“It’s a figure of speech, Gilles. Jesus.”
“Him too?”
His practiced fingers stifled her laugh. She wore no panties or bra beneath the sundress (Ginny didn’t like constraints when she wrote; at home she sometimes even wrote nude); she could feel his contours against her buttocks as he continued to massage her neck. This was all too obvious, though she did not object. Why should she? “I want to touch you,” he said then, and turned her around. What a line, she thought. Now she faced him, backed against the counter. She ran her hands up his chest and grinned.
“I want to touch you,” he softly repeated.
She felt perfectly slutty raising the hem of her dress. His hand slipped over the downy hair at once, then lowered to investigate her sex. The long finger made her moist right off.
“So you’ve finished your story?”
“Uh-huh,” she said. She was fascinated just watching, just looking down and seeing the hand play with her.
“What is your story called?”
“‘The Passionist,’” she breathed.
“A title born of truth, of yourself? You are very passionate,” he said.
Shut up, she thought. Had she subconsciously written the story for him? Her stories were allegories, her characters symbols of emotions. Perhaps she’d written the story for herself. Anything we create is part of what we are, she half thought as Gilles’ finger probed. The last line was this: Come away with me and my dream.
But what was her dream?
The kitchen was dark. Ginny felt slick and hot. Had the white spice really turned her on? She knew it was Gilles. Flesh, she thought suddenly, and absurdly. She wanted his flesh, not his spirit. She was only being honest with herself: his passion could take a hike, for all she cared. She wanted his cock.
He took his hand away and put the finger in her mouth, making her taste herself. She lowered his khaki shorts. Immediately his flesh was hard in her hand. That’s all a cock really is, she symbolized, amused. A handle that women use to lead men through life. She led him down to the floor by it. He stepped out of the shorts. Ginny pulled her dress up as Gilles arranged her on her hands and knees. “Like this?” he inquired.
“Yeah” she whispered, almost impatiently. The wan light from the living room was all that lit the kitchen. She could see the outline of his shadow above the outline of her own — she looked ahead as he inserted himself. The separation of images captivated her. She watched his shadow. He pushed her dress further up her back, then splayed her buttocks to penetrate more deeply. The angle and depth felt so good it almost hurt.
Ginny continued to think about things as he continued. She thought about love and lust. A few days ago she thought she might be able to love Gilles, but that seemed so foolish now. Love was foolish; it was an emotional play-act where the final exit was always the same: failure. Veronica had branded Ginny’s ideologies as cynicism, but then Veronica was a head case to begin with; she wouldn’t even admit she was still hung up on Jack. Love seldom worked. Wasn’t Veronica proof? All love did in the end was tear people apart.
The notion that her ideals might be flawed never occurred to her. Ginny was at home with her ideals. Love had blown up in her face enough times. Men had used her, so now she would use them back, with her body and her looks. Seeing Gilles’ shadow make love to her, without seeing his face, heightened the philosophy.
“You are beautiful,” Gilles whispered. His hands gripped her hips. His rhythm picked up. He wasn’t making love to her as much as he was probing her. Probe me all you want, she thought, biting her lower lip. Just don’t love me. If you love me, I’ll burn you.
His rhythm slowed a moment. Ahead, his shadow seemed downcast. Was he sad? Perhaps he had a lover somewhere, and he felt guilty now. Men could be such pussies. They’d realize their falsehoods and continue to be false anyway.
Then he said: “You are beautiful and you are true.”
More passionist crap, Ginny thought. It frustrated her. The only way he could go on was to try something romantic. Did he think she was an idiot? She reached back and tickled his testicles, to goad him on. “Don’t stop!” she whispered. Why was he hesitating? His shadow stood crisp and motionless in front of her.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Sorry for what!”
He began again, thrusting much harder. That’s better she thought. Suddenly he felt snug in her, his penis like a stout plug in her sex, stretching her. He was getting her close now.
“You are very true.”
Shut up shut up! She closed her eyes, closing out his shadow, to concentrate.
“But not true enough,” he finished.
Ginny didn’t hear him, too busy summoning her orgasm. Hence, she didn’t see him either. She didn’t see his shadow and how drastically it had changed. The widened shoulders and arching back. Then a large angulated head, and the twin protuberances like horns.
When Veronica woke, the first thing she saw was the painting. Now that she’d finished, her fatigue caught up with her; she’d slept all afternoon into the night. The clock read 9:30; her window framed full dark glittered with stars. She leaned up and stared at the painting, but remembered that she’d been dreaming of Jack. The images didn’t mix. Her dream had just been pieces of them when they’d been together. She knew she should call him, at least to let him know everything was okay. But he was too reactionary, and jealous to the point of despair. Why reconnect herself to that? Stewie was another matter; he was business. She’d simply become too lost in everything — her work, her development, Khoronos — to remember to call him. He probably had all sorts of things lined up for her. Yes, she must call him, but…
Now that she thought of it, she could not remember seeing a telephone anywhere in the house.
When she’d originally called the number on her invitation, a woman transferred the call. It seemed a little funny.
A sense of emptiness followed her downstairs. Where did everyone disappear to so often? Downstairs was dark. She looked around the entire first floor but found no phone. I’ll ask tomorrow, she concluded, and went outside.
The big pool lay still in the moonlight. She noticed the gate in the back fence open and decided a walk in the woods would be relaxing. You couldn’t do this in the city; you couldn’t go for a nice, quiet walk in the woods because there was no woods. Just throngs of people, traffic jams, and smog. Since coming here, Veronica had never felt so purged of the world.
But where will I go now? She strayed along the moonlit path. Back home, to reality. How long would Khoronos want them around? The estate was just a playground. Sooner or later she’d have to get back to her profession.
What would it be like when she saw Jack again? She hoped he wasn’t moping over the end of their relationship. Ginny said that denial was actually assertion. But was it? Veronica felt convinced that getting back together with Jack would be a mistake. But—
I miss him, she realized.
The path opened into the little dell in which stood the white kiosk. She could just sit here and think, in the moonlight. She needed to think about things now that her work here was done. Yeah, just think, just think about things. She stepped into the kiosk—
— and froze.
The image seemed unreal. I’m still dreaming, she thought very slowly, and then the details of what she saw came quickly into focus. Veronica’s throat shivered shut. Her eyes darted frantically, each revelation striking them like a blow to the head.