By Nightfall. Michael Cunningham

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СКАЧАТЬ the sensation of kissing her, the taste of her mouth—it’s too contiguous with the taste inside his own. He touches her hair, takes a handful of it and gently pulls. He was a little rougher with her the first few years, until he understood that she didn’t like it anymore, and possibly never had. There are still these remnant gestures, mild reenactments of old ones when they were newer together, when they fucked all the time, though Peter knew even then that his desire for her was part of a bigger picture; that he had had more intense (if less wondrous) sex with exactly three other women: one who was smitten with his roommate, one who was smitten with the Fauvists, and one who was simply ridiculous. Sex with Rebecca was extraordinary right from the start because it was sex with Rebecca; with her avid mind and her wised-up tenderness and the intimations, as they got to know each other, of what he can only call her beingness.

      She runs her hand lightly down his spine, rests it on his ass. He lets go of her hair, encircles her shoulders in the crook of his arm, which he knows she likes—that sense of being strongly held (one of his fantasies about her fantasies: he’s holding her aloft, the bed has vanished). With his free hand, with her help, he pulls the T-shirt up. Her breasts are round and small (when did he press that champagne glass over one of them, to demonstrate the fit—was it in the summer cottage in Truro, or the B and B in Marin?). Her nipples may have thickened and darkened a little—they are now precisely the size of the tip of his little finger, and the color of pencil erasers. Were they once slightly smaller, a little pinker? Probably. He is actually one of the few men who doesn’t obsess about younger women, which she refuses to believe.

      We always worry about the wrong things, don’t we?

      He puts his lips to her left nipple, flicks it with his tongue. She murmurs. It’s become singular, his mouth on her breast and her response to it, the exhaled murmur, the miniature seizure he can feel along her body, as if she can’t quite believe that this, this, is happening again. He has a hard-on now. He can’t always tell, he doesn’t really care, when he’s excited on his own and when he’s excited because she is. She clutches his back, she can’t reach his ass anymore, he loves it that she likes his ass. He circles her stiffening nipple with his tongue-tip, taps the other one lightly with a finger. Tonight it will be mainly about getting her off. This often happens, has for years—it reveals its form, on any given night (when did they last fuck anyplace but at night, in bed?), usually decided up front, by who kisses whom. This one’s for her, then. That’s the sexiness of it.

      She has a fold of flesh at her belly, a heaviness in her haunches. Okay. Peter, you’re not exactly a porn star, either.

      He moves his mouth down over her stomach, still stroking, a little harder now, with his finger at her nipple. She makes a small, astonished sound. She gets it; they both get it; they both know; that’s the miracle. He stops stroking with his finger, starts circling. He bites at the elastic of her panties, then slips his tongue under the elastic, laps not hard but not gently at her pubic hair. Her hips cant forward. Her fingers browse through his hair.

      Now it’s time to break formation, and take off their clothes. A pleasure of marriage—it doesn’t have to be seamless anymore. The slow strip is no longer necessary. You can just stop, remove what needs removing, and continue. He eases his briefs off over his hard-on, tosses them. Because this is Rebecca’s night he dives right back in before she’s had time to take off her socks, which makes her laugh. He goes back to where he was, tonguing her pubic hair, circling her right nipple. It’s a stop-action photo—suddenly, they’re nude (except for the socks, old white cotton slightly yellow along the soles, she should get new ones). She presses his head on both sides with her thighs as he kiss-walks down her V of hair, and there he is, he knows precisely, he’s a clit expert, and that’s sexy, his hawk-like exactitude about it and her ecstatic drawing-in, it’s too much for a moment, and then her release, it could never be too much. Her thighs relax, rest more solidly on his shoulders, and she whispers oh-oh-oh-oh-oh. Here the smell is her own, that faint hint of fresh shrimp; here’s where he’s most in love with her body and most fascinated by it, maybe a little frightened as well, she probably feels that way about his dick, too, though they’ve never talked about it, maybe they should but it’s too late to start that now, isn’t it? He’s got her going, tweaking her nipple with thumb and forefinger, lapping with his tongue at her clit, insistent, insistent, he knows (he just knows) that the relentlessness matters, the tongue and lips and fingers that won’t stop no matter what, that will find her wherever she goes; it’s that (and who knows what else?) that’ll put her over—something about admitting there’s nowhere to go, it’s too late, no point in arguing, it will not stop. She says oh-oh-oh-oh-oh, louder, no more whispering, she’s on her way, it always works (Does she ever fake it? Better not to know), he’ll get her off this way tonight, they’re too tired to actually fuck, and then she’ll take care of him, she’s an expert at that, too; they’re both on their way, they’re on their way, and then they can sleep, and then it will be Sunday.

      They have two cats, named Lucy and Berlin.

      What?

      Dreaming. Where is this? Bedroom. His own. Rebecca’s beside him, breathing steadily.

      It’s 3:10. He knows what that means.

      He slips out of bed, careful not to wake her. It’s the fatal hour. He’ll be awake at least until five.

      He slides the bedroom door shut, pours himself a vodka in the kitchen (no, he can’t tell the difference between what he keeps in his freezer and what Elena has smuggled in at great expense from some mountain glade in the Urals). He’s a naked man drinking vodka from a juice glass, and he lives here. He goes into the bathroom for one of the blue pills, then wanders into the living room, the part of the loft they call the living room, though it’s all really just one big room, with two bedrooms and a bathroom sectioned off.

      It’s a great space, as people say. They’re lucky they got in before the market went crazy. As people say.

      He’s got a nocturnal hard-on, and it’s not going away. Tell me, Mr. Harris, how long has your real estate affected you this way?

      The Chris Lehrecke daybed, the Eames coffee table, the austerely perfect nineteenth-century rocking chair, the Sputnik-inspired fifties chandelier that keeps (they hope) the rest of it from seeming too solemn and self-important. The books and the candlesticks and the rugs. The art.

      Right now, two paintings and a photograph. A beautiful Bock Vincent (the show’s only half sold, what’s the matter with people?) wrapped in paper and cord. A Lahkti, an exquisitely painted scene of Calcutta squalor (those sold, who can ever figure?). A Howard smoke painting, set for next fall, back gallery, helps to have something that costs a little less, especially these days. All the money’s gone, lord, where’d it go? Which Beatles song is that?

      He walks to the window, pulls up the shade. Nobody’s on Mercer at three-plus in the morning, just that pallid orangey street light on the cobbles, looks like it rained a little. This window, like many New York windows, doesn’t offer much in the way of view: a patch of Mercer Street mid-block between Spring and Broome, the taciturn brown-brick facade of the building opposite (some nights there’s a light on in the fourth floor, he imagines a fellow skittish sleeper, hopes—and worries—that that person will come to the window and see him); a pile of black trash bags thrown out onto the sidewalk, and two glittery dresses, one green and one oxblood, in the window of the stratospherically expensive little shop that will probably be out of business soon; Mercer is still a little back alley for that level of trade. Like most windows in New York, Peter’s is a living portrait. By day, you can see the pedestrians through about thirty-five feet worth of their life’s journey. By night the street could be a high-definition picture of itself. If you watch it long enough it can start to feel like a Nauman, like Mapping the Studio—the strange fascination that announces itself, gradually, as you watch a cat, a moth, a mouse flit quickly through those supposedly empty nighttime СКАЧАТЬ