Love Is Never Past Tense... (5 page)

“So you were watching how others were staring at us, getting a kick out of our antics? I was hoping that you were only staring at my legs!”

“I won’t hide the fact that I was staring at them. I’m no worse than the others, who you were teasing all day. You were glowing so much I swear you could’ve blinded someone.”

“You’re not so bad yourself. But did you know that your jeans are torn a bit in the back?”

“And is it that noticeable?”

“Why, does it bother you?”

“Taking an example from you—not at all. Everyone’s been getting pleasure out of your little black panties.”

“Hah, well what if they did. At least mine are in one piece. Your butt is full of holes, you ragamuffin.”

“Then why are you dealing with ragamuffins?”

“Oh dream on …”

“You’re just kissing up for another smoke, you little beggar.”

“Yea … like I really need to smoke your smelly cigarettes!” she retorted, tossing away another butt. Looking at him victoriously, she opened a caramel and placed it in her mouth. Her lips were right next to his, and he kissed them easily.

“Let me finish chewing it, you overzealous …”

He squeezed her tighter. Her head swayed from side to side, and her full lips poured a blissful aura across his body. His hand crept up and grasped her breast. It was big and firm. “And she hasn’t even had a child yet,” Serge confirmed in his mind. But Janna commandingly moved his hand away. Then, he clasped her face, peppered her with kisses, swept her up off her feet, and placed her down upon the straw. He pressed her tightly in a fevered embrace. She threw back her head, exposing her neck for kisses. Serge grazed his nose into her shoulder, smelling the scent of freshly tanned skin still holding the sun’s rays. His excitement grew quickly. He rolled on top of her, giving her the full brunt of his weight. Her breathing became irregular and short, but to Serge it seemed to burn, turning him into an animal. He didn’t even attempt to undress her. That sweet moment had almost arrived, threatening to spill out all over the place, just seeking some release. Janna felt his hardness on her stomach, sobering her up, and so she began to tug at his jeans, attempting to slide out from under him.

“That’s enough Serge,” she whispered insistently.

One more minute and his volcano would have erupted. Then a faraway thought came to him, whispering, “Well, I will have to go to the sea to wash out my pants …” He promptly rolled over to the side, breathing heavily and feeling his pulse pound through his body … His volcano calmed itself; the eruption didn’t happen. He lay for a few more minutes, now feeling his bladder might erupt instead. He excused himself and went off into the bushes. The evening lingered with freshness. Cold stars hung in the translucent sky, lighting his path. They also seemed fresh. Feeling relieved, Serge returned to the terrace, but Janna was nowhere to be found. He wanted to call out to her, but he could hear a steady stream literally steps away.

“What? Am I not a human being,” shouted Janna, laughing with her startling, vibrating laugh. She emerged from the bushes fixing her skirt, which was clinging to her panties from behind, and Serge collapsed onto the ground from laughter. She plopped down on his stomach.

“Why are you laughing?” she asked.

“Why wouldn’t I laugh? Now it appears that urine is bringing us closer, but I was hoping that something else would.”

“Wow! What haven’t we done already! Ha, ha, ha!”

“Well, it may be enough for you to go pee into the bushes, but it’s not enough for me.” Serge raised himself, crawling up underneath the fringe of her skirt.

“That’s to be continued, but not now,” she said gleefully, pulling his hands away again.

“How old are you?” she asked unexpectedly.

“Why? Are you afraid to seduce a minor?”

“Well, I’m waiting.”

“Twenty-one and a half,” Serge lied, having only turned twenty a month ago. “And you?” he asked automatically, immediately realizing how impolite that was.

“You’re not supposed to ask a lady that sort of question, but I’m older than you.”

Serge figured the difference was about two or three years, maybe a bit more. Good lord, what a ripe woman! She wasn’t a girl who had never been kissed. What would it cost her to snuggle up to a guy with a burning sexual desire? She can see that I am burning. She wants it, too, but is shying away. Light her a smoke, or don’t even speak to her—she’d do anything to run away from her responsibilities. She’s not a fool; she actually understands everything.

