Free Something Is Out There by Richard Bausch Page A

ear. “Sweet, oh, so sweet. I don’t care, I don’t
care.”
    She nuzzled his neck and moved herself, taking him deeper, and feeling the thrill. “Oh, let’s just keep
on
, baby. Let’s just keep on.” She moaned into the hollow of his shoulder.
    Later, showering alone, she thought the rest of their time together might be long. It troubled her, and she hummed aloud, listening to the echo of her voice and knowing he could hear it, too. He was making coffee for her. (Getting her cup and setting out the French press and showing him how it worked provided a pleasant diversion about which they could tease—he had never heard of French press coffee. “French press,” he said. “Sounds like a sex act.” She smiled at him and stood quite still while he kissed the side of her neck.)
    Now, drying off, she saw mental images of the children, and of Warren—unwanted reminders. She brushed them away, felt it as a mental exercise akin to this motion of drying herself with the towel. She put her robe on and walked out and made her way to the kitchen. There he sat, naked, turning the pages of the newspaper. She went and perched on his knee, kissing him. “Let’s go back to bed.”
    “Oh,” he said. “Let’s.”
    The phone rang this time, just as she straddled him, and they paused. He moved once inside her and then held her by the arms.
    “Don’t answer it.”
    “No.”
    They waited. It rang and rang. Finally she disengaged herself and went to answer it. He said nothing. It was Warren, calling from work.
    “Oh, hi,” she said.
    “You okay?” he asked. “You sound breathless. It rang and rang. I was about to hang up.”
    “I was in the other room. I ran to answer the phone.”
    “Should’ve let the machine get it.”
    “I don’t have it on.”
    He breathed into the line.
    “Warren, what is it?” she said.
    “I’m going to take off early—so I’ll pick up the kids from school.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “Yeah—you relax a little.”
    “That’s sweet,” she said.
    “See you in a little while.”
    “Okay.”
    She put the receiver down and turned to find Nathan getting into his clothes. “Oh,” she said. “We’ve got an hour, still.”
    “You’re sure.”
    “Yes.”
    But the lovemaking this time felt rushed and faintly mechanical; they finished and got dressed, and then went into the kitchen, to the breakfast nook, where she drank cold coffee, and he had a glass of orange juice. The sunlight through the leaves at the window gave a soft green cast to the room, and she had the thought that this was something she would not notice normally.
    She told him about it.
    “I think women get all the credit for noticing things. I think it makes them feel like they’ve got to.”
    “No,” she said. “I honestly don’t notice that sort of thing. Small things, I mean.”
    “I find that hard to believe.”
    She looked out at all the shades of green on the back lawn, and felt the day closing too fast, the time slipping.
    A moment later, he said, “I never believed I’d do a thing like this.”
    “I know. God! I know.”
    “I’ve got to go soon.”
    She touched his hand. “I miss you already.”
    “Are we terrible people?” he said, and he looked like he might cry.
    She smiled, through what she realized now was her own weeping. He was waiting for her answer.
    Then: “Are we?”
    “Yes,” she told him.
    When he left, he walked with his briefcase held up under his left arm, striding quickly away, without looking back. She watched him for part of it, but then worried about crazy Phyllis across the street, and closed the door. She went to the bedroom window and watched him from there. He hurried along, looking a little funny, a man with an appointment for which he was late, his coat lifting in the breeze.
    She moved through the house putting things back to normal. She could feel the ghost-pressure of him between her legs, and she took another shower, washing carefully, taking extra care of her neck, her