Читать книгу The Errant Child - Ozzie Logozzo - Страница 22

Tarquinia, central Italy Albergo Americano

I am going through another angst in a string of bad days. I can feel it in my gut and in my head as I awaken from a fitful night’s sleep bothered by the shimmer of street lamps. I have neglected to bring my habitual sleep mask. It helps me darken the devilish thoughts in my subconscious.

With daybreak, Tarquinian sunshine insists I surrender any notion of further rest and get out of bed.

The radiance from the rising sun surges through cracks in the Venetian blinds and decorative crochet curtains. I stare at the sunburst image on the white plaster ceiling. It resembles rebellious, abstruse modern art. I never liked avant-

gardism. Rather than experimental or innovative, ‘vanguardism art’ is not particularly progressive. Its surrealism is phony. It is disconnected from the masses and the roots of culture. It does not appeal to my emotions.

The walls of the two-room suite, painted off-white, are naked except for two tiny terracotta topographical drawings. They are undecipherable. I am drawn to these primeval illustrations: ancient graphical representations that depicted man- made structures and social relationships. There is a wooden crucifixion over the bed with dried-out laurels tucked behind the cross. I cannot remember the last time I went to church.

I turn to look at Emily. She sleeps innocently. Her acquiescence is alluring. I feel my face relaxing. The grinding of my teeth and the tension in my jaw subside. I love my wife but, with all my intellect, I fail to understand her incessant, juvenile needs. She never seems happy with what she possesses. She is still on the lookout for more. I just do not understand what more she wants or needs. She makes me feel inadequate. She makes me feel abandoned.

The night has been hot and sticky. I am only wearing loose-fitting, cotton pajama shorts. Emily sleeps in a sexy Brazilian lace thong and a silk neckline Cami. She wears no bra. Her black lingerie is a striking contrast to her milky-white skin.

I always want to arouse my wife. I want to give her the pleasures portrayed in novels and movies. I slip off my shorts and toss them behind me onto the floor. I snuggle up to her and spoon her. I stiffen at her touch and scent. There is a cashmere

aroma rising from her core. She owns a brigade of perfumery. This fragrance opens and pumps my blood vessels. My erection is strong.

I caress her side and buttocks. I reach underneath her top and cup her left breast. With my thumb and finger, I circle her nipple. It responds involuntarily. I feather touch my way to her belly button and languidly upward to her other nipple. It is already inflamed. I squeeze it gently. My loving exploration incites my loins and thoughts. I want to pounce on top of her, tie her hands to the bedposts, blindfold her and ravage her to exhaustion. I want her total surrender. I need her. I want her total trust. I need to love my wife. However, I restrain myself. I have read that women crave a slow hand.

“You’re moving too slow,” complains Emily. “You’re making me fall back asleep.”

The callousness in Emily’s tone is like stepping into a cold shower. The tenseness in my body thaws. My lifeless hand feels detached and repugnant. I slip it back to my side and settle on my back.

“It’s not a sin to have a sexual appetite. Nor is it sinful to move softly and delicately. I was trying to be tender.”

Emily bolts outof bed. She stripsher pajamas and parades nude to torment me. She gets out a pair of black leggings and a blue athletic tank top from the closet. She dresses without any undergarments. She clutches her socks and runners in her hands and gets ready to leave.

“If I wanted softness I would have become a lesbian. Why don’t you satisfy yourself? Slow is

boring. Soft is weak. You shield yourself behind words. ‘Love me tender’ is not better than hardcore or kinky. I’m going for a morning walk. Yesterday’s pasta and pizza is settling on my hips.”

“Why don’t you just be open and direct about how you feel towards me?’

I sit up ready for the challenge.

“Why can’t you stop the lying, look at me, and be open with your true feelings?”

“Fuck you.”

Emily escapes with her runners still in hand and slams the door.

I glare at the walls. I study the indecipherable painting hanging on the wall next to the sheer orange curtains. It is a sketch of a medieval female jester with bare boobs. It seems to mock my predicament. I ache for the courage to do something drastic. I expel a grunt as I swing and sink the back of my right fist into Emily’s pillow. The injury to the

pillow is a big yawn. To me, it is bottomless.