A slight chill came over her body.

“Are you cold?”

“A little bit.”

Serge quietly took off his shirt and covered her shoulders. Her hands were folded around his waist.

“Are you freezing?”

“It’s completely up to you, mademoiselle.”

“At least put my tee shirt on.”

“That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

She tossed his shirt aside, crossed her arms, grabbed the sides of her shirt with her hands and pulled her tee shirt over her head. Serge was stunned—maybe it was happening. Her hair got caught in her collar, and she struggled to free it. Yet Serge couldn’t take his eyes off of her body, its tan lines noticeable from underneath her bra. He held her gently and unfastened the hook. His heart pounded at his ribs like a sledgehammer. He wanted so badly to envelop her half-naked body but restrained himself, falling back down onto the straw. Now, the initiative was up to her. She could pounce on him like a panther. Oh, how badly he wanted that! Instead, she crawled deeply into his shirt and shriveled up. Serge wasn’t very comfortable lying with his naked torso on the prickly straw. He got up, came up to her from behind, lifted her up and placed her feet on the ground. Holding her by her hand, he led her back down the pathway from the gazebo. They quickly descended to a well-lit alley and walked along towards the park’s exit like longtime lovers. Serge threw her tee shirt on, and Janna, chuckling, poked at his bellybutton with her fingers. He took her up into his arms, carrying her a few steps, and then lowered her back to the ground, pressing his face to hers and kissing her gently. They walked through the park, exited onto the street, and trudged toward the city.

Well into the night, the two parted on the corner of an empty street. Janna cloaked herself in her shirt again. Serge tied his shirt around his waist in a knot. They said their goodbye for a while, now and then kissing and discussing the next day’s plans.

Eventually, the distance between them increased as Serge turned the corner. It seemed to him that this girl excited him, and not only sexually …

***

The next morning Serge arrived on time at the agreed-upon location: the corner of Deribasovskia and Soviet Army. He paced around, observing the scurrying pedestrians, finally making out Janna running towards him, slipping her way through the crowd. She was ten minutes late, so Serge, hiding behind the trunk of a tree, toyed with her. She flew by a few meters from him and crossed the street, stopping to look around. Serge left his hiding place, heading in her direction.

“Hey. Do you normally run in the mornings to break a sweat?”

“No, I needed to make it to the furniture store on time,” she made up on the fly, although there weren’t any furniture stores in the vicinity.

“So what, you are late. Is the store closed now?”

“I saw you. Why would I need furniture now?”

“What do you say I am—a night stand? A dresser? Maybe a bed. You know, I can be your bed.”

“What would I do with such a
bed
? I would fall off or cut myself on your bones.”

“Just put some pillows around me.”

“Listen. Now that’s an idea! You’ll lay all covered in pillows, pretending to be my drunken prince.”

“Why drunken?”

“Are you ever sober? Could’ve fooled mee-ee!”

“And what … you’d be the princess?”

“Yep!”

“Also drunk.”

“But of course I’d be drunk … because of you. And I would ask you constantly, how can I serve you, what is your desire?”

“I think you probably know what I’d like.”

“Yeah, but you’re not a prince just yet, and you’re not drunk either …” Said Janna, but Serge wasn’t listening. Instead he was kissing her chilly morning cheeks.

They hugged and set off towards the bus stop, which was located a bit lower on the opposite side of the street.

***

The city had awakened. Southern cities are early to rise. The day began and with it, a new life. The Odessans were already bustling in the streets as if they were preparing for an evacuation. They rushed along, nervously gathering at the city’s public transport stop, storming the trams, trolleys, and buses. Housewives scurried about the stores and shops, searching for the best deals and the tastiest morsels. Visitors, on the contrary, behaved as if they’d decided to remain in the city forever. Draped in cameras with exposure meters, they strolled at their leisure, dallying at the souvenir stands.

