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Page 68.
 Tim and the woman would lie together, for hours, much as they liked reading hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder in the bookstore window nooks, but naked and touching each other and it almost seemed to Tim they were in love. But there was someone else, he knew, without being told. He wanted to enjoy this for whatever it was, and not ask questions and ruin everything before its time to be ruined. She never spoke of love, but showed him with her eyes, her hands, her sex, that he could have anything he wanted, except there was that someone or something at the end of a long dark corridor in her soul where she would not let him follow her. He tried to avoid talking about love, except that he had never felt about a woman as he did about her. But he was still not done with his own freedom. It wasn’t just other women. He wasn’t ready just then for a commitment, which was what love seemed to mean once you got past that heady starting gate. He wondered—had it not been for the crazy war, maybe they could have enjoyed each other, let each other sow wild oats or whatever it was each secretly needed to do or not do. That wasn’t it, as it turned out. As it was, the war brought urgency and brevity and shattered time where there should have been long, slow movement like the silky, mossy glow of a New England mountain stream behind sunny ferns.
She taught him something she liked him to do. It was a simple thing she admitted she had taught one other man do, back in Poland. If it was the other man, Tim did not ask. He accepted the little treasure of her secret. She would lie still beside him, as rain trickled down the window in a pale half-light. They were both naked, and he gazed over the geometries of her long pale body. It filled his eyes with nourishment. She had him lightly, softly, rub the little fur on her Venus mound while she turned her lips to nuzzle against his neck. She would like very motionless, eyes closed, with her hands limp and motionless on his forearms. Once in a while, she would emit the tiniest whimper. His fingertips, together, all four, would make circling motions in that hair that was drying out after their sex. At first she had to teach him, just once, with one hand, taking his fingertips and showing him. He would make those circles and then increase the pressure on her soft mound just a bit, just a teeny bit. This went on for a quarter hour until she raised a hand and tightly grasped the wrist of the four fingers. At first he thought she wanted him to stop. She pushed his hand down and dipped it briefly, and he saw how wet she was. She held his wrist, pulling his hand tightly to her, and the fingertips kept up their walking in circles. Until. Until. She would start doubling up in fits, in shudders, silent at first. Then the earthquake would come—three or four rolling cries, before she doubled over on the bed as if in pain. Funny thing was, she’d then roll over on her belly and pass out, snoring, leaving him to look at her long back, her rear end, the space between her thighs—all of that being, as the expression went, easy on the eyes, and never boring. Sometimes her little secret aroused him so much he’d take her just once more, softly, from behind like that, and she’d mewl gently and shift her pale orbs to make room for him to get in easily while she slumbered on. She was a good woman, willing to please, never a problem. Except that nothing was perfect, nobody was perfect. Everyone had a Thing in their life at some time, and Anna Stokowska did indeed have a Thing in her life, as Tim would learn.
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