The Varieties of Erotic Experience by Paul Reidinger

Author:Paul Reidinger
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: GemmaMedia
Published: 2013-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

V.

By early afternoon the spring sun was warm, but the air remained as cool as the sea. If you stood in the sunlight you soon glowed with heat and wondered if you’d remembered to put some sunblock on the tips of your ears, but if you stepped into the shade in the garden you almost at once regretted not bringing a sweater. The garden, although south-facing, was full of shady spots.

People drifted by singly and in clumps, sweating and shivering. From two kettle barbecues rose rivulets of smoke that gathered overhead in a thin blue haze. The smoke smelled of chicken breasts marinated in lemon and garlic, kebabs of paprika-swabbed swordfish, skirt steak rubbed with chili powder, bratwurst parboiled in beer and onions, and hamburgers.

On various tables were piled dishes, platters and trays of other delectables brought by the guests. These included potato and pasta salads, macaroni and cheese, a pot of white gazpacho, blanched asparagus dressed with Meyer lemon vinaigrette, a strawberry tart, frosted brownies, an amaretto cheesecake, and oat-meal-raisin cookies. At large gatherings you could never have too much dessert.

You could never have too much on hand to drink, either. Ice-filled coolers on the brick patio held dozens of bottles of beer, white wine, sparkling water, still water, and fruit-juice coolers. The bottles were like soldiers in amphibious assault ships waiting to storm some beach. On a nearby table sat a half-dozen bottles of red wine in various states of ravishment.

People poked and picked their way through this bounty as if they were at a rummage sale—interested, but anxious not to be seen as greedy or grabby. The smallest of the ambulatory children went straight to the sweets, seeing one of those priceless childhood moments when the rules and regulations of grownups about food were unenforceable and the good stuff could be snapped up without fuss.

In front of the house, television vans fitted with satellite dishes were gathering. Lights flared. Power lines coursed over the pavement like tangled vines. Correspondents with immaculate hair clustered on the sidewalk in front of the house, but Philip would not let them in. He was polite but firm. This was a private function. No, he was not giving interviews at the moment.

Even ambitious political figures had limits, he thought but did not say. It was important to be seen as discreet. It was advantageous to be seen as not taking advantage of a solemn situation. He smiled and let his picture be taken, and that was it. Guests continued to flow up the front stairs bearing their tinfoil- and Glad-wrapped vessels, as if they were ascending a temple to make an offering to some disgruntled deity.

“I see lots of familiar faces,” Sam said. “Practically the whole neighborhood is here.”

“Not to mention most of the board,” Philip said. “Have you seen the mayor?”

“Not yet,” Sam said. “I’m not sure I’d recognize her. She changes her hair every five minutes.”

At that moment their eyes settled on a woman standing at the door to the study.

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