Between Lovers by Eric Jerome Dickey

Author:Eric Jerome Dickey [Dickey, Eric Jerome]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Romance, Contemporary, General
ISBN: 9781101142431
Google: x9SAWUksD2MC
Amazon: 0451204670
Publisher: Penguin
Published: 2003-05-06T00:00:00+00:00

17

At 6 a.m., while seagulls are competing with sparrows for scraps of food, while the streetwalkers are pulling up their bloomers and getting ready to turn in for the day, while oversize trucks are outside my window unloading their heavy contents in front of Jack’s Bistro, there is a hard knock at my door. A nonstop hard knock. I spy through the peephole.

I open the door.

She stares.

It’s Ayanna. She’s alone. Wearing a black business suit, black pumps, thigh-length black leather coat, holding a red-and-white gym bag in her left hand, her black purse and attaché in the other.

I thought that I’d destroyed her last night, thought that I’d won the battle. Maybe I did win that battle. But this morning the look in her eyes, her hostile sneer, that tells me that she’s bringing me the war.

She marches in, shoulders stiff, back straight, moves with dignity and grace, with determination.

I pass by her, go back over to the bed and sit down. Her pager beeps a musical melody that is nothing but irritation at this hour. Ayanna reads her digital display then mumbles, “Forty-nine.”

She goes to my closet. Opens the door. Rifles through the subset of my life I’ve brought to this room. Takes out my running shoes. Hurls them at my feet.

My toes grip the carpet hard enough to raise the top from the padding. I nod.

Friends close. Enemies closer. That’s what I’m thinking. Keep enemies damn close.

Where she stands, she strips naked. Her skin glistens with oil. Her frankincense and patchouli aroma smells fresh. She squats to open her gym bag, allowing me to see the outline of her private parts. In that stirring position I see the definition of her legs, the tightness of her calves and thighs, the subtle definition in her back that speaks of lifting light weights, all of that strength comes to life.

First she pulls out worn running shoes with dried dirt on the edges, shoes that speak of many miles on pavement and asphalt hills and mountain trails. She lays them on the floor. Then she unfolds a yellow sports bra, black running tights, both faded.

Ayanna stares at me. Her eyes are dark, bleak, despairing, downright cruel. She’s simmering.

I strip naked. Open a drawer. Start dressing.

She dresses too.

I move to the area with the sofa, my joints popping and aching as I do overhand reaches. Twists and turn. Heel holds. Wall leans. Squats.

Like a boxer, she remains in the opposite corner and uses the wall to flex her calves, then sits and works her inner thighs, her hamstrings, goes into a full split, does a Chinese split as well.

Her pager sings again. She reads the display and says, “Fifty.”

She wants me to ask. Wants me to ask so bad.

Once more she digs in her bag, taking out Vaseline. She rubs a healthy amount of the gel on her nipples, rubs more between her legs. She softball pitches me the jar and I do the same, using more than enough gel on my nipples and thighs and groin to prevent friction burns.

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