The Blood Oranges by John Hawkes

Author:John Hawkes [Hawkes, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Literary
ISBN: 9780811222556
Google: ANL5MXikzYsC
Publisher: New Directions Publishing
Published: 1972-04-16T16:00:00+00:00

“FIONA IS PERPLEXED, BABY. LISTEN A MINUTE.”

“I’m listening.”

“We were standing together in the dark, like this. We were nude, like this. The whole thing was a duplication of us right now, but different.”

“Well, I hope it was different.”

“Please, baby. Be serious.”

“I had an idea we might talk tonight. Tell more.”

“I was giggling. Just a little.”

“Sure you were.”

“What’s the matter with you? Stop fencing. And you could control your delicious hands. I want to talk.”

“Control your own.”

“If I can’t talk to you, I’m lost.”

“The difference, Fiona, the difference.”

“It’s not just that he’s thin and bony and was trembling. I love all that. It was something else.”

“Don’t stop now.”

“God, you’re irritating.”

“Sure I am. Why not?”

“Baby, please.”

“Start over, Fiona. My love can wait.”

“I want you, baby.”

“Keep talking.”

“We were standing here in the nude, like now. About three o’clock in the morning, and I thought you were on his mind because he seemed taller than ever, bonier, and he was cold, baby, cold. I had my arms around his neck and crossed, like this. Loosely. I didn’t care about his hand on my behind. I hardly knew it was there. I guess I tugged on his beard a little bit with my teeth. But that’s all. I was just hoping that he’d know how good he made me feel and begin to relax.”

“Sounds all right to me. What’s the problem?”

“I wish you’d stop caressing me. God!”

“Caressing stops.”

“Kiss me.”

“Let’s finish the seminar. What happened.”

“You smell good, baby.”

“You, too.”

“That’s enough, now. Please.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Just stop being Cyril a minute, can’t you?”

“You’re the one who’s puzzled, Fiona, not me.”

“It’s just that he was doing something funny with that hand of his. I began to feel it. He was making me uncomfortable, and I didn’t know why. I was conscious of something a little different and I couldn’t get it out of my mind. I was beginning to lose what you call my crispness, baby, I was beginning to smile the way I do when I’m not sure what’s happening. He was making me think, he was making me fish around inside for a little clue about what he was doing and how I was supposed to respond. It was such a small thing, and yet suddenly I couldn’t think about him or me but just about what he was doing back there with that hand of his. Not him, but his hand. Not me, but my behind. It wasn’t exactly a tickling, but it wasn’t sweet. I was uncertain, baby, uncertain. I whispered something to him, but he didn’t care. I tried to move, but it didn’t matter. I wasn’t unhappy, just uncertain. Uncomfortable but interested. And then I got the idea, because he was pulling on me. Just pulling on me. He wasn’t rough, he wasn’t tender. Just holding half my little melon as hard as he could and pulling. He forgot me, baby. He forgot himself. And I did too. Because suddenly I got the idea that he must be working in collusion with some great big lovely satyr with hair all over his shanks and a lot of experience with little girls’ behinds.

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