Page 50 of The Phoenix Bride
“No.”
“Then how could I not mean it?”
He shakes his head. “A delusion, merely. A temporary madness.”
“Then I am mad,” I say. “What does it matter? I am tired of others telling me what to think, what to believe. I know I want you, David, and I think you want me, too.”
David is silent. I step closer to him—closer—he doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He just watches me, and his hand around mine closes tighter, his thumbnail pressing into my wrist.
I take the final step needed, and I kiss him.
He is so shocked that he doesn’t respond. My lips press against his; he remains unmoving, then I pull away. His expression is stricken and confused. Regret comes swiftly. I almost clap my free hand to my mouth, as if to prevent myself from doing it again. “I—I— Pardon,” I stutter, panicked. “That wasveryimpulsive—I shouldn’t have—”
“Merda,” he says. Then he wraps his arms around me, pulls me in, and kisses me back.
It is desperate, a little clumsy. His hands roam across my back and shoulders and hair. We struggle to find a rhythm at first, but then, suddenly, we are moving together, and I feel fire at the edges of my fingers and my throat, and his breath is my breath, my heartbeat is his. When I press my tongue against his lower lip, he gasps and leans closer; we almost fall into the water, which we avoid only by virtue of David grasping my waist andspinning me around, leading me into the patch of lamb’s ears he once used to treat my palm. The soft, cloudlike fuzz of the leaves ghosts across my elbow. I pull away from him to giggle.
“Um,” he says, looking quite winded.
“Pardon. It tickles.”
“Oh.”
“Not you. The plant.” I pull him in again. “No matter. Kiss me more now.”
“Well—I—we should—” Our mouths meet, and he groans in surrender, protests forgotten. He smells like grass and night air, tastes a little of coffee, and his hair is soft as I weave it between my fingers. He is only a little taller than I am, so I needn’t crane my neck for our lips to touch; it is perfect. If this is to be my last night of freedom, I can think of no better way to spend it. I would rather this than an alehouse, or Temple Bar, or a theater. I think I would rather this than anything.
Eventually, David pulls away. “Cecilia, listen,” he says. Despite his grave tone, his arms are still around my waist, and he seems reluctant to release me. “This is— I shouldn’t have— Look, we shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Why?”
“There are numerous reasons. You are all but betrothed; we met only weeks ago; I am your doctor—”
“Youweremy doctor. No longer.”
“I am still taking advantage of you.”
“Do it more.”
I lean forward again. He veers back. “Cecilia,” he repeats. “What will happen once we leave this park? Where could this possibly lead?”
“I don’t know,” I reply. “I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to think about widows or doctors or Jews or anything else.I am sick of all of it. I want to be here, as Cecilia, and I want you to be here, as David. Nothing more than that.”
“But—we can’tpossibly—”
“Do you want me?” I ask him.
He looks at me as he would the sun without clouds, as if I am blinding. “Yes,” he says. “I do.”
“And I you,” I reply. “Here, in this place, in this darkness, we need nothing but that. Nothing but wanting. We can make it so.”
He cups my cheek, searching my face for hesitation. I kiss his wrist.
“Querida,forgive me,” he says, and then he brings his mouth back to mine.
I close my eyes and lean into him. All is well again. I will make this evening perfect: there is no past or future here. Nothing matters but this, the touch of his lips against mine, the soft leaves of the lamb’s ears brushing my skirts.
Behind us, the moon and its reflection in the water glow like twin lanterns, strung from earth to sky. The darkness here allows for impossible things: two moons, two sets of stars, and the two of us, together.
