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LASTNIGHT hurt me could have
© 2001
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Last Night
I flushed the and stumbled out of the bathroom.
The day was bright and I struggled to put it’s needs into
order. Saturday. I had really nothing to do, at least
nothing I wanted to devote weekend time to. It was at that
moment that she knocked on my door.
"Good morning," she stuttered, "I...want to explain about
last night." I noticed she was holding two coffees in their
to-go, cardboard cups with tight lids. How thoughtful. Was
this a peace offering? If so, there was no dispute to be
settled.
"Last night," I blushed and averted my eyes downward,
noticing I was not necessarily decent in my practically
sheer camisole and shorts I had slept in. I remembered last
night. We were at her apartment working on the department’s
project. We had been staring at a computer screen for hours
when she turned to me, her face illuminated in that strange
way only the artificial light from a monitor can. She turned
to me and touched me. Touched my face. Laid her palm along
side my left cheek. It was all I could do to keep from
melting right there. What more could there be in life than
that? I looked into her icy blue eyes and saw all of her
imperfections that weren’t familiar to me, and other aspects
I had before admired. Wrinkles, blemishes, the hue of her
skin. I took it in all at once. I had never allowed myself
to look at her that intently before. But last night, with
that one gesture, I knew this thing I felt had to be dealt
with. She had touched me. Does life go on after that?
She seemed almost surprised at what she was doing. Her
gaze intent and kind would not let me go. I conceded. I
conceded to whatever might happen in those next few moments.
I let go, let my feelings surface. I brought my hand up to
hers, felt the heat from it, the skin, closed my eyes,
savoring, touching. As I opened them she came closer. Our
lips met, closed and tentative. I could faintly feel the
moisture from her mouth, her breath. I was quiet but wild. I
gently parted my lips hoping she would do the same. We
tasted each other last night. Not in a crass sense, but in
an ephemeral, caring, dream-like way. A sort of confession.
I had not yet admitted to myself that I loved this
woman, although I had admired her for the longest time. She
was than me, by at least a decade. She had taught me
in my undergraduate years. She was alive, though, you see.
She wasn’t stagnant. She was beautiful, she shined. And I
was thrilled to be awarded a teaching job at the same
university, in the same department as she. That’s really how
this whole thing started.
"Come in," I said as she handed me a coffee. I started
into the kitchen to put sugar and cream in, she followed.
"I don’t regret it."
A look of shock entered my face, but a type of smile as
well. I turned to face her. "But...I thought..."
"Thought what? That I’d had a momentary lapse of
judgment? Ellie, what happened last night, I’ve been wanting
for awhile now."
More shock. This time she could see it. She could see
in my face the miscellany of emotions running their course.
Confusion, joy, contentment, relief, and still - shock.
"Lynne...," I searched for words. Had I ever been this
dumbfounded? This woman was before me, and all I could do
was trip over my own tongue. I wanted to tell her
everything: how she lit up a room when she entered, how I
had purposely taken her and only her classes, how she was
beautiful - so beautiful, and how I had been in love with
her for such a long time. Maybe she would think I was crazy,
obsessed even. "Lynne, you have no idea." My hands were
trembling, holding, caressing her neck. As if they had moved
there involuntarily. Her hands were on my face, capturing
me. Her eyes were on mine, capturing them too. And then she
was kissing me. Our tongues came together sharing secrets
and stories. All of it was happening so fast, it was washing
over me. I felt like crying. I felt like shouting, smiling.
It was a more pervasive kiss. A more immediate - emergency
kiss. As if we didn’t solidify how we felt at that moment,
it would all disappear, like nothing had happened the night
before. Last night. I remembered everything, as if her lips
were a photo album and I was flipping through pages. I was
leaping to and from each scene that had taken place over the
past few weeks. The first day of classes when we spoke for
the first time in years. The first night we devoted to
working on our collaboration for the department. And the
time I had noticed her in that discreet bar while
having cocktails and appetizers with my friends. That’s how
we knew. Because of that moment, we knew.
We were still together, after what seemed like a half
an hour. Our lips would not leave each other. I was enjoying
it too much. Her lips, her thin little lips, demure at
times, now swallowing me up. Not taking "no" for an answer.
Her tongue - aggressive, took me by surprise. She was so
persuasive. So beautiful in her honesty about it all.
We pulled away. I looked at her and saw an expression.
A look totally unknown to me, but I could read it. I could
almost hear her say it, or maybe it was wishful thinking. I
needed her. Wanted her. Needed to feel her skin, her warmth.
I needed to hear her so badly. I lead her by the hand into
my bedroom. The coffees were a memory and it was just us, on
my bed. Exploring, searching. Oh, the privilege women can
give. I got to brush her hair aside, kiss her neck,
unbutton her blouse. I got to touch her nose, her cheeks,
her breasts. She allowed me those sensations. She arched
herself to me and I covered her. I covered her with my body,
my kisses, my hands, and myself. She sighed and moaned when
I kissed her chest. Her nearly flat expanse of a chest. The
way she moved her hips when my hands roamed to the right
places was confident and definite. This woman who I had
always seen as timid and proper was downright self-possessed
in private circumstances.
I had fingers in her. I remember my juvenile thought of
never wanting to wash those fingers. She was wondrous as she
moved, gently and continually, in quite a legato type sense,
soft and flowing. I read her. I read her movements and
breathing, her sounds. Until she became insistent. Moving
faster and harder with each stroke. She stretched her head
back to the mattress and arched her body to meet me. She
became louder, I could hear her. I could hear her response,
her cumming, her audible cries of satisfaction.
No sooner had I heard her was she in me as well. So
sensitive and all-knowing. I remember her hair as she was
down there. I remember wrenching the bedclothes in my fists
as I writhed in glory. My voice with a life of its own. It
felt so good to have her in me, consume me. Just for a
moment, I wanted her to me. So I could have the scars
as a souvenirs. I remember feeling as though I could die. I
could have been hit by a bus the very next day because
nothing the rest of my life could have been better than that
moment. Knowing that she loved me.