a week. Where are we going?”
“We’re regressing to sexual childhood, and I’m halfway there. We’re going to the bathroom. Then I’m going to fill that giant tub, and I’m going to put you in it. And I’m going to soap you all over.”
“Ooh. That’s more like it. What then?”
“I’m going to rinse you and dry you and powder you.”
“And what happens after that?”
“Wait and see.”
“Not even a hint? I’m a verbal person.”
“No. Deeds, not words. It’s a generation thing. Bring the wine.”
Dana’s naked body was not as Art had imagined. She was thinner and more muscular. Her skin was finer and smoother. As she said, the pattern of scars from neck to groin was more extensive than his own. The records of her past suffering were indented, exciting, soft to the touch.
While she sat at the dressing table and drank wine, she made him do everything: run hot water for many minutes into the eight-foot circular tub; find a monstrous plastic jug, ideal for rinsing; hunt for bath crystals and soap and shampoo and towels in the closet; and, at last, remove her clothes. She made no move to help.
When he lifted her to lower her into the water, she laughed at him. “You’re crazy. Take your clothes off, too, or they’ll get soaked.”
He stripped, aware of her eyes. As he removed his pants he said, “Do you know what Lady Mary Wortley Montagu did when the poet Alexander Pope made a pass at her?”
“I don’t, and I don’t want to. But I know you. You’re going to tell me anyway. What did she do, grab his canticles?”
“Much worse. She laughed at him. It’s a man’s worst fear.”
“Nonsense. You mean it’s Art Ferrand’s worst fear. But it never happened to you, did it?”
“Not yet. Anytime now.” He picked her up, stepped into the tub, and sat down into hot water that had been quite tolerable when he tested it with his hand. She laughed at once at the expression on his face.
“You big sissy. If I can stand it, you can.”
“Easy for you to say.” Art ran cold water and examined the block of soap. He didn’t want the apocrine variety, with phages that began work on contact with human skin and removed all natural scents. He hated that loss of pheromones — one of the few things he could actually smell. “You’re lucky,” he went on. “Women don’t feel heat so much. Your delicate bits are all internal.”
“Sure, we’re lucky — with ten times the chance of developing bladder infections. Men have better plumbing.
No!” Art, after soaping her belly and pubic hair, was ready to move on to other matters. “That wasn’t the deal. You promised me a rinsing and a drying.”
“You don’t need it.”
“What I need and what I want are two different things. I didn’t need anything after that first neck nuzzle. Didn’t you ever hear of foreplay?”
“After my time. It’s another generation thing.”
“Then I guess I’ll have to show you.” Dana had been lying on her back, almost floating. She sat up and took the soap from Art. “Relax.”
“If you do that, I won’t.” Art wriggled away across the tub. Dana followed him, lathering him from chest to belly to genitals. “Go easy, or I won’t last ten seconds.”
“Oh, you big baby. You were the one who said he didn’t need dorphs and holds. You’ll be fine.” She poured a jug of warm bathwater over his belly and erect penis. “There, that didn’t hurt, did it? Lie back.”
“I thought you wanted me to dry you.”
“I changed my mind.” She climbed carefully on top, and kissed his wet nipples. “You can dry me later. We have all night. It would be a shame to waste this.”
Art gasped as she sank slowly onto him. Maybe it was the telomod therapy, maybe it was long abstinence, maybe it was Dana herself; but he couldn’t remember such an intense physical response. Not ever. Not even — a quick stab to the heart, mingled pleasure and guilt and pain — with Mary.
The memory came and went in a moment, drowned out by warmth and urgency and lapping water. Art opened his eyes. Dana was straining upward above him, her hands on his shoulders and her face hidden. He could see the pulse beating in her neck. The past vanished. She caught him, swallowed him up, and held him in the present.
Art awoke in total darkness, unsure at first of place, and then of time. Afternoon gloom had moved smoothly into night. He and Dana had been too busy to notice. They had made love urgently, then slowly and lazily.
Now — say it was the rebuilt telomeres, you could blame them for anything — now he was interested in sex again. Hey ho, telomeres. A youthful desire, a mature appreciation. If only youth knew, if only age could.
And he was hungry. Cafeteria sandwiches and the unopened bottle of white wine beckoned from the kitchenette table.
How long had he been asleep? Dana was still sleeping. Naked and on top of the covers, she smelled of sex. Reeked of sex, wasn’t that what people always said? So much for his family’s theory of olfactory inadequacy. Or should he credit telomod therapy for that, too?
He eased his way to the side of the bed and crept through into the kitchen. Nine-thirty, according to the clock. Time for a little something. It was harder to take the cork out in the dark, but he managed it. The sandwiches were all the same, so it didn’t matter which one he got. He took two, and carried them with a filled glass over to the window.
Hurricane Gertrude might be over the hill, but she refused to admit her age. Sheets of rain drenched the window. Between gusts, flickers of lightning on the horizon backlit the trees writhing in the storm.
Hey ho, the wind and the rain.
Art watched the storm, ate and drank. The level in the wine bottle sank steadily. He went back for another sandwich. He did not recognize his own deep melancholy until warm arms reached around him and he felt Dana’s breasts against his back.
“It’s all right.” She moved to cradle his head against her chest.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t. But if you want to talk about Mary, it’s all right. I know you’ve been thinking about her.”
“How could you know that?”
“You said her name.”
“Oh, no. I did? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to — I didn’t know—”
“Not when we were making love. That would have been harder to take. But when you were nodding off afterward, you muttered, ’Oh, Mary.’ “
“I didn’t realize. I had no idea.”
“Of course you didn’t. Art, it’s all right. Do you hear me? It’s all right. I just wish you found it possible to talk about her. What she was like, how you met, how you lived. It would be good for you.”
“Maybe. It’s . . . hard.”
“It sure is. I understand how hard. Perhaps sometime I’ll find a way to tell you why I understand.”
“You don’t have to tell me, Dana. I know already.” He felt her jerk away from him. “I’ve known for a while. It’s your son.”
“Who told you that?”
“You did. A mother has a grown-up son, but she never mentions his name. She never says what he’s doing. She never wonders what happened to him after Supernova Alpha — not even to ask if he’s alive.”
“He’s alive.”
“That’s good. If you would like to tell me—”
“No. Maybe sometime. Not tonight.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “I’m no sweet young thing, Art, no matter what you may think. You’ve got damaged goods here. Will you come back to bed — please? And hold me.”