“Dark blues, dark blues, who wants dark blues?”
¹³
Onions, cucumbers, reds!
¹⁴
Everything fresh—they were just growing! Hey lady, why did you turn away? Look at this beauty … Dark blues, dark blues!”

“Why are you shouting at the whole street? What kind of dark blue are they—the ones you have are actually yellow,” Janna shot back.

“Say what, are you color-blind? To color-blind people I do not sell. Depart and do not bother me …”

Odessa woke up and entered a new day. The colorful public thronged the streets. Girls flitted in short dresses. Old women shuffled in long chintz, and men hid their heads in straw hats.

Serge was hiding nothing. He had a reliable enough cap of tow-headed hair which was bleached out from long wandering in the southern latitudes.

A trolley bus arrived at the stop. Serge managed to be one of the first passengers and they sat down on the hot, fried leather seats. Serge delicately sat down next to a window and imagined himself as a cactus in a greenhouse. In a minute the palms of his hands became wet from sweat, and his shirt and trousers stuck to his body. The trolley bus was filling up and someone was constantly pushing Janna. She drew nearer to Serge, and he appeared to be squashed from both sides: the heated covering of the bus on one side—Janna's flaming hip on the other. Serge looked out of the window at the cypresses going past. Janna adjusted her skirt—not downwards, but upwards—which was a mistake. Almost two months and one more night of holding back had taken its toll on Serge. The desire to possess this woman, like a snake, crept into him. In his softened body only one muscle strained. It climbed into his pant leg and hid. Serge understood that it would pursue him all day long … yes, Odessa had definitely woken up!

They rolled on the beach while the sun, tired from work, began to go down to its evening quarters. Janna lay in the sun the whole day, promptly catching up to Serge’s skin color. He swam far way, then flopped on the hot sand. Janna had brought along a copy of
Golden Calf
, but neither of them read it: it could only lay forlornly nearby, giving nary a moo. Because of the heat, conversation took too much effort. Serge only learned that Janna was a philologist, and she lived in Kishinev. She came to Odessa to rest for five days and to meet some friends. But her friends were nowhere to be seen, and Serge hoped that they not show up at all.

Janna's skin became red-bronze and they moved under a tree. Here it was cooler, and the important thing, it was far from people. She changed into a different swimsuit, a yellow one. She lay before him easy, shamelessly enough, and unperturbed. Probably she reveled in her authority over him. But only she could know this. No conversations about their relationship took place. Actually no conversations took place at all. Sometimes they exchanged meaningless phrases. But mostly they were silent.

Serge was constantly struggling with his hormones that seemed to live autonomously and manage his brain, and not vice-versa. Nothing was coming into his mind. Somewhere, Grandpa Freud was celebrating.

Above her upper lip, droplets of sweat had formed. He got up, and with the tip of his tongue cleaned them off. She did not stir at all. She did not draw him closer and she did not push him away. Serge clasped her lips and gently began to inhale them into himself, and to release them slowly.

“You kiss well, only your moustache is a little prickly,” she whispered as she raised his head. “Let’s go and drink something. Thirst tortures me.”

They drank beer, warm and sour. A small little man with a bearded face went around and sold dried up salty anchovies. From him dripped rotten ooze and yesterday's vodka, and nobody wanted to buy his fish. Out of pity, Serge bought a big paper scoop full, but they had to throw out almost all the fish as they were covered in solid salt.

They went along the park, sat on a bench, ate ice cream, kissed because of Serge’s permanent desire, and talked a little bit about themselves. Serge said that he was an Odessan. More precisely he was born in Odessa, but, unfortunately, did not live in this city. He lived in Moscow, but more correctly, near Moscow. He had a sister. Two, really—one in Odessa, who was actually his cousin, and the other, his true sister, living in Moscow, who would soon arrive with his parents …