Page 22 of Madame X
Seeking comfort, I pad to my library on bare feet, pruned toes. Maybe a few hours with Smilla will calm me.
The door is locked.
I try it again. Rattle it. Shake it. Slam my fists against the wood.
Another punishment.
I twist in place and rest my back against the door, fighting yet more tears. And as I lean back against the door, my eye casts across the room at the remaining bookshelf.
Which has been emptied of every book.
Except one, a new title.
Obedience to Authority: An Experimental Viewby Stanley Milgram.
Chapter 6
Aweek with no books is an eternity. I have no television, no radio. No visitors or friends, save my clients. No late-night visits, either; a long and conspicuous absence. I am going mad. After my clients are done for the day, I pace. Walk the perimeter of my world, wall to wall to wall, window to window, corner to corner. I do not mutter to myself, but it takes considerable restraint. At night, I do not sleep. I toss and turn, stare at the ceiling. In the end, I always find myself at the window, forehead pressed to the glass, arms crossed beneath my breasts, hands cupping my elbows, watching. Watching.
Observe the foot traffic, as is my wont.
See her, down there? A young woman, not yet thirty. Less than that even, perhaps. It is hard to tell from this distance. This late at night, past midnight, she is dressed in a business power suit. Tight pencil skirt, navy. Matching blazer folded and draped across one forearm. White blouse, no nonsense, plain yet tailored. Three buttons are undone, though, revealing a bit too much cleavage for her to be going anywhere but home or the bar. A tan purse hangs from one shoulder, slim, small, nearly invisible strap. Dark wedge heels, either navy or dark gray. Hair in a neat bun. Yet the way she walks, it tells a story. Quickly, legspumping swiftly despite the narrow confines of her knee-length skirt. Too quickly. And her face, buried in her cell phone. The set of her shoulders. She’s upset about something. She reaches the corner, pauses at the intersection, and stuffs her phone into her purse. Straightens her shoulders. Breathes deeply. Tosses her head, as if summoning indifference, courage.
Even from here, I can see the screen of her phone light up in her open purse. From this distance it is nothing but a tiny white glow. She hesitantly withdraws her phone, reads the message. Turns it off and stuffs it back into her purse without sending a reply. But instead of walking onward when the light turns, she remains at the intersection, waiting for something.
A sleek, expensive black sedan pulls to a halt on her side of the intersection, approaching her. Stops even with her. The rear passenger door is shoved open from within. She shakes her head. Steps backward. My heart pounds. She’s gesticulating angrily, finger stabbing, stabbing. She is shouting, clearly. Backs up another step. Another. The driver’s-side rear door is thrown open, and a tall man unfolds from within. My heart skips several beats. That hair, dark, artfully messy. That confident, arrogant, predator stride. Those shoulders.
It isn’t possible.
Yet my eyes tell me it is.
The woman backs up, almost out of my field of view. She is shaking her head. Speaking, head shaking. She holds up her hands palms out as if to ward off an attack, but I could tell her, should I be close enough to speak to her, she does so in vain. Those massive, powerful hands lash out with the swiftness of a striking serpent. Grab her shoulders. Tug her close, body to body. I see those thin, expressive lips moving, saying something. She shakes her head, but she doesn’t pull away. Why isn’t she pulling away?
Because she’s being kissed, full and furious, a demanding kiss. Even from here, I can see her knees go weak. All that’s keeping her upright is those brutal hands, clutching her backside and keeping her pressed hard against that firm, taut chest. Her hands clutch, grab, feather through hair, possess.
She is allowed to touch?
A kiss?
Those lips do not kiss me.
My hands do not reach up to touch.
What is this fury within me? This disgust? This fear? This confusion? I am nothing but a possession. I know this. I do notwantto be kissed. Not bythoselips. I do notwantto touch, not that body.
I will this to be the truth, despite seeds of doubt.
She, clearly, is held to different rules than I.
Yet just as clear is the domination, the masterful knowledge of female anatomy and arousal, and how to manipulate until ownership is complete. I know that all too well. She is subsumed, there on the sidewalk. She is walked backward until her backside bumps up against the front passenger door of the car. She melts. Surrenders. The sidewalk is not empty; this is New York, and it never sleeps. No one is ever alone on the street. Yet the scene up against the door of the car is a private one, an erotic one. Over a wide shoulder I can see her mouth, hanging open. Hands dig beneath her skirt waistband. I know that touch. The arousal, the inevitability of climax.
Right there on the street.
I watch her come. She goes limp, held up yet again—or still. A moment passes. And then she is left alone, leaning back against the car door, skirt twisted out of place, hair coming free of the bun, blouse rucked and rumpled. Purse forgotten, hanging from an elbow. The rear driver’s-side door is closed behind that tall, powerful form. She hesitates. Straightens her skirt. Adjusts herblouse. Replaces the strap of her purse on her shoulder. Fixes her hair.
Takes a deep breath.
Walks away.