You Are Here by Donald Breckenridge

Author:Donald Breckenridge [Breckenridge, Donald]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Contemporary, Humanities, Literature, You Are Here
ISBN: 9780978881184
Google: 30YsAQAAIAAJ
Amazon: 0978881184
Barnesnoble: 0978881184
Goodreads: 6225132
Publisher: Starcherone Books
Published: 2008-11-15T05:00:00+00:00

Exclusions Apply—Part 2

The cushion sagged beneath James as he sat down beside her, “Did you just get your hair cut?” The copy of his short story that he gave her two weeks ago, before they parted with an awkward kiss at the top of the Chambers Street station, was lying atop the October issue of French Vogue. “Yesterday,” Janet ran her left hand through her bobbed hair, “do you like it?” Steam coursed through the radiator beneath the window. “Yeah a lot,” he took a sip of champagne, “it’s very sexy.” The green bottle with the yellow label was beaded with condensation. She held the stem of her glass with her left index finger and thumb, “it was such a pretty day,” then took a sip before adding, “I so love autumn.” He stopped himself from mentioning how the afternoon and evening had dragged at the bookstore, “I prefer winter,” knowing that it would bore her, “it’s more austere,” although he could always attribute his impatience to wanting to be with her. She listened to the sound of the wind in the trees outside the window, “winter is too dark for me,” as pages of newspaper sailed down the street, “the cold doesn’t bother me that much,” then gestured with her right hand, “but the lack of sunlight drives me absolutely mad.” Regarding the multitude of bubbles gradually climbing his glass, “What about summer?” “The absolute worst,” Janet was wearing a snug low-cut gray cashmere sweater, “unless I’m away… but this city is simply insufferable then,” that accentuated her narrow cleavage, “I’d have to say that spring is my favorite season,” a pleated thigh-high black skirt, “but this is a close second,” silver fishnets and high heels, “Are you hungry?” He shook his head, “no,” and tried to think of something meaningful to say, “not really.” She raised her eyebrows, “And what does that mean?” He had inhaled a medium rare cheeseburger, “I had a late lunch,” while hunched over a box of books in the cluttered office, “around four.” “Well, if you change your mind,” rocking her right leg back and forth over her left knee, “I could order us something or we could—” He leaned over and kissed her on the mouth. “That’s much better.” Last Friday night, after sitting through the first act of the play, they took a cab back to her place and went straight to bed. She caressed his cheek with the palm of her right hand and kissed him. “We could just sit here and drink champagne.” She had been as generous as he was eager to please, and they had lingered within the intricacies of their pleasure. “That’s not what you,” Janet placed her hand on his thigh, “really want to do.” Her glossy lipstick left a powdery taste of violets on his mouth. “Maybe not.” The conversations between couplings were a multiple exchange of carefully selected memories. “Well,” she whispered in his ear, “you should always say what you mean.” They finally fell asleep a few hours before dawn.

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