Beautiful Soon Enough

Retro

Retro There are no bombs here, but the continued threats. Only in other cities now. And just outside, blossom after blossom flames, pretty as a Japanese print: spring. He comes to her bed wearing a single long white opera glove. It’s meant to titillate, and it does. Surprise her. And it does. This is the hand that can wipe away dead skin. And dead sex. And dead love. She knows this. Why else would she bed a married man? 36 berdeshevsky The glove has been snatched from his coat pocket en route to the room. As soon as she sees it, it will kill her or kindle her. And she has to decide. Kill me, she tells him. Kill the woman who cannot love anymore. Kill the woman who tells lies about lives and burrows in city caves, hungry. Kill me, darling man, and then, turn me on again. The glove is shining in the curtained noon-light. The man is a cinq-à-sept lover who visits at twelve because she lets him. The soFrench notion of the lover who is available at a specified hour, five to seven, one to three, has a distinct taste, like a foie gras, like balsamic. The glove or the raised skin, which to kiss? The glove or the ghost of dead ones and darling ones? She kisses the satin fingertips, lets them dawdle, lets them trace, lets them enter. Lets them circle her heavy breasts and lighter breath. Lets them and invites them. Growls and then sings to them, a song her father taught her, a Russian lullaby : Byyyyyooshki—byyyyooo. Byyyy-ooo-shki—byyyyoooo. The man with the glove has opened his eyes, and is he crying? Cry, darling. Touch me with satin, let me sing my father’s lullaby to you and let me see you cry. The hand, his shining, sequined, satin hand, is doing what it must. And she won’t stop the singing. Won’t let him stop crying. She knows how to do a little theatre too, sweet-thing. He’s done what was expected, surprised her. Suggested. Stroked. Stopped. Now she wants the glove. Now the dance. Now the dark. Now the ghosts. Now the game. But before she puts it on, she will wipe his tears with it. Consider murder, a shining white tying; decide again, she’s a better woman than such a story. Go home, darling. Now, you’ve surprised me, toddle on home, sweet-thing. Kiss me once more, and I won’t expect a thing. He leaves without his glove. Dresses wordlessly in her hallway. Does not tell her when or if he will return. She doesn’t expect him to. Remains damply, easily amid her pillows. When the door click happens—when the sound of steps descending—when the wind at retro 37 the window makes its rustle among the newly budding geraniums— when the shadow on the wall opposite the goldenrod tree, affirms that this is springtime and sacred with new things: she opens the package from a woman far away. A gift of spring? A new weapon? She never knows what Martine will send her. It always has a perfume of French lavender wafting from the package. This time it comes from a city she’s never seen. She wouldn’t open the package this morning. Told herself no, after the lover leaves. I’ll wait until he leaves, and then I’ll open it. Now she slits the scotch-tape with her sharpest fingernail. Opens the folds as delicately as in any lovemaking. Finds the penciled note that says, “Remember, ma chère, a woman needs to improve her technique, no matter how old she gets. Remember, ma chère. With love as ever, Martine.” She has opened the tissue paper, which again, and as usual, is scented lavender. And she extracts a pair of leopard’s paws, smooth, silken, ready to be worn. Wearing the leopard skin gloves, now, she dresses for the afternoon . For the springtime. For the mirror. There’s a noise she is not waiting for. Scratching like—a light knocking—and again a scratching, as of unsheathed nails on her door. Her heart has sped to a tremble. Shivered more like winter, won’t stop thrumming, insists she answer. The leaves outside are gold, giving way to scuffed purple in the dark. Naked-handed, naked-armed, ready for the real...